Monthly Archives: February 2009

Dwell Honors Updike on Modern Skyscrapers

Martin Schneider writes:
It’s well known that the recently departed writer John Updike was a master of most fields he took up: novels, short stories, poetry, literary criticism, art criticism. Friend of Emily and Dwell editor Aaron Britt adds another to the list: architecture criticism. As he writes: “Would that he had been an architecture critic; any discipline would have been lucky to have him.”

Complaint: Damn You, New Yorker, for Being So Good!

Martin Schneider writes:
I don’t think it’s much of a secret that The New Yorker occupies some unusual cultural turf. The New Yorker is known for high quality and also, sometimes, disliked or resented for occupying its position so confidently or unapologetically. As a result you often run into people avowing their dislike for the magazine even as they acknowledge its high quality in the very same breath. One form this takes is disgust over the high piles of worthy issues that amass in the corners of subscribers’ apartments and cause pangs of guilt—an odd reproach at best, and yet understandable.
Yesterday I noticed that one of our nation’s finest political bloggers, native Manhattanite and current Washingtonian Matthew Yglesias, had twittered, “Going to give in and subscribe to The New Yorker.” That piqued my interest, so I wrote him and inquired what constituted “giving in.” Below is his reply—I think it captures a certain paradoxical love/hate attitude towards The New Yorker as well as anything I can think of.

I’m a hater by instinct, and everyone’s great love for the New Yorker (“everyone” here meaning, of course, the kind of people I know) has left me sullen and resentful for years because, honestly, it’s not as good as people say. But over these past few months of roommateless living when I haven’t been able to ever, ever poach a glance at someone else’s copy I’ve been finding something . . . missing from my life. Like really I like the magazine more than I care to admit. So I broke down and subscribed.

In this economic climate, it’s cheering to hear of anyone initiating magazine subscriptions. We hope you enjoy it, Matt! And don’t forget that subscription brings with it free access to every issue the magazine ever published, in the Digital Edition. (Sometimes the word doesn’t get out to subscribers.)

Daniyal Mueenuddin Book Giveaway: Closed for Entries

Martin Schneider writes:
If you can read this, then it’s 8:00 pm Friday evening on the East Coast, which means it’s time to turn on Ghost Whisperer too late to send us an entry to our fabulous Daniyal Mueenuddin giveaway.
In fact, we even have a winner already: Congratulations to Shannon Doherty!
Everyone else, don’t fret: we will be hosting more giveaways like this in no time at all.

Call for Information: Russell Maloney

Martin Schneider writes:
In Comments, Ken Nettleton seeks information on a prominent New Yorker contributor from the past:

Have a very elderly friend whose husband was a Harvard friend of a Russ Maloney (sp?) or Mahoney who worked at the New Yorker and was a contemporary of EB White. His wife’s name was Miriam who was an actress. Belief Mr. Maloney/Mahoney died from an anurysm after he lost his wealth in a failed musical. Would like to find some record (if any) of Mr. M’s writing and what ever happened to his daughter after his wife remarried.

Russell Maloney (not Mahoney) is credited with 387 items in The Complete New Yorker between 1931 and 1948. The vast majority of them are Comments or Talk of the Town items, both of which were unsigned for many years, I believe. So the occasional Profile or short story notwithstanding, it’s likely that readers were not aware of his large impact on The New Yorker in its formative first decades.
According to Wikipedia, Maloney wrote the book and lyrics for a 1948 Broadway musical of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, which must be the “failed musical” Nettleton mentions. According to Time Magazine, he died in 1948 of a cerebral hemorrhage.
Miriam Maloney is credited with four Talk of the Town items herself. Can anyone help Mr. Nettleton discover what became of their daughter?