One afternoon, not long afterwards, I went to see Rupert Murdoch. I said that if he were to start a magazine, I thought I would be able to abscond overnight with all the valuable members of the staff of The New Yorker—writers, editors, cartoonists, workers of every other kind—and that, on the following morning, neither the people at Conde Nast nor Mr. Gottlieb, who seemed to value other people entirely, would realize that they, and effectively the magazine, had gone.
