Why I love the New Yorker

Next April I'm planning on finally getting an iPad (it's a long story why I'm waiting for April; long, but not very interesting, which is why I'm not going to tell you), and one of the things I'm excited about is renewing my subscription to The New Yorker magazine.

I just love the writing.

Here's a wonderful example:

She crouched in front of the enclosure. “Hey, you!” she said, beckoning to one of the animals. She reached through the barbed wire and stroked one of its ears. Boggs opened the gate, and Bloomfield—wearing flip-flops, turned-up railroad pants, a black T-shirt, and aviator sunglasses—charged in. It was sweltering. The pigs stunk. Bloomfield stood in the middle of a cloud of dust. She could have been at a cocktail party.

This paragraph is from a profile on a woman named April Bloomfield, an English chef making a name for herself in New York. You can read the whole thing here.

(There was actually a paragraph I enjoyed even more but now I can't find it. Still, this one is great, isn't it? Makes me want a pair of aviator sunglasses. It also makes me want to go to New York and eat.)