Time and Again

The word magazine comes down to us English speakers from French, which apparently appropriated it from Arabic, where it denoted a storehouse. In a more general sense, the word still denotes, in some cases, a place of storage, as in a firearms magazine, which holds ammunition. Of course, the most usual use of the word today is to denote a periodical, which, in a sense, is a storehouse for reports, essays, critiques, reviews, etc. 

The problem with the magazine as storehouse is that the reader (I speak for myself) cannot avail himself of all the goodies in the storehouse before the next issue pops into his mailbox. 

About a half century ago, I had a subscription to Punch (alas, now-defunct), a British periodical famed for its humor (or should I have written humour?), and commentary on world affairs. Weekly, the magazine would arrive in a plain brown wrapper (more suited, I thought, for hiding a porno rag). Arrive, that is, before I had an opportunity to finish the previous week’s issue—or, indeed, the issue before that one. The result was that off in a corner of my premises a pile of brown-wrapped Punch magazines steadily grew.

When work—or some more worthwhile activity—allotted me free time, I would dig into the Punch pile and randomly select an old issue to read—weeks or months after its arrival. 

What did I discover when finally read the ancient texts? The cartoons remained as funny as ever; the same too for the humorous essays. But the news . . . . I was carried back to the threats, the disasters, the terrors, and the catastrophes of the recent past. And looking back after months and months (was it ever years?), I was moved to quote the title of a book by D. H. Lawrence, “Look! We have come through!” 

We escaped from under the volcano; we were not carried away by the rushing waters of calamity. All the torment that we suffered was long gone. If only we had known . . . .

*

As I have probably mentioned in a previous post or two, I have been spending a lot of time in the archives of another magazine—The New Yorker. I go historically, usually starting in 1939 or 1940 or so and continuing until I start barfing at the fashions advertised in the 70s. I am on my third tour, each time focusing (the magazine insists on focussing) on some element I neglected before. This time I had a strange sensation as I approached the 1960s. I had the feeling that I was a spectator at a play whose outcome I knew, the fates of the characters implanted in my brain. Oedipus, you will blind yourself; Hamlet, you will die. 

And so, 1960: Richard Nixon, no matter how hard you try, you will lose the election to John F. Kennedy. 

John F. Kennedy, your presidency will have some highs and some lows (the Bay of Pigs, for one) as 1961 moves on to 1962, and 1962 to 1963.  

And I sit there staring at the computer screen, and I want to shout, “You don’t know!” as the months of 1963 move inexorably to November. 

*

Unlike the experience I had with my Punch magazines where I was taking advantage of my hindsight, the New Yorker experience combined hindsight with foresight. Knowing the outcome that history gave me, I shivered with terror as the magazine went unawares through the days and weeks until—like a dread fate—we reached the 22nd of November.