I had grown uncomfortable at the magazine. Wallace Shawn was now one of my closest friends. Although I knew Wallace would in no sense agree with me, I was becoming offended on his behalf. I had in my mind, by now, what I thought of as an iconography or theology of The New Yorker. Mr. Shawn was the father; Lillian Ross, the mother. The son was Jonathan Schell; the spirit was J. D. Salinger.
