May 06, 2009



I prefer links not opening new page.


I prefer links opening a new page.


new pages, please.


Thanks to Farhad Manjoo's recent piece in Slate (http://www.slate.com/id/2217353/), I now click the mouse's scroll wheel to open links in new tabs. This makes the pages easier to keep track of, and you don't navigate away from the original site.


I like the links opening a new page


here's another vote for the new pages.


Yes, new page please.


I'd be curious to hear the argument AGAINST new pages. I can't think of a good one.


Here's what one of my readers emailed me:

"First, popups are generally irritating and in your case quite unnecessary (we'll come back, don't worry); second, they make it
impossible to get through the blog on the phone, at least in NetNewswire, which simply renders the links entirely inert."

Given that I've probably got a growing mobile readership, it seemed worth asking, but so far the externals clearly have it ...

Paul Lamb

I have to throw my weight behind the opening of a new page from links. (Can I vote twice, like I did for Obama? Once in the primary and once in the general election.)


New page of course..all the way.
Especially with firefox they come quite handy.

Jacob Silverman

I always do a right click -> open link in new tab anyway, so either way doesn't make much of a difference for me.


Like others, I open the links in a new tab so it makes little difference to me.

That said, people using web browsers on their PC/Mac can always open a link in a new page through right clicking, even if that's not the way you've coded the page.

People using web browsers on a cell phone cannot open the page at all if you've coded it to open in a new window.


New page. I always right-click anyway so having it automatically open in a new page is a very forward-thinking and helpful addition:)

Larry Olson

Definitely new page


Interesting that Oprah apologized, considering the link above?


The comments to this entry are closed.


  • The Elegant Variation is "Fowler’s (1926, 1965) term for the inept writer’s overstrained efforts at freshness or vividness of expression. Prose guilty of elegant variation calls attention to itself and doesn’t permit its ideas to seem naturally clear. It typically seeks fancy new words for familiar things, and it scrambles for synonyms in order to avoid at all costs repeating a word, even though repetition might be the natural, normal thing to do: The audience had a certain bovine placidity, instead of The audience was as placid as cows. Elegant variation is often the rock, and a stereotype, a cliché, or a tired metaphor the hard place between which inexperienced or foolish writers come to grief. The familiar middle ground in treating these homely topics is almost always the safest. In untrained or unrestrained hands, a thesaurus can be dangerous."


  • The Bookshop by Penelope Fitzgerald


    Penelope Fitzgerald's second novel is the tale of Florence Green, a widow who seeks, in the late 1950s, to bring a bookstore to an isolated British town, encountering all manner of obstacles, including incompetent builders, vindictive gentry, small minded bankers, an irritable poltergeist, but, above all, a town that might not, in fact, want a bookshop. Fitzgerald's prose is spare but evocative – there's no wasted effort and her work reminds one of Hemingway's dictum that every word should fight for its right to be on the page. Florence is an engaging creation, stubbornly committed to her plan even as uncertainty regarding the wisdom of the enterprise gnaws at her. But The Bookshop concerns itself, finally, with the astonishing vindictiveness of which provincials are capable, and, as so much English fiction must, it grapples with the inevitabilities of class. It's a dense marvel at 123 pages, a book you won't want to – or be able to – rush through.
  • The Rider by Tim Krabbe


    Tim Krabbé's superb 1978 memoir-cum-novel is the single best book we've read about cycling, a book that will come closer to bringing you inside a grueling road race than anything else out there. A kilometer-by-kilometer look at just what is required to endure some of the most grueling terrain in the world, Krabbé explains the tactics, the choices and – above all – the grinding, endless, excruciating pain that every cyclist faces and makes it heart-pounding rather than expository or tedious. No writer has better captured both the agony and the determination to ride through the agony. He's an elegant stylist (ably served by Sam Garrett's fine translation) and The Rider manages to be that rarest hybrid – an authentic, accurate book about cycling that's a pleasure to read. "Non-racers," he writes. "The emptiness of those lives shocks me."