Was There Ever Really A Heyday At The New Yorker?

“The New Yorker Wolcott Gibbs wrote for–elegant, literary, ironic, laced with a bracing skepticism–was the spiritual house organ for people looking for relief from the clang of rivaling opinions, the barkering of each week’s Next New Thing, the knowingness of haughty punditry, the maelstrom of the world’s unrelenting noise. The New Yorker of the current day flourishes financially, its circulation in the ascendant. The New Yorker of Wolcott Gibbs’s time, published in the world we now live in, would probably not last out the year.”