Poised Magazine, Lost Souls

Reading The New Yorker is drinking your third Bloody Mary at 35,000 feet on a morning flight to Aspen, Colorado. Reading Here at The New Yorker is doing all of the foregoing, the while perusing “The Talk of the Town.” Brendan Gill captures perfectly the spirit of the magazine that carries the cleverest cartoons in the world, and the handsomest ads in the United States.

And why not? Gill himself, though he hails from Hartford, is the prototype of the patrician New Yorker: handsome, and independently wealthy; well read, and with an ear for music; sensitive to, but not o’erthrown by, nagging social eczema on other people’s bodies and neighborhoods; very much the bon vivant, attending five or six parties a week, whom life has caressed and whom in turn he entertains with the effervescent show of his own resplendent spirits and good will. “Not a shred of evidence,” he observes, “exists in favor of the argument that life is serious,

CW

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Chilton Williamson Jr.

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Reading The New Yorker is drinking your third Bloody Mary at 35,000 feet on a morning flight to Aspen, Colorado. Reading Here at The New Yorker is doing all of the foregoing, the while perusing “The Talk of the Town.” Brendan Gill captures perfectly the spirit of the magazine that carries the cleverest cartoons in the world, and the handsomest ads in the United States.

And why not? Gill himself, though he hails from Hartford, is the prototype of the patrician New Yorker: handsome, and independently wealthy; well read, and with an ear for music; sensitive to, but not o’erthrown by, nagging social eczema on other people’s bodies and neighborhoods; very much the bon vivant, attending five or six parties a week, whom life has caressed and whom in turn he entertains with the effervescent show of his own resplendent spirits and good will. “Not a shred of evidence,” he observes, “exists in favor of the argument that life is serious,