It’s been a couple of days since Emily’s farewell post, and I realized I hadn’t said anything about it yet. Most immediately I want to thank everyone for their words of kindness, interest, and support, they are much appreciated. It is our hope that every single Emdashes reader remains; quixotic perhaps, nevertheless so.

In the four years she has been writing about The New Yorker, first at Blogspot and then at her own URL, Emily communicated enthusiasm and erudition in a way that never seemed hasty or sloppy; years of editorial experience make that possible, and only high standards and interest and passion allow for that sort of experience to accrue. The frame that makes an Emdashes post an Emdashes post is her creation, and that isn’t going anywhere soon.

Luckily, she has somehow assembled a small team of people willing to carry her vision beyond her everyday involvement. With the help of Paul Morris, Benjamin Chambers, and a few others, I am confident that we can continue regular posts much in the same way as you are accustomed. My voice here, while mine, owed more than a tad to Emily’s example, and I hope the experience of reading Emdashes remains much the same.

The New Yorker is such a vast subject that it allows for a good range of interest. I’ve stated before that I’m probably more of a William Shawn person, whereas Emily might lean toward Harold Ross a bit more. I don’t have the fluency in art and design that Emily has, so I focus more on the themes and the ideas and the writing. My nominal lot here was to man the Complete New Yorker DVD archive, so of necessity my posts have been more about the past than Emily’s; to her credit, she consistently encouraged me to stray from that bailiwick, an offer I took up with enthusiasm.

A logistical note: In the last 18 months family concerns have made my life a good deal more nomadic; I am splitting my time between the New York City area and rural Austria, as Emily mentioned. It’s trite to say so, but for people of my age (late 30s) the miracle of the Internet never really loses its power to astonish. Suffice it to say that transit is transit and jet lag is jet lag; beyond that, location is moot, and we’ll try hard to make sure you never notice such disruptions. (To add to the general feeling of instability, I bought my first-ever Mac yesterday, so even a project as prosaic as selecting a word to copy is something of a challenge at the moment. Wish me luck!)

With the help of the rest of the Emdashes team, I will attempt to provide you with something diverting every weekday; most days we will succeed; some days we won’t. But the commitment to covering The New Yorker in all its glory, warts and all, come what may, insert cliche here—that remains intact.

Emily herself won’t ever be very far off; after only two years I count her as a close friend; we are in contact on a daily basis and I know she still thinks a great deal about the site. There will be occasions when she steps in; what is important is that the necessity to do so every day, or even every week, subside. I’m sure everyone connected to Emdashes wishes her great success in her new role at Print (indeed, is sure of it!). In the meantime, we will continue to fulfill the project she started; we hope you stay along for the ride.