Though Weekend Links has fallen away, the thread itself has never been broken. Each week, at the opening of Hyperreality, we gather the fleeting moments, passing thoughts, and small currents of ordinary days before they drift beyond reach. For those who have missed these familiar reflections, we have brought together a selection of our recent letters, first sent to subscribers over the past few weeks, so they may be read again in one continuous stream.

Bisous,
xR

1

For years the internet rewarded whatever could scale. Platforms grew larger, cities became more alike, careers moved behind screens, and culture bent itself towards algorithms. This week, though, a different pattern emerges: people are choosing trades over degrees, restaurants are prized for being particular rather than interchangeable, and writers are wondering whether an audience curated by algorithm can ever be called their own. Even luxury brands are creating experiences that cannot be downloaded or generated. It feels as though we’re reaching the limits of optimisation, and beginning to rediscover the value of what remains stubbornly, reassuringly real.

2

This week’s letter includes a closer look at artificial intelligence and human judgement, the changing nature of reading and attention, the algorithms influencing beauty and taste, and the question at the centre of everything: what remains distinctly human when so much of our experience can be replicated, predicted or optimised?

3

It occurs to me that one of the nicest things a person can become is someone who remains interested. Interested in ideas, in strangers, in beautiful rooms, in the opening line of a book, in the credits after a film ends, in a good argument, in the weather in cities they don’t live in, in a good coat, in changing their minds, in the objects people choose to keep, in beginning again, and perhaps most importantly, in themselves.

4

This week, I’ve been busy trying to trick my brain into doing difficult things and to write as if the world had ended yesterday and I were the only one left to remember how it felt. Strange how much sharper the ordinary becomes when you imagine it’s already gone. It’s another way of asking the oldest question in writing: if this moment could never happen again, what would be worth saving? Which details would survive, and which would vanish because no one thought they mattered until they were gone? I once read a book with the same premise: when you are speaking with someone you love, imagine that it’s the last time. Every time I think of things in this way, I remember to appreciate them now, while they (and I) are still here.

5

I know it’s a lot to think about on a hot summer’s day, so I present you with this week’s letter, which includes: the tyranny of choice and the fantasy of all the selves we might still become; manifestation stripped of its incense and made dangerous once again; creativity as evidence that we exist; the glamour of letting people misunderstand you; oysters, Frida, Paris menswear, Bond Street, yacht culture and the sandwich as emotional transport; summer objects for a more beautiful life at home; and, somewhere near the end, the brain rewriting itself after a single encounter.

6

This week’s letter includes: calm as the new power move; why urgency can start to feel like instinct; Jung on the unconscious patterns we mistake for fate; personal taste in the age of algorithms; fashion, AI, Hermès on Bond Street, the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition, polished summer dressing, longer reads on endurance and self-knowledge, and another little Life Lately, because while I don’t post many personal photos on Instagram anymore, I still take them: small private records of days I want to remember.

Let It Be Unpolished and Messy and True

Every Life Contains an Imaginary Version

Be As You Wish to Seem