The concept and physique of it are matchless. It was born during the strike against the New York Times and its Book Review a few years ago. Its title, The New York Review of Books, suggests its parent very explicitly without being a plagiarism. Printed on newsprint, it looks like the parent but is rougher (notice the serrated edges); its surface feels, literally, not so “slick,” so it summons up the serious, authoritative image of The New Republic. There is a virile, economical, proletarian quality about it, but it is hardly to be confused with the National Enquirer, even though its cover is likewise filled with headlines. No worker would pick it up by mistake.
There is not a photograph in it. Instead, it is embellished with magnificent, fine-lined drawings and engravings, most by David Levine, and that is one of its stoutest characteristics. It perspires with importance and intelligence; the print fairly smears. If it had been published in any other form it would not have worked so well. I wished to doubt him before, but now I know that McLuhan was right at least once, because the medium in this case is critical to the success of the message. Imagine, the most influential, intellectual publication in America—a proven fact—being an impermanent tabloid! You are taken aback when you realize this. To set you at ease they offer permanent cartons for displaying and preserving it. They offer special rates—with Levine’s drawings, suitable for framing—as teasers for subscribing. But they are not without commercial integrity. The elegant advertisements are for books alone, and the publishers do not sponsor a book club. I deduct the cost of my copies, as they are necessary in the production of my income as a professor.
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