If The Stranger’s review of the gargantuan The Complete New Yorker didn’t dizzy you to collapse—if you haven’t bought it yet and are mulling it over while occasionally mooching from friends (that’s me, the unrepentant moocher), if you already bought it but you haven’t yet unwrapped it, or if you’re just curious about which of the knotty, weird paths through the archives James Wolcott would choose to tread, read this. I wouldn’t call it a review: It’s the best guide to the jungle I’ve read yet.

It concludes with the following bullet points:

Future topics for inquiry.

Why does A. J. Liebling remain a vibrant role model for writers while the superb, prolific St. Clair McKelway has been sorely forgotten?

Why does The New Yorker’s current slate of female byliners (Susan Orlean, Joan Acocella, Nancy Franklin, Caitlan Flanagan, et al.) seem so much girlier than its former greats (Flanner, Kael, Lois Long, Andy Logan, Maeve Brennan, Emily Hahn)?

Bob Gottlieb’s editorial era—victim of a bad rap?

Shawn’s unsigned obituary notices, the art of.

Intriguing, indeed.

Thanks, Bookslut.