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Drifting in the Bubble

Transition troubles.

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Another Little Trump Piece

A month ago, before any of us took semiseriously the idea that Donald Trump might win the Republican primary race, coverage of Trump in the media presented an instructive paradox:

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The House I Grew Up In

When I walk down Witherspoon Street away from the iconic FitzRandolph Gate that shelters Princeton University students from the town around them, my feet head toward the place that feels most like home. If it is a beautiful sunny day … Read More

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Sylvia

Sylvia
By Audrey Zhang
Pen and Marker on Paper, 11” x 14”, 2018

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Avatarotica 2: The Way of Wetter: Full Design

In the final issue of our forty-fourth volume, the Nass interrogates the illusion of control in the beauty ideal, attempts to translate a scandalous conversation, and cracks open the meanings of “fault.”

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Watch Cory Run

A few weeks ago, Cory Booker bought me ice cream. Booker, who wants you to call him “Cory” (but whose legal name is really “@corybooker”), was in town for one of his signature “Run with Cory” campaign events.

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Dear Metta World Peace

Metta, you don’t know me, but I know you. And I’ve known you. You were an Indiana Pacer from the time I was 10 to 14 and children in Indiana grow up knowing the names of Pacers the way they know the Pledge of Allegiance. But then when I was in sixth grade you almost strangled a fan at a Detroit Pistons’ game and got yourself traded.

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Why Federer is Betterer

The Moliere of tennis.

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Letter from the Editors

Dear all,   Since we came to Princeton in the fall of 2020, this little paper has remained a constant source of inspiration, camaraderie, and much mirth. We’re honored to usher in the 46th volume of the Nassau Weekly.   … Read More

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Will Be Gone

In this fiction piece, a daughter navigates her family’s grief and theater production after the death of her brother.

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I Lied About Having A Bar Mitzvah

You might be left psychoanalyzing this one for years to come.

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Northward

y November you already thought of returning,
rubbing Vaseline into your palms and the crevices
of your cracked heels. No napalm rained down in a foreign land,
no birth dates streamed across the screen to push our brothers into war.

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