For much of my life I’ve cherished the ritualized reading of the Sunday New York Times, which Tom Wolfe described in 1974 as “that great public bath, that vat, that spa, that regional physio-therapy tank, that White Sulphur Springs, that Marienbad, that Ganges, that River Jordan for a million souls.” Well, the print version of that vat, that spa, that River Jordan for a million souls has been arriving on my doormat since I signed up for Sunday morning delivery, which is the cheapest deal that allows for full digital access to the Times. And the truth is that I almost never take my Sunday edition to the cafe next door and order breakfast and, as Wolfe wrote, “slip into it like a warm bath.” I just don’t want it around for the most part. The bulk of it, the ink smudges, the folding and re-folding the paper, etc. That said, the daily issue is cool. And I still like reading newspapers in Europe. Somehow different over there.