For the first time in yonks I bought a copy of The New York Review of Books. I'd be more than happy to buy every copy that came out - and I can just about afford it - but I've been manfully restricting myself to only making a purchase when I've read all the material in the one I'm reading currently, and it's a measure of my painfully slow speed of reading that I've only managed one edition since the beginning of the year. Mind you, it's been a busy old year regarding the Toad work one way or another, so there's another weak excuse. And I read a fair bit of what the editors rather sweetly post on their website.
This time I just had to buy a copy though since, as well as finishing the previous edition, I noticed from the online edition that there was an excellent article on Duke Ellington, and since he's one of my super-heroes I just had to have the hard copy to savour it. Somehow reading it the old-fashioned way makes it feel more real.
I suppose that's somewhat similar to the sense you have of listening to real music made by real men (and a lady or two) when savouring the Duke's actual recordings.
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