Old issues

 

Happiness in bulk is what I call the printed New Yorker, Paris Review, and London Review of Books copies that arrived in the mail two days ago. These back issues date back to as early as February 2025; the most recent is the September 6, 2025 issue.  The delay has something to do with logistics. The efficiency of PhilPost isn't exactly outstanding, but it has never lost any New Yorker issue since I had started my subscription two years ago. The magazines arrive late, too late sometimes that I question whether they are forthcoming. But on days when I least expect them, the mailman would knock on the gate, Paul would bark his welcome, and whoever is at home would receive the package and deposit it somewhere in the living room. If it's my mother, she would say, "Ano na naman ini? Daw library na kita diri." I think all homes should be like libraries, with shelves upon shelves of books. Nanay thinks otherwise.

 

My subscriptions come with unlimited access to the online issues and archives of these magazines; so I don't feel like I'm shortchanged. Reading the expired issues take me back to the recent history of the world and remind me that nothing, not even longstanding regimes, last forever. 

 

I understand that it's hard to make the case for the existence of printed versions of these materials, except that these physical magazines should exist because they are meant to. I can't do anything else when I flip through the pages except to read or scan them. There is far less distraction. The ads are predictable, static, and actually beautiful. Words on actual paper demand attention. The sound of the pages as I flip them, the visible creases of folding or rolling, the industrial and scholarly smell of ink on paper give me pleasure.