OK.
Confess it: if you’re a New Yorker subscriber, how many unread copies of the
magazine do you have piled up around the house?
I
love that magazine and can’t imagine not reading it on a regular basis. Yet,
yet…sometimes the back issues overwhelm and threaten to topple over the big
basket I keep by my favorite reading chair. (On the other hand, the weight of
all those issues does make the basket a handy doorstop to prop open the door to
the deck.)
Periodically,
I root through the basket to find copies to toss in the recycling bin. But of
course, I have to dog-ear any articles or stories I’m interested in and might
some day want to read. I’d estimate that the ratio of copies set aside to
recycle and those set aside to read is about 1:3. And sometimes, I do pluck out
an old copy of the magazine and read a short story or a movie review. But too
often, the back copies languish, unread and instilling guilt The oldest copies
on hand, with stories marked to read, I’m embarrassed to say, date from March
2005 (fiction by William Trevor) and October 2005 (fiction by Ruth Prawer Jhabvala).
There
was one period in my life when I did
read The New Yorker from cover to
cover—I mean everything, from
articles about horse racing to economic analyses. The setting for such diligent
periodical reading was bizarre, but makes sense, really. We were living in a
small rural village in the middle of Tanzania. We had none of the distractions
that I take for granted today (television, Internet) and no electricity. At
night, we played endless games of Scrabble and gin rummy by the light of our
Tilley lamp. We’d glean the news from paper-thin, weeks-old copies of Time or The Economist, and managed to catch only an occasional newscast via
our Peace Corps friends’ short-wave radio.
So,
we subscribed to The New Yorker. As I
said, bizarre. And yet, wonderfully rich and satisfying. No skimming, as I tend
to do today, and marking articles to read later on. With so much time to read,
I did read—almost everything and within days of receiving our copies. The
experience was a luxury, a weird anomalous counterpoint to a pared down life.
I
don’t remember when I started reading The
New Yorker—probably in college. One of my college roommates, the
uber-sophisticated Rebecca, had a theory about attracting guys during travel.
She advised getting on a plane with a copy of The New Yorker prominently displayed. Her reasoning: urbane,
promising men would recognize your sophistication and strike up a conversation.
(That never exactly worked for me, but I avoided traveling with my copy of Glamour, just in case.)
Today,
the next generation is falling under the spell of the magazine. My 10-year-old
granddaughter Harper loves the cartoons and covers. The other day she commented
about a particular social situation: “That would make a great New Yorker
cover.” I imagine she’ll be reading movie reviews and Talk of the Town before
long.
So,
even as I sometimes grumble about how the magazines stack up and determine to
cancel my subscription, I know I’ll remain a reader and fan. How could I not?
