But more than the characters, dialogue, or auteurist details, what I’ll miss most about Mad Men is the way I, and perhaps many of you, absorbed it. This was not a show that we merely watched. We studied it. We hit pause to verify the names of the books that popped up in certain scenes. (Did everyone else notice the appearance of both Michael Crichton’s The Andromeda Strain and James Michener’s Hawaii—the jumping-off point?—during Don’s hotel stay in last week’s episode? Of course you did. Because you hit pause on the DVR.) We scrutinized the costumes, not only for their period accuracy and textural gorgeousness, but for their deeper meanings. We connected the dots from things that happened all the way back in seasons one or two to the moments unfolding in seasons six or seven. We read up on the 1960s history that served as both backdrop and subtext for whatever was happening in Don’s, Joan’s, Peggy’s, or Pete’s world.