Someone once asked Harold Ross, founder, editor, and professionally terrible-tempered boss of The New Yorker, what would become of the magazine after his death. "It will go its own goddam way, I guess," he replied. Ross was not quite right. Last week, nine years after his death from cancer, The New Yorker was still trying to go Ross's way. But one vital element was missing: the quality of editorial goddamishness that Ross himself gave the magazine.
From the figure it cuts in the accounting department, things could hardly be better: circulation is up...
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