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If you live in Victoria, British Columbia, you can scoop up a whole bunch of vintage magazines for a song, including many ’30s and ’40s New Yorkers, because the public library there is dumping all its messy old paper onto the bargain table. “A separate table will be reserved for the oldest magazines, which will be sold by silent auction.” Indeed.
David Remnick will quite rightly be winning The Benjamin C. Bradlee Editor of the Year Award from the National Press Foundation.
Leaves You Wanting Less calls David Rakoff’s writeup of his Woody Allen binge “positively Kael-worthy.”
As for Zbigniew: I naturally assumed the parents in question were poets (who are often drunk), and the name was a tribute to the great Zbigniew Herbert, whose deathless “Mr. Cogito” poems were introduced to me by Phillis Levin, who has herself been in The New Yorker not a few times.
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“A screaming comes across the sky”:
You want to scream — or is it that you’re hearing a scream echoing back to us from the future? The latest Seymour Hersh story in the New Yorker has more to do with the world of Thomas Pynchon than with the world of the last issue’s cover kid Eustace Tilley.
Is Bush trying to bluff and threaten the Iranians into submission? Maybe. Who knows? But as we saw in the buildup to the Iraq war, the threat of force by these guys has a way of turning into the use of force. We’re rapidly approaching an apocalyptic future that has a screaming written all across the sky — unless there’s a real screaming right here, at home, on the ground.
Hope this link works (I’m a technologically challenged Blogger blogger). The last one looked fine in your preview but wasn’t: “A screaming comes across the sky.”
MG—fixed!