One person is reading The New Yorker from the beginning — every issue, in order, writing up each one. They are currently in the late summer of 1936, which is roughly eleven years of magazine across four years of blogging, and the arithmetic on finishing does not bear examining. What it buys you is a weekly dispatch from a specific week: the Thurber cartoon, the Lois Long shopping column, the ad for a cigarette brand nobody has smoked since.