My New York Times
Yes, I have an online subscription. Yes, I can summon the paper up on my iPad or my MacBook Pro or my iMac and even on my now very much out-of-date BlackBerry (which, as with Barack Obama, you will have to pry from my dead fingers). But these formats are miserly. They imprison the richness of weighty thoughts in short lines and hard cases. On digital devices, writing has no flow, no rhythm, and no grace. Instead, give me space, depth, wholeness. Give me unfurling columns of grandeur. Nothing compares to the in-the-flesh black-and-white newsprint copy of the New York Times, which my husband thankfully goes out every morning at 7:00 to obtain.
I like the fact that when I spread open the pages, grab the middle crease at the top with the thumb and forefinger of my right hand and the middle crease at the bottom with the thumb and forefinger of my left, then snap the paper back and fold it along its horizontal line, it becomes one page again and the perfect size to read with my coffee and toast. I love the tactile feel of the printed pages, the typeset copy and the index that shows all the different sections. I even love the Business Section, which reads like a series of detective-story novellas.
I love the pictures with their come-hither captions, luring you into articles as though saying, “Cross my palms with silver and I will take you deeper into the forest.” I love the movie reviews by Manohla Dargis (who for years I thought was a man) and the opera reviews by Anthony Tommasini and the theatre reviews by Ben Brantley. I love the Friday Arts Section and the Tuesday’s Science section and the I-don’t-know-which day Health Section. I love the thrill as I scan the article titles and discover subjects that turn out to be deeply philosophical or psychological or both at the same time.
But more than all of these things, I covet the Sunday New York Times Week in Review. Even if I don’t listen to the news or read anything for an entire week, I know that section will catch me up on everything I need to know. The writing is so good when I start into some of these serious articles that my arms begin to tingle and the hairs on the back of my neck feel electrified as a wave of deep gratitude washes over me. I am reminded that language matters—words matter—that with the shrinking of language comes the shrinking of the world, both interior and exterior, particularly the shrinking of access to deeper shared experience and emotion.
My husband was away last week and I had to go out myself to get the Sunday New York Times. At the store closest to our house, you have to be there no later than 8 AM or they are all sold out. Sometimes at this store you can get the paper on Saturday night if they deliver it early, but you never know. If I am really anxious, I call ahead and ask them to reserve a copy for me and then I can go and pick it up at my leisure.
This time, I was lucky to find a copy unusually early on a Saturday night. I felt victorious as I handed the paper to a young male clerk at the checkout counter. He scanned it and then did a double take at the amount that showed up on the screen. He looked at the paper, then looked at the screen again, and then looked at me with a dubious expression on his face. He took my money, but instead of handing it over, he looked down once more to carefully examine it. Then with a shake of his head, he said, “I’ve never seen a newspaper that cost so much.”
I wasn’t sure if it was a question or a statement. I stood dumbfounded for a moment in the bright lights of the store. But it was only a matter of seconds before I reached across the counter and took the paper gently from his outstretched hand. I had my moment of truth.
“It’s worth any price,” I heard a firm voice say from somewhere deep inside my soul. “It’s the best newspaper in the world.”