I’m far behind on my reading of The New Yorker, and I’m okay with that.

Aside from the delay caused by December’s postal strike, back issues have been slowly piling up. My current read is from December 9, 2024. It’s fantastic.

Except, of course, for the ongoing coverage of Trump’s election win— the first in a long series of articles about the foolish things he’ll say and do. Everything else that interests me in the magazine feels timeless.

Recently, I read about Lake Tahoe’s bear population and the divide between residents who want to live in harmony with them and those who see them as enemies in a never-ending war on nature. This week, there’s a long-form piece on Argentina’s president, charting his rise to power and his ill-informed, poorly executed attempts to reshape the country’s economy. Unfortunately, the portrait of Javier Milei reads a little too much like a portrait of Trump.

As part of my morning routine, I work through a long-form piece every day or two, filling the gaps with shorter articles. I gravitate toward book and film reviews and have even come to enjoy the magazine’s fiction.

Right now, ten back issues sit stacked on my shelf, including the 100th-anniversary edition— alongside two back issues of The Walrus still waiting for my attention. But I’m in no rush. Some of the content may be out of date by the time I get to it, but that’s not why I subscribe. I do it for the routine, the habit it helps me form, and as an intentional way to spend time away from yet another screen.