They never change, but I have to read them in every new issue, and take a moment to marvel: the majority of the marginal ads in the New Yorker seem to be for psychiatric hospitals, self-publishing outfits, and estate jewellery.
In my imagination, these small boxes figure some kind of rarefied, marvellous world in which one’s ennui with the burden of the kind of wealth that makes estate jewellery affordable leads to the necessity of ‘a distinctive psychiatric hospital’ - one with an ‘elegantly appointed environment’; a place that does not accept health insurance.
Which leads, I presume, to the self-publication of one’s treatment memoir, in which the challenge of finding a psychiatric treatment centre with a sufficiently elegant environment is addressed.
