When I was twelve I subscribed to The New York Times. I did so through lying about my age to some subscription-company (in writing), and paying by hard-given monies from my weekly allowance.

Why?

Because I felt I was going somewhere else by consuming it. Or rather, it consumed me. The outside world, that. It was definitely not Sweden.

I didn't care about the news, nor about American politics, or journalist gossip about people who earned lots of money; hence, the magazine was useless to me, as far as analysing its content went and still goes.

Never the less, I adored it.

Probably because of the feel of it. The crinkly pages. The language in it. The sentences were attractive because I felt they were written by somebody who was old and his ((Yes, I figured the writing was by males, old ones at that; their writing, unconsciously to me at the time, reeked of old and comfortable, near-dead and not in the least challenged.)) writing felt like he wanted to fit the mold of his peers, ending up with a quite homogenous magazine. Reading in-between the lines required some deciphering skills which I didn't have; still doubt I do. I got some weird kicks out of the magazine.

I shan't say content is mandatory to me now; in fact, it's not. All I need is conviction and kickings against the pricks, to paraphrase Derek Jarman. Some oomph.

Still, I felt that train of reading was something esoteric running, the want of difference. And I got it.