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America, it is often said, is a nation of immigrants. But is it becoming a nation of emigrants — a country that drives people away in search of greener pastures?

Today I talked with the expat American writer about that question.

In Tramuta’s insightful essay in Bitter Southerner, she reports:

A recent Gallup poll found that 40 percent of women aged 15 to 44 would leave the U.S. if they could — a figure that has quadrupled in the last decade. This slice of the population also has the lowest confidence in American institutions.

That frustration is inspiring many to take action. Ireland’s Central Statistics Office reported a 96 percent jump in American emigration between April 2024 and April 2025. France has likewise reported an increase in long-stay visa requests from Americans, and in the United Kingdom, 6,618 U.S. citizens applied for British citizenship in the 12 months leading up to March 2025 — the highest number since records began in 2004. Germany, which allows descendants of Nazi-era victims to apply for and reclaim citizenship, processed 48 percent more applications from U.S. citizens at consulates across the U.S. in 2025 after Trump’s inauguration than in 2024.

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The prophets of Silicon Valley say jobs are going away. We disagree. Today we’re doubling down on human creativity, for which there will never be a substitute.

Never has the news been more mystifying. Never have so many mainstream news organizations been so afraid to tell it like it is. Never has it been more important to make real sense of what is going on, not just recite the latest incremental moves.

The Ink has endeavored to make it make sense for the past six years (almost!). Thanks to our supporting subscribers, we are now expanding and leveling up our report.

Today we open up hiring for a writer who can produce smart, funny, voicey, analytical perspectives on our time. Applicants should have experience in journalism, a nose for the news, and a style that makes the medicine go down.

If that might be you or someone you know, you can apply here:

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America, it is often said, is a nation of immigrants. But is it becoming a nation of emigrants — a country that drives people away in search of greener pastures?

The expat American writer Lindsey Tramuta explores this question in a powerful new essay in Bitter Southerner. She will be my guest for a live today at 12:30 p.m. Eastern.

Join the live at 12:30 pm ET

And check out Tramuta’s insightful essay, in which she reports:

A recent Gallup poll found that 40 percent of women aged 15 to 44 would leave the U.S. if they could — a figure that has quadrupled in the last decade. This slice of the population also has the lowest confidence in American institutions.

That frustration is inspiring many to take action. Ireland’s Central Statistics Office reported a 96 percent jump in American emigration between April 2024 and April 2025. France has likewise reported an increase in long-stay visa requests from Americans, and in the United Kingdom, 6,618 U.S. citizens applied for British citizenship in the 12 months leading up to March 2025 — the highest number since records began in 2004. Germany, which allows descendants of Nazi-era victims to apply for and reclaim citizenship, processed 48 percent more applications from U.S. citizens at consulates across the U.S. in 2025 after Trump’s inauguration than in 2024.

Photo: Olga Pankova/Getty

Recently, the man says, he went home depressed. This is not the kind of man who radiates emotion, so one takes note. What made him depressed was the acceleration of A.I.’s capabilities, and the man’s growing belief that not only low- and mid-level work but also high-level work will soon be wrested away from human beings.

As opinion polls and several viral videos from college commencement speeches show, the man is not alone in his fear and sadness. Millions share in his fear, understandably, since they are daily riding on trains and highways while being advertised their own coming irrelevance.

What is strange about the video, then, is not the message but the messenger. The man who is worried is no ordinary man. He is Ken Griffin, one of the richest men in the world, a finance magnate who is both an active investor in A.I. and, as he is disclosing in the video, a user of it within his own firm. In the video, Griffin is confessing his depression about trends he is helping cause.

The sadness he describes comes, he says, from applying A.I. tools at Citadel, his firm, in recent months. There has been a “step change” in their ability, he says. He has seen what once took man-years of masters- and Ph.D.-level employees’ time be done within hours and days by A.I. And so Griffin is sad. Sad, presumably, that there will soon be so little use for human beings. The unspoken implication is clear: if there will be so little use for people in that stratosphere — if being a Ph.D. financial whiz at Citadel, working for the Ken Griffin, isn’t safe — what chance in hell do the rest of us have?

Full video via YouTube here.

Something striking is at work here — an oligarch move that deserves to be noticed and named and tracked. Griffin is professing to worry about a future he is himself actively causing, and will continue to cause. He is the one choosing to deploy these A.I. tools in his firm; no one made him. He is the one choosing to invest in A.I.-related companies like Digi Power X Inc. But in a twist on the familiar arc of plutocratic plunder followed by by philanthropic atonement, Griffin is atoning in advance.

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He is putting on record that he was sad about this thing that he was also doing. Here he is not “giving back” some spoils later on. He is simply registering that he feels super-bad about it. It hurts his heart. He has grief about his own deeds, in real time.

There is power in this move, because the confession of sadness about job losses, or of worry about other destructive forces of A.I., allows the oligarch in question to pose as a predictor of what is inevitable, when in fact they are a profiteering proponent of this future. To be visibly sad about a thing you are doing can distract people from the doing part and focus attention on the sadness. Generally, we are sad about things beyond our control. So to be sad about what you are causing is shrewd. It can lull people into thinking that we have no choice but to A.I. it all up. It can allow advocacy to draft behind loudly proclaimed predictions. It can frame the instigator of calamity as a kind of armchair expert about calamity.

Griffin has lately gotten into a tussle with the mayor of New York, Zohran Mamdani. Mamdani famously promoted his new idea of taxing the rich by focusing on frequently vacant pied-a-terres with a video outside Griffin’s own pad (pied?). Griffin has fired back, accusing Mamdani of putting him in “harm’s way,” invoking the 2024 killing of Brian Thompson, the CEO of UnitedHealthcare, nearby. And he did what oligarchs often do, which is suggest that by coming after them, tax-wise, a leader is actually hurting regular people. “We will add far more jobs in Miami over the next decade as an immediate and direct consequence of the mayor’s poor decision here,” Griffin said. And he teased a threat that a major redevelopment project on Park Avenue in Manhattan might be on thin ice. However, in a nod to his ally President Trump, Griffin seemed to chicken out of his own threat almost as he voiced it, saying that “we probably will go through [with] the building when it’s all said and done.”

This is a more well-established move. Here the oligarch, whose interests clearly diverge from those of the public, disguises his interests as yours. To hurt him is to hurt the public, really. To tax him is to threaten your jobs. Come for him, and you really come for yourselves. He is you, richer.

In an age of historic inequality, the widespread sense that it is impossible to make life add up, and now the constant promise-threat of technologies that we are being told will make us disposable, this is the oligarchs’ answer. It doesn’t feel too many miles from the rhetoric of an abuser: I’m sad about hurting you even though I’m the one hurting you. If you push back against me, you’re really hurting yourself. There is no choice but to do it my way. You need me.

Whenever people want you to think there’s no choice in a matter, that’s when there is.

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“If America is the most powerful country on earth, and Silicon Valley the most powerful place in that country, and Stanford the most powerful institution in that place, and a secretive network of students and adult hangers-on there the hub of influence on campus (I know that’s a lot of ifs, but let me finish), then here lies the rapacious, awkward center of the world.”

Baker’s book, I argue, “follows in the tradition of Michael Lewis’s Wall Street chronicle ‘Liar’s Poker,’ but with more pimples and less eye contact.”

This may not be a world you want to know about, but it is one you need to know about, because it is deciding about your life, even if you have limited power to decide about it.

The peddlers of AI are now vowing to rewire all human commerce, connection, love, governance, and health. It is worth understanding the mentalities guiding them as they prosecute their attempts.

Here is a gift link from me to check out the review at The Times:

Read the review at NYTimes

And I want to know what you think. Are these people and institutions you trust to reorder the world? Do you have any faith in their claims to be making the world better?

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This, more than anything, is the question I hear around me. The despair — about creeping authoritarianism, environmental ruin, AI run amok, algorithmic tyranny — is everywhere. But what can be done?

The stock answers are well known to you: Join a movement. Call Congress. March.

But Gal Beckerman, of The Atlantic, has a provocative intervention on the subject that points toward a different answer — even, in fact, a different starting question.

Before you ask what you can do, ask how you should be. The art of being a dissident, he suggests in his new book, involves a certain kind of being as much as doing.

“How to Be a Dissident” is a powerful book with lessons not intuitive. Beckerman, a subtle thinker, knows subtlety doesn’t always work when attention spans are short. So he gives us ten simple-to-remember lessons, for the kind of being that fights back.

Be alone.

Be pessimistic.

Be funny.

Be rational.

Be watchful.

Be reckless.

Be loyal.

Be presumptuous.

Be human.

In our conversation above, we dig into each of these ten lessons. Don’t miss it.

And we’re going to experiment with keeping this post open to all, in the hope that some of you will step up and become supporting subscribers anyway. We are proud dissenters here at The Ink, and we invite you to stand up for dissent by joining us.

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How do you fight back? Against this, against that, against it all.

There is no shortage of anger-inducing headlines, no shortage of outrages in an age defined by that emotion. But what to do?

Today at 12:30 p.m. Eastern live, I’m going to be talking to someone who wrote the book trying to answer that question.

Gal Beckerman, of The Atlantic, is the author of How to Be a Dissident, and he is in pursuit of the essential question of what we can learn from history’s dissenters.

Login to the Substack app at 12:30 p.m. Eastern to join us. Or click below on desktops.

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In part two of our Ink Book Club conversation with the author of “On Morrison,” Namwali Serpell, we go on a brief tour of Morrison’s oeuvre. Throughout, we are reminded just how intentional Morrison was in shifting away from the white gaze, and, as a result, breaking new literary ground. It’s also astonishing to be reminded that Morrison was writing the work that would earn her the 1993 Nobel Prize in Literature in the 1960s and ’70s, while raising two boys on her own. During that time, she was also employed as an editor at Random House, and teaching college English.

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“On Morrison” opens with an examination of the author’s first novel, “The Bluest Eye.” When it came out in 1970, Morrison was already making her mark as an editor, but still looking for validation as a writer. She had doubts that her debut would earn her the title of “novelist.” But by the time she began writing “Jazz” in the early 1990s, she was no longer concerned with critical reception or reader approval, but with how far she could push the envelope of form.

Together, Serpell’s chapters comprise a master class. Each places a particular Morrison work — arranged chronologically from first to last — beneath a critical microscope, examining how the author’s ideas coalesced around plot, character, history, and style. So let’s dig in with my question-and-answer with Serpell.

“Nobody Knows The Bluest Eye” is chapter one in “On Morrison.” Here you write that Morrison’s novels teach us how to read them, and also “teach us how to write our own stories.” What does “The Bluest Eye” have to teach us?

Banned as it’s been, we know what “The Bluest Eye” is about: a little black girl who wishes she had blue eyes. That’s not a spoiler. Morrison didn’t believe in spoilers. She gave away the whole plot of “The Bluest Eye” in its opening narration: “Quiet as it’s kept, there were no marigolds in the fall of 1941. We thought, at the time, it was because Pecola was having her father’s baby that the marigolds did not grow.” The gossipy tone and the mystery of the missing marigolds divert our attention from those six key words: “Pecola was having her father’s baby.” Morrison immediately obviates the notion that suspense and finding out what’s going to happen are the most important parts of reading. This preface concludes: “There is really nothing more to say–except why. But since why is difficult to handle, one must take refuge in how.”

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A group that calls itself the Institute for Primary Facts has undertaken the heroic and gargantuan task of printing and binding the released files into book-like volumes. Those volumes now line the shelves of a reading room that the public can visit. The institute describes what it has created as

a physical, undeniable record of corruption, cover-ups, and crime — all 3.5 million pages, 3,437 volumes, and 17,000 pounds of the released and partially redacted Epstein files Trump has been working overtime to distract us from.

Yesterday I was fortunate to get a private tour of the reading room from David Garrett, one of the organizers, for the benefit of Ink subscribers. I thought this might allow some of you who can’t make it to New York or wherever the reading room is headed next to experience it from afar. And if you want to find out about bringing this powerful project to your neck of the woods, get in touch with the organizers here.

Thank you to our Ink subscribers for making our work on these subjects possible.

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Jon and I have worked on three books together now: Winners Take All, my third and our first together; The Persuaders next (Do I need a comma before “next,” Jon?); and Man in the Mirror, which is out in September.

Lurking in this desk drawer beside me is a 750-page print-out I submitted of Man in the Mirror, which is about the case of Jordan Neely and Daniel Penny and their fatal encounter on a New York subway car, and all the ways in which the case illuminated a divided and troubled city and country. (Don’t worry: thanks to Jon, it shrank by half.)

Here is what I see in Jon’s edits on the first page alone: Minute attention to detail — capitalize the chapter title. Empathy for the eventual reader’s curiosity — “more physical description of Tom.” An awareness of the relationship one builds with a reader, a relationship that is not yet robust enough on page 1 to tolerate my usage of “dude” — “a little too informal for this opening.” A faith in the reader’s intelligence — don’t over-explain; eliminate the gilding of any lily. An empathy for the reader’s busyness — delete every word not needed.

And then I come upon, a few pages later, a blank page that has been inserted, and on which Jon has handwritten a multi-paragraph note to me. It is about making sure that this book about one case in one city is also a book that speaks to people far beyond. It is about telling the small story so that it feels universal. Editors are required to catch grammar mistakes, but this kind of thing is extra credit. Only the great ones do this.

We met all the way back at the beginning for me, when I was working toward my first book, India Calling. I was living in India, working as a foreign correspondent for The International Herald Tribune and The New York Times, and I knew I wanted to write a book. But at the start, that was all I knew.

My agent at the time, Steve Wasserman, introduced me to Jon on one of my trips to New York. Steve explained that Jon had once been a New York Times guy himself. He had published lots of New York Times writers’ books. He understood newspaper people. But he had long since established himself as an editor at Knopf, the venerable publishing imprint that made the Gray Lady appear psychedelic by comparison. He could be a bridge for me, between the fast newspaper world and the slower book one.

I met Jon in Knopf’s offices in 2007. I remember marveling at all the books he had edited on the shelves. After the visit, I received a note from Knopf’s legendary publisher, Sonny Mehta, which told me that they were at least taking me seriously, maybe more seriously than I was taking myself:

I’m sorry I missed you the other day when you came in to see Jon Segal. I hope we get a chance to talk soon, either here or in India. Jon tells me you are mulling over the type of book you might write.

“The type of book you might write” — see, this is an under-appreciated part of the art of editing. A good editor is not just a commas-and-numerals cop, is not just a demolition crew for excess words. A truly good editor helps you find your book. And so Jon did. We went back and forth, back and forth, and he kept telling me that the stories were good, the ideas were good, but he found a certain emotional distance between me and the material. I didn’t know what he meant, because working for The New York Times had been my dream, and learning to create such emotional distance had made it come true. But, Jon told me, for a book, you have to stop being a reporter and become a “Writer.” He capitalized the “W.”

I tried to figure out what he meant for the longest time, tried to get more emotionally close to the material. Then one day I hastily wrote an essay for the Week in Review section of The Times. It was a rare first-person piece, about my generation of Indian-Americans, many of whom were suddenly finding themselves interested in moving, as I had years earlier, to their parents’ homeland:

Many of us, the stepchildren of India, felt its change of spirit, felt the gravitational force of condensed hope. And we came.

When Jon read that piece, he saw what he had felt to be missing. Do that, he told me. He explained that an average American reader might or might not care about the dramatic changes unfolding in India. One would hope they would, but one wasn’t able to count on it. What any human being would care about, he explained, was my India changing, my revisions of my inherited and secondhand and cursory impressions.

At first, it didn’t make sense to me. Why would someone care more about some twenty-something Indian-American’s evolving sense of India than of India’s changes themselves? But in time I understood: a whole country changing is too big for most minds; you can smuggle it in — indeed, 90 percent of the resulting book was about that — but it must be smuggled through what every person is wired to be interested in: the story of what happens to other people.

Jon worked with me on shaping that proposal for more than a year. Then, in the end, he didn’t bid on it. It just hadn’t gotten there. He took book-making too seriously to sign a book just because he had toiled on it.

And then, in the summer of 2015, I happened to give a speech in Aspen, Colorado, and the Times columnist David Brooks happened to be in the room, and he happened to write about it in his column the next day, and it happened to make a splash, because, apparently, you’re not supposed to tell billionaires they are the problem to their faces. And the thought of a book emerged, and Jon went for what became Winners Take All.

I reported it, I wrote it, I rewrote it, I revised it, I submitted it. And Jon, who had been so enthusiastic about the idea, was less than thrilled. He loved a lot of it, but a lot of it he didn’t. It was hard to take. He told me clearly: Don’t sit on the sidelines and throw rocks at this world. Go inside of it and show people grappling. I threw out half the book and found new characters and reported afresh and wrote and rewrote. When we finally got there, I thanked him for pushing me to write what I had, and he replied:

Thank you for the kind words. Rest assured that I am as hard on myself as I am on everyone else I work with because I think that the making of books is something of a sacred calling, though worshipped by a diminishing number.

We were at Jon’s favorite Italian joint in 2018 when we got word that Winners Take All had debuted on the Times bestseller list.

Though separated by a generation, Jon and I shared that sense of books as sacred. It took me a long time to realize that we also shared a dual orientation of taking the world very, very seriously when that was what was needed, and living in joke mode pretty much every other second of the day. It took me time to understand that he could be fierce and unswerving with the work, but that the relationship with the writer transcended the work. He could love you even when he hated your chapter.

Jon is tough, he is authoritative, he is protective of a calling he still finds to be sacred. But he makes all of his edits in pencil. And he always tells you it is your call in the end. Unlike at the newspaper, it’s your book. You own the book; you own how it’s seen. So he writes in pencil on a manuscript that has been printed out, in the year of our lord 2026, but he doesn’t insist on being the last word. He has made his living by revisions, and he knows that revising is not just a job but a way of life. Sometimes the editor revises you; sometimes you revise him.

Happy birthday, Jon — with everlasting gratitude for your vision and your revisions.

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The other day, in London, I experienced a concert unlike any I have seen before.

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So I caught up with Justin in this conversation and put to him some of the economics questions that have been on my mind lately:

— What is the true cost of the war on and in Iran, who pays it, and what might we have built instead if we spent the money on investing in our commons?

— Are billionaires right that Mayor Zohran Mamdani is driving them out of New York? Is Mamdani right that his taxes won’t drive them away in any meaningful numbers, but that, in fact, it is the working class that is more often being pushed out? Or is there a different argument to be made: that it is actually a worthy policy goal to reduce the oligarchic population of a city?

— Should there be billionaires? And what should one make of the new proposals around the country to tax billionaire wealth?

— What did traditional economics get wrong about the economy? What is a new generation of economists doing to make the field more true to life as it is lived?

You won’t want to miss any of it. Just click on the video player above to watch the entire conversation.

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On the contrary.

Morrison, in Serpell’s telling, would have had serious problems with the approach to history of many of her own devotees. She didn’t believe in “erasure,” but rather in addition. Add beside the bad statue a better statue. Put a noose the neck of a towering monument to a Confederate general.

This is the kind of idea that has a way of challenging everyone, both the people who still revere those generals and the people who think they have a sacred right not to encounter traces of history that upset them.

It is the kind of challenge great writers make.

We talked this week with May Ink Book Club author Namwali Serpell about her wonderful new book “On Morrison.” We will follow this next week with a chapter-by-chapter breakdown of the book, each focused on how to read the Nobel Prize winner’s major works. And we’ll discuss why, in Professor Serpell’s view, Morrison relished the role of literary “trickster,” experimenting with style and point of view.

In today’s sit-down, Serpell talked about:

• Why Morrison embraced being regarded as “difficult,” and even took this is a compliment

• The frustration Morrison felt when the original publishers of her debut novel, “The Bluest Eye,” didn’t do a better job editing that novel, which almost prompted the author to reclaim publishing rights and release a revised edition

• Serpell’s “relief” that she never got to meet her subject in person, and Morrison’s desire to “remain a mystery”

• Why Morrison’s body of work provides an alternative view of our history as we approach America’s 250th anniversary

You won’t want to miss any of it. Just click on the video player above to watch the entire conversation.

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“Critics generally don’t associate black people with ideas,” observed Toni Morrison in an interview for the 1983 book Black Women Writers at Work, edited by Claudia Tate. That epigraph opens Namwali Serpell’s masterful On Morrison, the Ink Book Club’s May selection.

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Serpell, a Guggenheim fellow and professor of English at Harvard, here takes us on a provocative journey through the Nobel winner’s oeuvre, exploring why the late writer remains such a titanic figure—and lightning rod. Serpell writes that “Morrison has shaped the way we think about everything from literature to politics to criticism to ethics to the responsibilities of making art,” which may be why her novels are so often the target of censors. For one, her 1970 debut novel, The Bluest Eye, remains one of the most frequently “challenged” books in the U.S., according to the American Library Association, as does Beloved, for its “brutal depiction of slavery.”

About On Morrison, the New York Times critic Wesley Morris wrote: The author “has hopped on a rocket and touched the Tonisphere with her mind…What Serpell’s written, devised, built is a novel-by-novel treatise on, inspection of, spelunking into, playing with Morrisonian philosophy, aesthetics, craft; and she might be having the time of her life.”

While acknowledging Morrison’s genius, Serpell also writes that “Morrison incensed all kinds of people. How dare she be a difficult writer and a black woman? How dare she refuse to placate or translate? How dare she insist on her own brilliance.” Let’s find out what she means, and why she—like Morrison—does not capitalize “black.”

Join us Wednesday, May 6 at 12:30 p.m. Eastern for this live Ink Book Club discussion with Serpell, who will take us behind the scenes in the decades-long composition of On Morrison. We get the benefit of being one of Serpell’s students without having to pay tuition at Harvard.

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Below, you’ll find some discussion and reflection prompts to consider in advance of Wednesday’s conversation. The Ink Book Club’s events are open to all paid subscribers to The Ink. If you haven’t yet become part of our community, join today. And if you’re already a member, consider giving a gift or group subscription.

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• How deeply Elon Musk has interfered with elections here and elsewhere, on the basis of the false notion that “whites are a rapidly dying minority”

• The Justice Department’s case against the Southern Poverty Law Center and what it portends for other organizations;

• The tactics used by propagandists to persuade voters to fight for privileges provided by dictators instead of the power provided by democracy

• How to resist hopelessness and despair in the face of these anti-democratic measures

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How to participate in the Book Club

Each week, we’ll post questions, and on alternate Wednesdays we’ll meet for a discussion with the Club or a visit from an author or other special guest (occasionally we’ll schedule special events on alternate days or times, but we will let you know). Look out for posts with further details.

In between meetings, we invite you to chat or comment on our posts with your insights and questions. The Book Club will meet next on Wednesday, May 6 at 12:30 p.m. Eastern.

To participate in our meetings and author talks on Substack Live, join from your phone or tablet with the Substack app. You can also watch from your computer at The Ink, and comment and ask questions in our chat, but you won’t be able to join the live video discussion. Make sure you enable notifications, and when our meetings begin, you should receive an email alert; if you can’t find the message, just check the notifications tab (the small bell-shaped icon to the upper right of the website or lower right of the app at the time of the event to find a link.

Book Club meetings are open to paid subscribers to The Ink, so if you haven’t become part of our community, join us today!

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And don’t forget to join Leigh Haber at 12:30 p.m. for a live conversation for our subscr…

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