As you are
Zul Andra, Editor-in-chief
Depending on where you stand, next to a lover or a record player (or both), this could mean one of many things. Love is, after all, a many-splendoured thing.
My love for Esquire is rooted in its founding verses—its inability to conform to the whims and the desires of trends; never satisfied, always curious; a place where mediocrity inflicts a type of psychosomatic pain in the scrotum; where Muhammad Ali plays Saint Sebastian; a 10,000word profile piece on a war criminal; a celebrated interview with a profile who refuses to be interviewed; where fiction reads like non-fiction… standard stuff through the halls of Esquire.
I’d opine that great storytelling has a place in any world. Around a campfire, in a magazine or those virtual reality things. Esquire’s stories have a voice unlike any other. Its melody is what one returns to when the world gets too noisy. It holds you down to the reality of things before falsity ends up burying you alive.
But times, they are changing. The power of your being, your reason, your story, don’t have to change along with it. I will continue to love the voice of Esquire from a distance and return to it with a good ear.
But trying to describe love is like trying to describe what water tastes like. It’s... alright? Alright then. That’s the way love goes. Be good, eat well and drink more water. This is my stop, I’ll see you lot around. This way out.