The New York Times published a little tribute to The New Yorker, that storied magazine that’s long resided a few blocks away. James Stevenson recalls his early days as an office boy, back when founder Harold Ross still roamed the hallways and with luck one could meet legends like E.B. White (Or perhaps not — Stevenson recalls that after a summer of keeping White’s pencils extra sharp, the never-dulled tips eventually clued him in that he lived in Maine.)
It’s nostalgic and name-dropping, like such reminiscences are, but instead of your boiler-plate mini-memoir, The Times gifts us with a handwritten account, complete with cartoons from the author.
He saves the best anecdote for last. After earning a job writing the jokes that accompany cartoons — a position that would be a mystery to most staffers — Stevenson met with the editor, notorious hermit William Shawn.
Mr. Shawn and I gazed at each other pleasantly. After a while, he glanced around the room as if hoping to be rescued. Suddenly, he had an idea. “Would you like to have a cigarette, Mr. Stevenson?” he asked. “Thank you, Mr. Shawn,” I said. Mr. Shawn reached across his desk, past jars of pencils, an alarm clock and more manuscripts to a small box. He lifted the lid and peered in. It was empty; had been for many years, I suspect. Mr. Shawn looked at me apologetically. We shook hands, and I left for my new office.
You can see the charming and wonderful illustrated version below.
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