Letters from the Editor: The New Yorker's Harold Ross [NOOK Book]

Overview

These exhilarating letters—selected and introduced by Thomas Kunkel, who wrote Genius in Disguise, the distinguished Ross biography—tell the dramatic story of the birth of The New Yorker and its precarious early days and years. Ross worries about everything from keeping track of office typewriters to the magazine's role in wartime to the exact questions to be asked for a "Talk of the Town" piece on the song "Happy Birthday." We find Ross, in Kunkel's words, "scolding Henry Luce, lecturing Orson Welles, baiting J....
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Letters from the Editor: The New Yorker's Harold Ross

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Overview

These exhilarating letters—selected and introduced by Thomas Kunkel, who wrote Genius in Disguise, the distinguished Ross biography—tell the dramatic story of the birth of The New Yorker and its precarious early days and years. Ross worries about everything from keeping track of office typewriters to the magazine's role in wartime to the exact questions to be asked for a "Talk of the Town" piece on the song "Happy Birthday." We find Ross, in Kunkel's words, "scolding Henry Luce, lecturing Orson Welles, baiting J. Edgar Hoover, inviting Noel Coward and Ginger Rogers to the circus, wheedling Ernest Hemingway— offering to sell Harpo Marx a used car and James Cagney a used tractor, and explaining to restaurateur-to-the-stars Dave Chasen, step by step, how to smoke a turkey." These letters from a supreme editor tell in his own words the story of the fierce, lively man who launched the world's most prestigious magazine.


From the Hardcover edition.
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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
Harold Ross (1892-1951) was the founding editor and guiding spirit of the New Yorker, and this sampling of his voluminous correspondence offers a breezy romp through a quarter-century of the magazine's history. Included are letters to E.B. White, James Thurber, Robert Benchley, Dorothy Parker, Saul Steinberg and many other talents whom Ross discovered and nurtured. Though restless, chain-smoking, Colorado-born Ross, an immigrant miner's son, could be awkward in public discourse, his letters reveal an articulate, keen intellect possessed by a tough, pragmatic, embattled editor who is everywhere at once--prodding writers to create, assuaging big egos, sparring with business partner Raoul Fleischmann. By turns serious, whimsical, gossipy, pointed and irascible, these letters demolish the notion that Ross was a bumpkin whose brainchild magazine succeeded in spite of him. The recipients of these missives comprise an astonishing who's who: Nabokov, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Rebecca West, John O'Hara, Ernst Lubitsch, Richard Rodgers, Moss Hart, J. Edgar Hoover, Nehru, Henry Luce, Ian Fleming and Harry Truman, to name a few. While much is ephemera or shop talk, Ross biographer Kunkel has skillfully linked the letters with commentaries to trace the New Yorker's evolution from shaky startup to carefree oasis during the Depression to committed world journal in WW II to cosmopolitan liberal forum during the Cold War. There are a smattering of autobiographical letters, which shed light, for example, on Ross's divorce from first wife Jane Grant ("I'm married to this magazine," he confesses). Reading these letters is like eavesdropping on a beehive of creative activity. (Feb.) Copyright 2000 Cahners Business Information.
Library Journal
Kunkel (Genius in Disguise: Harold Ross of the New Yorker) here collects the letters of The New Yorker's first editor. Born in Colorado, Ross (1892-1951) became a reporter at 16, a contributor to The Stars and Stripes during World War I, and in 1925, a New Yorker editor. His entertaining and informative letters touch on both his personal life and The New Yorker's notorious problems and achievements-its economic, legal, literary, and artistic struggles; its famous writers; and a wide collection of Ross's friends and acquaintances. Throughout his writings, Ross displays loyalty, deviousness, prejudices, wisdom, humor, and charm. Wonderfully edited, these letters are a joy to read. Highly recommended for literature collections and the common reader.-Gene Shaw, NYPL
Christopher Lehmann-Haupt
Ross devoted several hours of his day to typing letters. "I got started and off I went, it seems," was his explanation. He encouraged contributors: "Maybe the only thing for you to do is to keep on writing and become a writer," he wrote to John O'Hara in 1930 in response to a request for a job. He regaled his friends with stories...He cajoled the members of his staff: "White," he wrote by hand to E. B. White, one of his mainstays, "Will you pls. look in on me when you wake up? I never disturb a sleeping man. Ross."

In Mr. Kunkel's biography of Ross, Genius in Disguise: Harold Ross of The New Yorkerhe set about to dispel the prevailing impression of his subject, who never even graduated from high school, as "a perpetually confused hayseed, a naif, an uncouth provincial who succeeded almost in spite of himself." The letters collected here do the job all by themselves by consistently conveying the distinctive clarity of Ross's voice.
The New York Times

Jesse Oxfeld
Kunkel's Genius in Disguise is the definitive work on The New Yorker's founder. The new Letters From the Editor supports Kunkel's argument for Ross's genius by reprinting hundreds of his letters. The missives are delicious—blunt, witty, and sarcastic.
Brill's Content
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780307557384
  • Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 7/8/2009
  • Series: Modern Library Paperbacks
  • Sold by: Random House
  • Format: eBook
  • Pages: 448
  • File size: 2 MB

Meet the Author

Thomas Kunkel is the author of a biography of Ross, Genius in Disguise, and Enormous Prayers. He works at the University of Maryland College of Journalism and lives in Burtonsville, Maryland.


From the Hardcover edition.
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Read an Excerpt

Researching a biography is often compared to detective work, and certainly much sleuthing must transpire before the first word ever slips from the writer's fingertips. Even so, I find this analogy altogether too grim, not only for its criminal overtones but for its suggestion of a kind of purposeful slogging on the part of the pursuer. For most biographers there is more sheer joy in the exercise than that; it is less a life-or-death pursuit than an open-ended game of hide-and-seek. Some writers find their quarry, others never do. The serendipity is part of the fun.

As for me, I found Harold Wallace Ross in Room 328 of the New York Public Library. True, he had been dead for more than forty years. But Ross, founding editor and guiding spirit of The New Yorker magazine, is loudly, reprovingly alive in the tens of thousands of letters packed away in a hundred or more archival containers. Before I ever got into the magazine’s archives, now kept at the library, I had formed a strong impression of Ross, one gleaned from dozens of interviews with those who knew him, from the memoirs of others, and from the sundry correspondence of his that I had unearthed in other collections. But nothing prepared me for the sheer personality that bounded from these musty gray boxes like a freed genie. In less than an hour's eavesdropping I encountered my man scolding Henry Luce, lecturing Orson Welles, baiting J. Edgar Hoover, inviting Noel Coward and Ginger Rogers to the circus, wheedling Ernest Hemingway ("Are you ever going to write any short stories again? My God"), offering to sell Harpo Marx a used car and James Cagney a used tractor, and explaining to restaurateur-to-the-stars Dave Chasen, step by step, how to smoke a turkey.

There’s so much of that kind of thing in the files that one could get the impression Ross had little time to run his magazine. But of course Ross ran The New Yorker utterly, relentlessly, and largely in the same way he juggled his demanding social life—with a copious stream of letters, memoranda, telegrams, even scrawled notes to his staff and contributors. The editor's dispatches spill over with ideas, explanations, tips, gossip, suggestions, and occasionally apologies. He was not above haranguing or begging for material; "God damn it, write something!" was a familiar Rossian benediction. At other times he offered advice. "Don't waste your time and words on letters," he once said to St. Clair McKelway. "You don't get paid for them." He imparted this, naturally, in a letter.

The letters reprinted here, then, represent but a sampler of the available material, and they are intended in that vein. Which is to say they convey an honest sense of the man, his droll outlook, the way he lived an eventful but messy life, and, most important, the way he directed the magazine that remains his legacy. Ross, as the reader will see, was propelled by boundless energy and interests. He seemed to know everyone of his day worth knowing, and led an existence far larger than seems possible today.

Letter writing was at the core of that existence, as much a part of Ross as his unruly hair or the double-wide gap in his front teeth. A turn-of-the-century child of the frontier, son of an immigrant miner and a prim prairie schoolmarm, Ross was always something of a nineteenth-century figure even as he guided the twentieth century's most literate magazine. Corresponding, like smoking and swearing, was a habit Ross acquired early and never relinquished.

He was born in 1892 in Aspen, Colorado, when the place was a shabby silver-mining outpost. After silver crashed, the Rosses moved to Salt Lake City, Utah. From boyhood Harold exhibited an organic restlessness, both intellectual and physical. He devoured the stories of Jack London and the romantic exploits of war correspondents such as Richard Harding Davis, and perhaps thus inspired, he regularly ran away from home. After his sophomore year Ross quit high school to go to work for the Salt Lake Telegram. Then in his late teens he hit the rails as a "tramp" reporter, traveling the West working at one newspaper after another, as needed. From the San Francisco Bay area he drifted to Panama, where he worked for a time on the canal. He came back to the States by way of New Orleans and bounded into Atlanta just in time to cover the murder trial of Leo Frank. (Ross doubted Frank's guilt and wrote that his prosecution had been an affront.) He was back working in San Francisco when the United States entered the World War, and he enlisted on the spot.

In France Ross joined the staff of the army newspaper, The Stars and Stripes. Finally, and legitimately, he was a war correspondent, but the truth is Ross actually distinguished himself far more when he was invited to edit the weekly. For the first time in his life he realized he had a knack for managing difficult but talented people. The wartime experience likewise shaped his personal life. He grew close to staff writer Alexander Woollcott, who before the war was the drama critic for The New York Times, and Woollcott in turn introduced Ross to a bright and intense young woman named Jane Grant, whom Ross would marry.

This was in New York after the war, where Ross was editing veterans' magazines and had, rather by accident, helped Woollcott establish a standing luncheon that became the Algonquin Round Table. This inventive collection of friends from the media and entertainment worlds, all in their twenties and early thirties, came to symbolize for many the new youthful exuberance of postwar Manhattan. Ross and Jane enjoyed being in the middle of it.


From the Hardcover edition.
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Table of Contents

Introduction xi
I. "Well, here's the war over ..." 1917-1924 3
II. "Never go into anything like this ..." 1925-1929 15
III. "An angel descended from heaven ..." 1930-1934 46
IV. "The New Yorker is as sound as ever ..." 1935-1939 93
V. "War is simple, it's peace that is complex ..." 1940-1942 137
VI. "I have been like Christ in my patience ..." 1943-1945 201
VII. "These are not Ho Hum times ..." 1946-1948 285
VIII. "Nearly all worry is about the wrong thing ..." 1949-1951 354
Index 419
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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 21, 2013

    Bathroom

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 13, 2000

    'This book is the best I've ever read'

    I love all the funny, exciting, and sad letters. I just couldn't put the book down.

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