I subscribed to The New Yorker last year on a whim. Truth be told, it seemed like an intellectual magazine, perhaps a bit snobbish, and it was only $37 for the yearlong subscription. Thirty-seven dollars is a low price for the right to be intellectual, and a bit snobby, for an entire year.
What I didn’t realize at the time is just how devoted the magazine is to its writing. I suppose that technically all publications are in some way devoted to good writing—even this humble blog attempts to produce at least a semblance of something readable—but The New Yorker takes it to an art.