For as long as I can remember, and for years before that, The New Yorker has offered intelligent writing (and clever cartoons too) aimed at thinking readers who are assumed to meet a mininum cultural literacy standard. For those of us exiled in the distant territories, it provides hope in the form of 48 doses each year of civilization that remind us of our roots and help prevent descent into barbarism. I think of the regular reading of The New Yorker as a form of therapy to counteract the base influences of People, In Style, Time and similar magazines, each written in a style that presumes a degree of idiocy among its readers.For anyone willing to give The New Yorker a chance (assuming that its current subscribers won't need to read this review), I think that exposure to writers like John McPhee, Ken Auleta, Roger Angell and others, plus doses of a very urbane point of view, can help counteract some of the truly evil influences of modern society and provide a standard of reference that once was common but which has passed us by. extended stay city
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