Here at the New Yorker Book

Full of gossip, much of which is mean-spirited, although Gill at least had the class to reserve the cruelest anecdotes for the deceased-- for the living, and particularly for William Shawn there is mostly fawning praise. Gill writes as though the reader must certainly be familiar with his work, and I suppose anyone who would read a book like "Here at the New Yorker" would be, but as a literary figure I think it is probably safe to say that this is the work he'd most likely be remembered for, rather than any of the seven other volumes listed on the flyleaf. I recall his writing about architecture, but you could put a gun to my head and I couldn't tell you anything about his film or theater criticism. He was sort of a utility infielder at the magazine, it seems to me, and the sense I got of what he was like personally was that he was likable enough, if he liked you. Although his mother died when he was young, he was nevertheless the child of privilege, a doctor's son. Yale, and a Bonesman, which means that although he'd probably be interesting to have a drink with, he'd have been unlikely to have me over to the Century Club to do so.

The book itself is a curious thing. Nearly 400 pages long, it is anecdotal and discursive. It's methodology seems to be to take up in turn as many people-- editors, writers, artists, what have you, relate a little story about each, and then move on to the next. It does not hang together as well as a New Yorker article does-- it is almost like 400 pages of "Talk of the Town" writing, only not really as good. I've read probably as many of the other memoirs about the magazine as anyone-- I think I've read them all now-- and there was dish here that was new to me, but none of it was particularly illuminating. It wasn't deep dish, let's put it that way, and it would not have been very useful to me in my long-ago abandoned project.