Finder Henry - The 40s: the story of a decade

Copyright 2014 by The New Yorker Magazine
Illustrations copyright 2014 by Simone Massoni

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reprinted by permission of The Shirley Jackson Papers, Manuscript Division, Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.

L IBRARY OF C ONGRESS C ATALOGING-IN -P UBLICATION D ATA
The 40s: the story of a decade / The New Yorker; edited by Henry Finder
with Giles Harvey; introduction by David Remnick.
pages cm
ISBN 978-0-679-64479-8
eBook ISBN 978-0-679-64480-4
1. United StatesHistory19331945. 2. United StatesHistory19451953. 3. United StatesSocial life and customs20th century. 4. United StatesSocial customs19331945. 5. United StatesSocial customs19451953. 6. United StatesIn literature. 7. New Yorker (New York, N.Y.: 1925). I. Finder, Henry. II. Harvey, Giles. III. New Yorker (New York, N.Y.: 1925). IV. New Yorker (New York, N.Y.: 1925).
E 806.f66 2014
973.917dc23 2013047082

www.atrandom.com

FIRST EDITION

Book design by Simon M. Sullivan

v3.1

David Remnick

G ap-toothed and spiky-haired, Harold Ross arrived in New York after the Great War and soon became one of the citys most fantastical characters. He was twenty-seven, an eccentric searcher shaped by a dropout youth in the American West and a knockabout start in the news business; before he enlisted, hed worked for two dozen papers, some of them for no more than a few weeks. Ross had a lucky war. He battled the Germans by editing Stars & Stripes in Paris. When he landed in Manhattan, he took up residence in Hells Kitchen and went to work for a veterans publication called The Home Sector. He also worked for a few months, in 1924, for Judge, a Republican-funded humor magazine. In the meantime, he acquired a circle of young Jazz Age friends (he played softball with Harpo Marx and Billy Rose, shot ducks with Bernard Baruch) and conceived an idea for a fizzy Manhattan-centric magazine of his owna fifteen-cent comic paper, he called it. For financial backing, he hit up a baking and yeast scion named Raoul Fleischmann. Ross never really liked Fleischmann (The major owner of The New Yorker is a fool, he once wrote; the venture therefore is built on quicksand), but Fleischmann gave him the wherewithal to lure artists and writers from his accumulating circle of friends, hungry freelancers, disgruntled newspapermen, and Broadway lights. Harold Ross was in business.

From the moment he published the first issue of the magazine, in February 1925, he became one of midtowns most talked-about characters. He was the profane rube who had a mystical obsession with grammatical punctilio and syntactical clarity. He was the untutored knucklehead (Is Moby Dick the man or the whale? he famously asked) who lived on unfiltered cigarettes, poker chips, and Scotch and yet somehow managed to hire James Thurber and E. B. White, Janet Flanner and Lillian Ross, Edmund Wilson and Vladimir Nabokov, A. J. Liebling and Joseph Mitchell. He could not afford to pay Hemingways short-story rates, and sowith the guidance of a fiction department led by a cultivated Bryn Mawr graduate named Katharine Angell (later Katharine White)he went about discovering John OHara, John Cheever, J. D. Salinger, and Shirley Jackson. His editorial queries (Were the Nabokovs a one-nutcracker family?) got to the heart of things.

Ross was in on the joke of his bumpkin persona, and later became its captive, a lonely, twice-divorced workaholic. But he marshaled that persona to lead, to cajole, to set a tone at the magazine that was high-minded in its studied lack of high-mindedness. Ross had the sort of editorial personality that caused his deputies and writers to weep, sometimes in despair, sometimes in gratitude. One day, he would send a note saying WRITE SOMETHING GOD DAMN IT. And then, on the occasion of good work, he would send a message reading, I am encouraged to go on. It was all in the service of the weekly cause. He was nothing if not clear. To break up his first marriage, he sent his wife a kind of editorial memo that left no doubt of her faults and his own. Thurber took a crack at portraying the man in