The New Yorker sent me another final notice that my subscription had run out. I have a pile of unread issues, mixed approximately 5:1, a literary martini, with my unread Harper's'. I'll grab an issue, March, August, whatever, from time to time, and tote it to bathroom or beach. I enjoy seeing, in passing, that stack of magazines, its reassuring height, still growing, ever more slowly, but still a bit faster than my ability or inclination to consume.