You know that massive, heavy book sitting on your uncle's coffee table? The one that looks like it could double as a doorstop or a weapon of self-defense? That's it. The Complete Cartoons of The New Yorker is a beast. It’s not just a collection of jokes; it’s a time capsule of American neurosis. Honestly, if you want to understand why people have been anxious about cocktail parties, tax audits, and desert islands for the last century, you just have to flip through these pages.
It weighs about eight pounds. Maybe more. I haven't put it on a scale lately, but your wrists will definitely feel it after ten minutes of browsing.
When Robert Mankoff, the magazine’s former cartoon editor, pulled this project together, it was a Herculean task. We're talking about over 68,000 cartoons spanning from the magazine's founding in 1925 all the way through the early 2000s. The physical book doesn't actually contain every single one—that would require a forklift to move—but it comes with DVDs (remember those?) that house the entire digital archive. It’s a staggering amount of ink.
What You're Actually Buying
Most people buy this for the aesthetic. It looks smart. It says, "I enjoy sophisticated humor and probably own a turtleneck." But the real value is in the evolution of the gag.
In the early days, the art was ornate. Peter Arno’s work in the 1930s looks like high art, full of bold blacks and socialites behaving badly. Then you move into the mid-century era with Charles Addams—the man behind The Addams Family—and things get delightfully dark. By the time you hit the 1970s and 80s, the "New Yorker style" we recognize today starts to solidify. Shaky lines. Existential dread. Dogs talking about their therapists.
It's a weirdly emotional experience to read it chronologically. You see the world change. The cartoons from the WWII era have a different bite than the ones from the dot-com bubble. Yet, the desert island trope remains eternal. A guy in a tattered suit standing under a single palm tree is apparently the funniest thing humanity has ever conceived.
Why the Humor Is So Specific
People love to joke that they "don't get" New Yorker cartoons. There's even that famous Seinfeld episode where Elaine obsesses over a cartoon involving a pig and a complaint department.
The truth? The Complete Cartoons of The New Yorker proves that the humor isn't always about a "punchline" in the traditional sense. It’s about a "vibe." It’s observational. It’s often a mirror held up to the upper-middle class, mocking their pretensions while simultaneously being written for them.
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Take Roz Chast, for example. Her work is a centerpiece of the later sections of the book. Her drawings aren't "pretty" in a classical sense. They are frantic. They're filled with lists of things that could go wrong. It’s anxiety in ink. That shift—from Peter Arno’s sleek sophistication to Chast’s neurotic scribbles—tells the story of the 20th century better than most history books.
The Logistics of the Collection
The book itself is edited by Robert Mankoff, and it features a foreword by David Remnick. If you're looking for the original 2004 edition, it's a two-disc set tucked into the front cover.
- Page Count: Around 650 pages of printed highlights.
- The Digital Side: The two DVDs contain every single cartoon ever published in the magazine up to 2004.
- Searchability: On the discs, you can search by artist or by year. It’s a researcher's dream, honestly.
There’s a common misconception that this book is just a "best of." It's more than that. It’s a curated narrative of American wit. You see the rise of James Thurber, whose dogs look like they’re melting, and the biting social commentary of William Steig.
Is It Still Relevant?
In an era of memes and TikTok, does a book of black-and-white drawings still matter?
Absolutely.
Memes are fast. They die in a week. But a New Yorker cartoon about a lawyer at the gates of Hell? That’s been funny for fifty years and it’ll be funny for fifty more. The Complete Cartoons of The New Yorker works because it taps into universal truths. We are all a little bit embarrassed by our lives. We all feel out of place sometimes.
There is a specific joy in the "captionless" cartoon. You’re forced to do the work. You have to look at the drawing—maybe it’s a man walking a giant lobster—and figure out the absurdity for yourself. It’s an active form of consumption that the internet has largely replaced with passive scrolling.
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The "I Don't Get It" Factor
Let's be real. Some of these are duds.
When you have 68,000 pieces of content, not every single one is going to be a home run. Some are deeply rooted in the specific political gossip of 1954 and simply don't translate to a modern audience. That's okay. The book is an archive, not a comedy special. It’s meant to be explored, not read cover-to-cover in one sitting.
If you find yourself staring at a drawing of two penguins talking about a stock market crash and you feel nothing, just turn the page. There will be a dog wearing a hat on the next one.
Actionable Ways to Enjoy the Collection
Don't just let it sit there and collect dust. It's a tool.
1. Use it for "The Caption Game"
This is a classic. Cover the caption with a Post-it note and try to write your own. It’s harder than it looks. It gives you a profound respect for the writers who have to boil a complex social situation down to six words.
2. Track the "Desert Island" Evolution
Go through the digital archive and see how many variations of the desert island gag you can find. It’s a masterclass in trope-twisting. One year it’s about a man and a woman, the next it’s a man and his laptop.
3. Study the Art Styles
If you're an artist, this book is basically a Bible. You can see how line weight, shading, and composition change over decades. You can see the transition from charcoal-heavy realism to the minimalist "shaky line" that became the magazine's hallmark.
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Where to Find It
Since it's a legacy item, you can often find copies of The Complete Cartoons of The New Yorker in used bookstores or on eBay for a fraction of the original price. Just make sure the DVDs are actually in the pocket. People tend to lose them, and without the discs, you’re only getting about 5% of the total content.
There was also a later version called The New Yorker Encyclopedia of Cartoons, which is a two-volume set organized by subject (cats, doctors, etc.). It’s great, but it lacks the chronological "story" that the original Complete Cartoons tells so well.
The sheer weight of this book is its greatest strength and its biggest weakness. You can't read it in bed without risking a broken nose if you drop it. It belongs on a sturdy table. It belongs in a house where people aren't afraid to laugh at themselves.
At the end of the day, this collection is a reminder that while the technology we use to communicate changes, the things we worry about—money, death, relationships, and the weirdness of other people—stay exactly the same.
Next Steps for the Curious
If you’ve managed to get your hands on a copy, start by looking up the year you were born in the digital archive. It's a fun way to see what the "smart" world was laughing at when you entered it.
After that, pick a single artist—Saul Steinberg or George Booth are great starting points—and follow their career through the pages. You’ll start to see their recurring characters and obsessions. It’s like watching a long-form sitcom play out over thirty years through nothing but single-panel drawings.
Finally, check the condition of the binding. These books are notorious for the spine cracking because of the immense weight of the paper. Keep it flat, keep it open, and don't be afraid to actually read the thing. It's not a museum piece; it's a joke book. Treat it like one.