Taking time away from the phenomenally disingenuous and phony folksy Neil Gorsuch– who, after telling us about his early morning Jimmy Stewart visit to the Lincoln Memorial then made the ridiculous claim that his parochial school nuns of the mid-70s used to beat their students — we thought this story was more important:
We’re sad to hear that Robert Silvers has died, after a brief illness, at the age of eighty-seven. It is hard—both painful and disorienting—to imagine the world without him. The New York Review of Books, which he founded with the late Barbara Epstein during the newspaper strike of 1962, and which he continued to edit until his death, was an experiment whose like we will never see again. And it has remained exactly what it was from the beginning: a journal of criticism and ideas that can speak on equal terms to scientists, poets, philosophers, novelists, and politicians, but in prose the common reader can understand.
When called upon, The New York Review was like a news magazine and a think tank rolled into one. Its reporting on Vietnam and Iraq, for example, helped turn the tide of opinion against those wars. Yet it was open to essays, poems, and even the odd short story. For half a century, it has remained authoritative, lively, surprising, and utterly personal. Notoriously modest and discreet in manner, Silvers had supreme confidence in his editorial judgment, as did his readers—and his writers. “He’s the person I trust more than anybody,” Joan Didion told us in her Art of Nonfiction interview. Whoever assumes the job of editing The New York Review will have the highest standard to live up to.
Yeah. More pictures. Literacy be damned.