In praise of the London Review of Books
I now have an understanding of the political situation in Thailand. I now know who first used the term 'utilitarian'. I now realise that when looking to inventions of the past I could see them as sensible solutions to hidden questions, not solutions to the questions we're asking; if the solution seems daft and old-fashioned nutty then it's probably me who's not looking clearly. I now appreciate that I'm not the only Englishman with a split identity. None of this came to me didactically, but through the wonderful writing of the London Review of Books, Volume 26, Number 12
I've chased good long-form prose around the internet: Arts and Letters Daily, various twitter feeds. But I'm begining to realise that when I pick up the LRB I'm holding what I've been searching for: writing of depth, breadth, emotion, intellect, humour, sagacity and artfulness. If the LRB is really what I've been searching for then it's more than a quest completed, it's a part of me fulfilled. It's a rarefied version of discovering Radio 4 for the first time, and realising that not all broadcast media is turgid bullshit. I'm only on my second issue but so far the LRB feels warm and welcoming.