It was pointing out how the contents of former British prime minister Liz Truss’s inaugural address could have been written by a “cliché machine,” in September 2022, that firmly established Harry Lambert as a journalist to watch. Both of his parents are in the media—his mother is the journalist and broadcaster Jenni Russell, and his father, Stephen Lambert, is the television producer behind Wife Swap, Faking It, The Secret Millionaire, Undercover Boss, Gogglebox, and more. After graduating from the University of York with a first-class degree in politics and economics, Harry Lambert showcased both range and wit working at various magazines and papers, including GQ, the New Republic, and Wired. But it was an article for The Independent on the 2015 terror killings at Charlie Hebdo that helped him rise to where he sits now, as staff writer and editor at The New Statesman, as well as editor of the magazine’s Saturday Read newsletter. —Bridget Arsenault

AmbiEnce: Amber-lit side lamps everywhere. Don’t flick that main light switch.
Bike: My 1970s refurbished Carlton road racer … Until it was stolen.
Birthday: A few friends, the Carpenter’s Arms, table by the fire.
Breakfast, weekday:
Smoked salmon, avocado, two poached eggs, good toast, mushrooms, fried tomatoes, orange juice with ice, and a cappuccino.
Whiskey sour, easy on the egg white.
Sitting on a street corner near the pub you never needed to make it into.
Dinner, weekend:
Dinner party, round table, six to eight people, no stories, a few good arguments.
Rio de Janeiro to São Paulo.
The kayak under the tree by the source of the river.
Navy-blue corduroy jacket, Hackett, fit for anywhere but the subway.
The Return, directed by Andrey Zvyagintsev.
Name: H.

Nonfiction book:
The Right Stuff, by Tom Wolfe.

Novel: The Fall, by Albert Camus; The Thirty-Nine Steps, by John Buchan.
Pair of shoes:
Pen or Pencil:
Pilot V-ball 0.5 mm., pure liquid ink, pack of 100.
Piece of advice:
“Pitch things in other people’s interests.”

PLACE: The Rose Main Reading Room, New York Public Library.
The solid gold bar I don’t own.
It’s gotta be Joe. Barely alive, but he gets the big calls right—that’s the job.
Otto’s French Restaurant, in London. Don’t trip; get the lobster soufflé.
Oliver Anthony.
Courtside at a 76ers playoff game. I’m waiting on the invite.
Television series:
The Wire and The West Wing, somehow in one.
Theme song to your life:
“It’s Alright, Ma (I’m Only Bleeding),” by Bob Dylan.
Crunchy with a little almond butter.
I’ll take you to the taverna in Evgiros, Lefkada. There will be grapes.
High enough to see the city at night.
Weekend bag:
Leather duffel, monogrammed.
Work of art:
Suprematist Composition: Airplane Flying, by Kazimir Malevich.

Harry’s Essentials

Clockwise from top left: a Louis Vuitton basketball; Bob Dylan records his first album, 1961; Malevich: Artist and Theoretician, by Charlotte Douglas; Church’s Highland lace-up boots; a Nick Schade Petrel Kayak; a whiskey sour.