To me, The London Review of Books is the pinnacle of literary review writing. The research, thought and work that goes into each essay is spectacular. It is of no consequence that the reviews are not instantaneous with the publishing of the book. The books I have read which have an LRB review are made all the better because of the different perspective and additional depth provided by the review. I can but dream of being able to review with the skill that the contributors to the LRB have. What a wonderful job – to read, to research and then to put together an essay which will sit beside the book as a permanent compliment.

I think the reason this milestone that makes me so happy is that the LRB provides a bastion of intellect in this instant-gratification, multi-media, multi-tasking, short-attention-span world we find ourselves in. I love making the transition from my dual monitors with 5 open windows, continual digital noise and never-ending distractions to the relative peace offered by the words on the page. This goes as much for books as for the magazines I subscribe to, but my love of the English language is always satisfied by a quiet session with the latest LRB. I can forget that conversation has turned into LOL and ROLF and BRB and l8r and settle into a world of complex thought, beautifully chosen language, and evidence of time taken over the essay in order to perfect it.

Call me old-fashioned, but I would hate to see the demise of this kind of writing. I hope to see it celebrate another 30 years. And I hope that I remain a subscriber for the duration.