Quotes
Quote 231 of 521
As a newcomer of a slightly later period, John Bainbridge was as astonished as I by the coldness he encountered at the magazine. A Middle Westerner, brought up in the genial civilities of that part of the world, Bainbridge had always longed to write for <cite>The New Yorker</cite> and rub elbows with Ross, E.B. White, Wolcott Gibbs, and the other great men about whom he had read and heard. At last he found himself on the staff and with an office on the same floor as Gibbs. He knew Gibbs by sight, but had never spoken to him. Bainbridge was in the habit of getting to the office early, and so was Gibbs, on the days when he got there at all. On the morning of a day that happened to follow New Year's Day, Bainbridge stopped at the water-cooler for a drink. Gibbs came up and drew a couple of quick ones. Seizing this opportunity to make conversation, Bainbridge said, "Did you have a nice New Year's, Mr. Gibbs?" "Fuck you," Gibbs said, tossed his paper cup into the basket, and walked back to his office. Brendan Gill, <cite>Here at the New Yorker</cite>, p. 115.
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