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Photo by Gail Harvey, no reproduction without permission
The Church of The New York Times With the exception of a few weeks of Sundays last summer, I have logged onto the New York Times website every Sunday morning for years. While nothing compares to the heft of the actual newsprint edition thudding down on a breakfast table, the online version provides a decent [if less inky] alternative.
My relationship to the paper began with a feeling of dread. I worked the opening shift at a bookstore in Toronto on Sundays and began my day with the sight of several huge bundles. Assembly of the much-coveted City Edition had to happen quickly, because before we had even unlocked the door, a cluster of rabid addicts had gathered outside. In my ignorance I disdained their impatience and fervor. The phone rang as others called to reserve their copies. The left-over National Edition copies lingered till mid-week, when they were stripped of their banners and recycled. Staff members were then allowed to make off with a copy, and so my own connection to the paper began. It didn't take long to recognize that the writing was exceptional. Typos were rare and I pictured some poor slob being fired after one shift for failing to notice an error of some kind, the grevious faux-pas leading to a flurry of letters from hardcore readers.
I began to purchase my own copy of the City Edition, carting it home after work on Sundays and settling down with it over dinner for a run of evenings. I was hooked. Reviewers referred to actors in plays as Mr. Hoffman and Ms. Streep, embuing the criticism and accolades with a sense of classiness not found in Canadian papers. I devoured everything from the social pages to the wedding announcements to reports of crimes and misdemeanours committed all over the boroughs. I knew more about New York City homeless shelters than I did about the ones I walked past daily in Toronto.
Life actually flowed without internet access in those not-so-long-ago days and even after I succumbed to the web-world, dial-up made reading a newspaper online a tedious [and limited] experience. Besides, the act of reading anything lengthy from a screen held little appeal. I would still not like to read a novel on a computer screen, but somehow, my need of this weekly news ritual has converted me.
The Sunday edition also provided endless fodder for the kind of wondering and fantasizing that leads to fiction. I recommended it as an inspirational aid to my creative writing students in class. Certain of the Sunday edition stories stuck with me, haunting my walks like dreams sometimes can.
This morning, after enjoying my weekly banquet of the NYT, I was transported to West End Avenue, the mid-morning sun angling just so, the walk imprinted in my memory even though it happned years ago. The stroll down and along to Riverside Drive, the taste of espresso on my tongue, the heft of the paper edition creating a pleasant cramp in my arm. That I can get there just by typing www.nyt.com into this still-amazing machine is a wonderful feeling. No more kneeling to assemble sections to make a whole for the mad congregation outside the bookstore window, although I do, after years of indulging my own addiction to the paper, finally understand what all the fuss is about. Rituals anchor the soul.
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