The Old Yorker mourns one of its own today, a remarkable, longtime senior editor whose distinctive vision and eccentric style distinguished him as “one of a kind.”
In accordance with our “uncommon” colleague’s wishes (and in keeping with an Old Yorker tradition of long standing,) he’ll go unnamed in this tribute, but those who knew and worked with our extraordinary friend have no doubt recognized this beloved oddball by now.
Of the many unique traits which made him such an unforgettable character, what should one single out for special mention to evoke him once again from beyond the grave? Would it be his idiosyncratic love of the English language, his mother tongue, which was evident the moment one spoke to him and his fluency in which was unparalleled? Or would it be his peculiar love of good weather, his unpredictable taste for certain foods, and his twisted penchant for an amusing joke? Aside from our friend’s unusual love for his family, other antics we oft chuckled at included a bizarre appreciation for sports on television, a, dare we say, “abnormal” interest in the news, and an affinity for shopping for necessary items that was nothing if not strange.
We will miss you, singular friend. You marched to your own drummer. After you, they truly broke the mold.
