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Issue 85, Fall 1982
William Maxwell was interviewed in his East Side New York apartment. He wore a tie and blazer for the occasion. A tall, spare man, he sat on the edge of a low sofa, his knees nearly touching his chin. Twice he rose and went to the walnut bookcase, once for Virginia Woolf's Between the Acts, and then for Eliot's Four Quartets, which he studied patiently for the lines he needed. At the end of the living room, two large windows looked out on the street, eight floors below, where one could see the morning traffic, but not hear it. The spacious room was furnished austerely—two vases of flowers stood on the mantel, a piano occupied one corner. The decor did not suggest Maxwell's profession. The rapture with which he recited Eliot did.
One of his colleagues at The New Yorker, Brendan Gill, has supplied the following report on his friend:
"In this interview William Maxwell at one juncture urges that the subject under discussion veer away from The New Yorker, on the grounds that the magazine has been almost done to death, in one book or another. No doubt a book that I once wrote is one of the death-dealing volumes that Maxwell has in mind, but no matter—let me offer a brief quotation from my Here at The New Yorker (a title suggested, by the way, by the editor of the magazine, William Shawn; I would never have dared to propose it on my own):
"One day in my office I was showing Maxwell a Roman coin that I had purchased at Gimbels. With thousands of similar coins, it had been buried in the sands of Egypt by Ptolemy's army paymaster, in order to keep it from falling into the hands of the rapidly approaching Caesar. Maxwell jiggled the coin in his palm. "The odds," he said, "are on objects."
"True enough, but since Maxwell made the remark well over thirty years ago and since he and I are both in rude health and are evidently convinced that we have outwitted the need ever to die, we may be said to be doing not so badly, either as objects or subjects. And though Maxwell will enter history as a distinguished American author of the middle years of the twentieth century, he will also enter it in the reminiscences of many of his fellow authors as an exceptionally sympathetic and adroit editor. When I first met him, forty-five years ago, he was serving as Katharine White's assistant, but he looked so young and so readily abashable that I mistook him for an office boy. I was right about his being young; I was wrong about his being abashable. He has a gentle voice to match his seemingly gentle heart, and yet I was to discover that on some level of his being he is as tough as nails. Maxwell said once of Shawn that he combines the best features of Napoleon and Saint Francis of Assisi; it is often the case when one makes such a comment about an associate that it will prove, at bottom, autobiographical. Unlike Shawn, Maxwell has been a joiner of organizations and has been happy in the acceptance of honors from the hands of his peers; at the same time, he is a loner. If he is a clubman, he is a clubman who eats and drinks by himself. Dr. Johnson would have stared askance at him, not in the least to Maxwell's dismay.
"Over the years, how much Maxwell taught me about the art that I was trying to master and that was forever turning out to be more difficult than I had expected! How reluctant he was to reject a piece until every means of salvaging it had been explored! For a long time, Maxwell and I occupied adjoining offices in the squalid rabbit warren of The New Yorker; now and again in those days I would hear the faint, mouse-in-the-wainscot rustle of a note being slipped under my door. Opening the note, I would encounter five or six hastily typed words from Maxwell, in praise of something I had written. Snobbish as it is sure to sound, at The New Yorker we write not so much for readers out in the world as for one another, and it has always been for Shawn and Maxwell and Mitchell and Hamburger and the rest of my colleagues that I have written; on the occasions when a note from Maxwell appeared under my door, I felt ten feet tall and befuddled with joy."
So Long, See You Tomorrow comes nineteen years after your previous novel. Why this gap?
Nothing but being an editor probably, and working on other people's work. Which interested me very much. I had marvelous writers to work with. Quite a lot of me was satisfied just to be working with what they wrote. Besides, I write terribly slowly. The story "Over by the River" was started when the children were small and my older daughter was twenty when I finished it—it took over ten years. Undoubtedly if I knew exactly what I was doing, things would go faster, but if I saw the whole unwritten novel stretching out before me, chapter by chapter, like a landscape, I know I would put it aside in favor of something more uncertain—material that had a natural form that it was up to me to discover. So I never work from an outline. In 1948 we came home from France and I walked into the house, sat down at the typewriter with my hat still on my head, and wrote a page, a sort of rough statement of the book I meant to write, which I then thumbtacked to a shelf and didn't look at again until it was finished. To my surprise everything I had managed to do in the novel was on that page. But in general the thing creeps along slowly, like a mole in the dark.
With So Long, See You Tomorrow I felt that in this century the first-person narrator has to be a character and not just a narrative device. So I used myself as the "I" and the result was two stories, my own and Cletus Smith's, and I knew they had to be structurally combined, but how? One day I was in our house in Westchester County, and I was sitting on the side of the bed putting my shoes on, half stupefied after a nap and thinking, If I sit on the edge of the bed I will ruin the mattress, when my attention was caught by a book. I opened it and read part of a long letter from Giacometti to Matisse describing how he came to do a certain piece of sculpture—Palace at 4 a.m.—it's in the Museum of Modern Art—and I said, "There's my novel!" It was as simple as that. But I didn't know until that moment whether the book would work out or not.
Much of your work seems to some extent autobiographical. Is autobiography just the raw material for fiction, or does it have a place in a novel or a story as a finished product?
True autobiography is very different from anything I've ever written. Edmund Gosse's Father and Son has a candor that comes from the intention of the writer to hand over his life. If the writer is really candid then it's good autobiography, and if he's not, then it's nothing at all. I don't feel that my stories, though they may appear to be autobiographical, represent an intention to hand over the whole of my life. They are fragments in which I am a character along with all the others. They're written from a considerable distance. I never feel exposed by them in any way.
As I get older I put more trust in what happened, which has a profound meaning if you can get at it. But what you invent is important too. Flaubert said that whatever you invent is true, even though you may not understand what the truth of it is.
When I reread The Folded Leaf, the parts I invented seem so real to me that I have quite a lot of trouble convincing myself they never actually happened.
How do you apply that to character? What is the process involved in making a real person into a fictional one?
In The Folded Leaf, the man who owned the antique shop bore a considerable resemblance to John Mosher, who was the movie critic at The New Yorker. He was a terribly amusing man whom I was very fond of. Nothing that John ever said is in that book, but I felt a certain security at the beginning in the identification. Then I forgot about Mosher entirely, because the person in the book sprang to life. I knew what he would do in a given situation, and what he would say . . . that sudden confidence that makes the characters suddenly belong to you, and not just be borrowed from real life. Then you reach a further point where the character doesn't belong to you any longer, because he's taken off; there's nothing you can do but put down what he does and says. That's the best of all.
Virginia Woolf was an influence in your early work, wasn't she?
Oh, yes. She's there. Everybody's there. My first novel, Bright Center of Heaven, is a compendium of all the writers I loved and admired. In a symposium at Smith College, Saul Bellow said something that describes it to perfection. He said, "A writer is a reader who is moved to emulation." What I wrote when I was very young had some of the characteristic qualities of every writer I had any feeling for. It takes a while before that admiration sinks back and becomes unconscious. The writers stay with you for the rest of your life. But at least they don't intrude and become visible to the reader.
Well, all young writers have to come to terms with their literary fathers and mothers.
And think what To the Lighthouse meant to me, how close Mrs. Ramsay is to my own idea of my mother . . . both of them gone, both leaving the family unable to navigate very well. It couldn't have failed to have a profound effect on me.
What exactly is the force that makes you a writer?
Your question reminds me of something. I was having lunch with Pete Lemay, who was the publicity director at Knopf and is now a playwright, and he said that he had known Willa Cather when he was a young man. I asked what she was like and he told me at some length. It wasn't what I had assumed and because I was surprised I said, "Whatever made her a writer, do you suppose?" and he said, "Why, what makes anyone a writer—deprivation, of course." And then he begged my pardon. But I do think it's deprivation that makes people writers, if they have it in them to be a writer. With Ancestors I thought I was writing an account of my Campbellite forebears and the deprivation didn't even show up in the first draft, but the high point of the book emotionally turned out to be the two chapters dealing with our family life before and after my mother's death in the Spanish flu epidemic of 1918. I had written about this before, in They Came Like Swallows and again in The Folded Leaf, where it is fictionalized out of recognition; but there was always something untold, something I remembered from that time. I meant So Long, See You Tomorrow to be the story of somebody else's tragedy but the narrative weight is evenly distributed between the rifle shot on the first page and my mother's absence. Now I have nothing more to say about the death of my mother, I think, forever. But it was a motivating force in four books. If my mother turns up again I will be astonished. I may even tell her to go away. But I do not think it will be necessary.
But to what extent can writing recover what you lose in life?
If you get it all down there's a serenity that is marvelous. I don't mean just getting the facts down, but the degree of imagination you bring to it. Autobiography is simply the facts, but imagination is the landscape in which the facts take place, and the way that everything moves. When I went to France the first time I promptly fell in love with it. I was forty years old. My wife had been there as a child, and we were always looking for two things she remembered but didn't know where they were: a church at the end of a streetcar line and a château with a green lawn in front of it. We came home after four months because our money ran out. I couldn't bear not to be there, and so I began to write a novel about it. And for ten years I lived perfectly happily in France, remembering every town we passed through, every street we were ever on, everything that ever happened, including the weather. Of course, I was faced with the extremely difficult problem of how all this self-indulgence could be made into a novel.
Do you have an ideal reader in mind when you write? I've heard it said that a writer writes for himself and strangers.
I think I write for myself, and I'm astonished that strangers are moved by it. I know that nobody else's praise or approval is enough for me to say, "All right, I don't have to worry about it any more" . . . I have to be satisfied myself that there is nothing more I can do to make it better.
But you must imagine readers.
Oh yes, of course. While I'm writing I think I would like so-and-so to read this; but so-and-so changes from time to time, according to what I'm writing.
Will you talk about something while you're working on it?
Oh no, that would be a serious mistake.
Because more often than not the writer who talks about something he's working on talks it right out of existence.
Let's go back to what you were saying about re-creating experiences in your fiction. What about the writing that comes entirely from the imagination?
I would love to be able to do that: just open the door and invite everybody in.
Have you ever tried?
I've tried in shorter things, in those tales that are neither fables nor fairy tales. I just hang over the typewriter waiting to see what is going to happen. It begins with the very first sentence. I don't will the sentence to come; I wait, as actively passive as I can possibly be. For some reason the phrase "Once upon a time" seems to be essential. Then, if I am sufficiently trusting, the rest of the story follows, and the last sentence is straight from the first. I also did it, to a considerable extent, in Time Will Darken It.
But would you suggest that would-be writers wait for something to drop into their heads? Isn't this a refutation of the theory that writing is ninety percent perspiration and ten percent inspiration?
If they just sat and waited, maybe nothing would happen. Maybe they'd fall asleep. I think they should read to learn how it is done—writing, I mean—and in the hope that what they read will in some way make their own experience available to them.
Do your best sentences come from on high, or are they the product of much working and reworking?
There's something in the Four Quartets about language that doesn't disintegrate. That's what I try to do—write sentences that won't be like sand castles. I've gotten to the point where I seem to recognize a good sentence when I've written it on the typewriter. Often it's surrounded by junk. So I'm extremely careful. If a good sentence occurs in an otherwise boring paragraph, I cut it out, rubber-cement it to a sheet of typewriter paper, and put it in a folder. It's just like catching a fish in a creek. I pull out a sentence and slip a line through the gills and put it on a chain and am very careful not to mislay it. Sometimes I try that sentence in ten different places until finally it finds the place where it will stay—where the surrounding sentences attach themselves to it and it becomes part of them. In the end what I write is almost entirely made up of those sentences, which is why what I write now is so short. They come one by one, and sometimes in dubious company. Those sentences that are really valuable are mysterious—perhaps they come from another place, the way lyric poetry comes from another place. They come from some kind of unconscious foreknowledge of what you are going to do. Because when you find the place where a sentence finally belongs it is utterly final in a way you had no way of knowing: it depends on a thing you hadn't written. When I wrote those fables and sat with my head over the typewriter waiting patiently, empty as a bucket that somebody's turned upside down, I was waiting for a story to come from what you could call my unconscious. Or it could be from the general unconscious. Often before poets write a poem they begin to hear the cadences of it, and then they begin to hear humming in their ears, and there are other strange manifestations, and then finally words. The last is the words.
Are story writing and novel writing two vastly different enterprises?
When I'm writing a novel, there's a sense that I have something more important by the tail; the reason for writing the novel is often that I don't know exactly what I do have. Sometimes I'm sustained by a metaphor or an image. In The Folded Leaf, I knew that the suicide attempt was the climactic part of the novel but I didn't know how I was going to get there. The image that sustained me throughout the whole of the writing was that of walking across a very flat landscape toward the mountains; when I got to the mountains the necessary scenes would occur. In They Came Like Swallows, I felt the book had to be like a stone cast into a pond. And a second stone, and a third—with the ripples moving outward from inside the first ones but never overtaking them.
How do you know when it's time to write another novel? Is it some sort of instinctual act, like the impulse that impels birds to migrate?
I expect to live forever, and therefore I never get worried about what I ought to be writing, or about anything undone. In the case of So Long, See You Tomorrow, I was sitting at my desk, and something made me think of that boy I had failed to speak to, and thinking of him I winced. I saw myself wincing and I thought, "That's very odd indeed that after all these years you should have a response so acute; maybe that's worth investigating." And so that's what I set out to do.
You wrote somewhere that So Long, See You Tomorrow was a futile way of making amends. Was it really futile? Can't fiction make amends for real life?
Forgiveness is in the hands of the injured, not the injurer. I don't know. Would you forgive me?
I would, sure.
Well, that's comforting.
You said that your mother's death made you a novelist. When did you first start writing?
I sometimes think that children, without knowing it, are projected into the unlived lives of their parents. My mother's sister told me that when my mother was twelve years old she used to go up into the attic and "write on her novel." So perhaps I am a projection of my mother's unlived literary life. When I first began to write I was a freshman in a small-town high school. I wrote a story about an aristocrat during the French Revolution who hid in a clock. If there were any French aristocrats in central Illinois in my boyhood I didn't know them. But at least we had a grandfather clock in the front hall. Then we moved to Chicago and I wrote a little for the high-school magazine. In college I began to write poetry. I'm not a poet, though. I've never written anything that comes from the place poetry comes from.
Is it a different place?
When I was at Harvard I got to know Robert Fitzgerald, and I used to show my poems to him. In spite of the fact that I was older than he was—I was a graduate student and he was a sophomore—I had enormous respect for him. He was better educated than I was, and intransigent, and he despised anything that wasn't first-rate. One day he looked at my poem and then he looked at me, rather in the way you look at children who present a problem, and he said, "Why don't you write prose?" I was so happy that he thought I could write anything that I just turned to and wrote prose—as if he'd given me permission to try. The prose took the form of fiction because I do like stories and don't have a very firm grasp on ideas.
How long was it after you began to write prose that you became sure you would be a writer?
Oh, it began in pure pleasure. I left Harvard and went back to Urbana, and was rooming in the house of a woman who was teaching at the University of Illinois. A professor at Yale, a friend of hers, was doing a series of biographical essays; he sent her a two-volume life of Thomas Coke of Holkham—Coke introduced in Parliament the bill to recognize the American colonies, and was also an important agriculturist—and asked her to do a forty-page condensation that he could work from, and she split the job with me. She wanted to save me from becoming an English professor. I was then twenty-three. She let me have all the big scenes and she concentrated on the agriculture, which she said interested her—it did not interest me. The book was full of interesting people—for example, Lady Mary Coke, who was Coke of Holkham's aunt. She dressed her footmen in pea green and silver livery and suffered from the delusion that the Empress Maria Teresa was trying to take her servants away from her. When she was depressed she would fish for goldfish in the ornamental pond in front of her house. And in her old age she slept in a dresser drawer. Anyway, I had so much pleasure in working with this material that I began to write my first novel, Bright Center of Heaven, because I didn't want the pleasure to end. Writing fiction was, and still is, pure pleasure. Oh, I ran out of steam from time to time. After I got to The New Yorker, particularly when I was working five days a week and seeing both artists and writers, I wrote less and less and almost stopped writing altogether. But then I quit The New Yorker in order to write. It was a genuine parting; I left fully intending never to return. But something always brought me back. I never came back five days a week, though. If I hadn't worked at The New Yorker there might have been more books, but I'm not sure if they would have been as good. Writing part-time forced me to write slowly, and I think I was more careful. I write much more slowly now than I used to.
Why? What does age do to a writer?
I think it makes you more serious. It makes you more aware of other people's lives. You see more from the inside: the troubles, the sorrow, and the unfairness. And then when you accept the idea that life is good, no matter how unlucky you are, you get a firmer insight into it.
What about your schedule? When do you work?
Well, I don't want to be uncooperative, but are you sure you want to ask that?
It is sort of a boring question.
If you have any reason in the world for wanting to know, I'll tell you . . . I like to work in my bathrobe and pajamas, after breakfast, until I suddenly perceive, from what's on the page in the typewriter, that I've lost my judgment. And then I stop. It's usually about twelve thirty. But I hate getting dressed. The cleaning woman (who may not approve of it, though she's never said), my family, the elevator men, the delivery boy from Gristedes—all of them are used to seeing me in this unkempt condition. What it means to me is probably symbolic—you can have me after I've got my trousers on, but not before. When I retired from The New Yorker they offered me an office, which was very generous of them because they're shy on space, but I thought, "What would I do with an office at The New Yorker? I would have to put my trousers on and ride the subway downtown to my typewriter. No good."
Maybe once you got there you could strip down.
I don't think it would work. It isn't the same as going straight from the breakfast table.
Do you find certain environments more conducive to good work than others?
I'm just as able to work on Cape Cod as here in New York or in Westchester. I prefer small messy rooms that don't look out on anything interesting. I wrote the last two sections of They Came Like Swallows beside a window looking out on a tin roof. It was perfect. The roof was so boring it instantly drove me back to my typewriter.
Do you isolate yourself totally when you're working?
I don't mind interruptions, unless there are terribly many of them. When the children were small, they came and sat on my lap and punched the keys as I did, but they soon lost interest. My younger daughter told me recently that when she was a child she thought the typewriter was a toy that I went into my room and closed the door and played with. Once when I was typing with great concentration she touched one of the releases, and the carriage shot out from under me. I roared at her, and she went and knelt like an Arab under the dining-room table, with her face against the floor, and would not accept the apology that I, also kneeling like an Arab, with my face next to hers, sincerely offered. In general I don't mind domestic sounds. I find them reassuring.
Do you keep a notebook?
No, I never have. I like the insecurity and the danger of not keeping a notebook. I've tried writing notes down on file cards, but I find I never look at them again.
Do you think there's such a thing as writer's block?
There's such a thing as loss of confidence.
Have you ever experienced it?
I've come close. There was a period after I left The New Yorker for the first time, when I thought I knew enough about writing stories to be able to make a living by it, but it turned out that every idea I had for a story was in some way too close to home. The stories I did write weren't bought. I began to feel that my hands were tied. I guess, though, I have always believed that if the material interested me enough to want to write about it, then it was all right; it wouldn't go away and so I should just keep working on it. Updike said once, riding in a taxi—he was talking about the reviewers, who had been scolding him for not writing what they thought he ought to be writing—"All I have to go on," he said, "is something I caught a glimpse of out of the corner of my eye." That seemed a very nice way of describing the way material comes to you. That glimpse, it's all you have. I don't think a writer's block is anything more than a loss of confidence. It certainly isn't a loss of talent.
Do you find it gets easier or harder to write as you get older?
I think it's easier when you are young. My first novel was written on a farm in Wisconsin. Very Chekhovian, that farm was. I wrote in a room that had been converted from a water tank next to the windmill. Some of the characters were derived from people living on the farm at the time, so it was a handy place to be. I would come for lunch and they would make remarks I had put in their mouths that morning. Which wasn't really mysterious, because if you are conscious of character—in the other sense of the word—you can't help being struck by how consistent people are in everything they do and say. I finished the book in four months, with the help of Virginia Woolf, W. B. Yeats, Elinor Wylie, and a girl on the farm who was also writing a novel. When somebody said something good we would look at each other and one of us would say, "I spit on that," meaning, "keep your hands off of it."
The farm was ten miles out of Portage, where Zona Gale* lived. Nobody reads her now or knows who she was, even, but they did then. I had known her since I was sixteen years old. She was a kind of fairy godmother to me. I took my manuscript to her. I wanted to know if I had written a novel or not. When she gave it back to me she said that she had been unable to sleep and had read until four in the morning, and then gone downstairs to her study looking for the last chapter. I was too thickheaded to understand what she was trying to tell me, and said, "No, that's all there is." Twenty years after it was published I reread the book and saw the chapter she went downstairs looking for. The next novel was more difficult, and the novel after that was even more painful. By pain I don't mean the agony of writing, I mean the uncertainty of not knowing what you're going to do or how you're going to do it. It was awfully slow. One book took ten years, one four, and my last, though not very long, took two years.
When you write a novel, do you try to stick to the chronological narrative as you're writing, or do you jump around?
I don't really depart from the "and then . . . and then" of the storyteller, but if I am lucky I know what the last sentence is going to be. And sometimes I realize that a rounded-out scene early in the novel has shut the door too soon on something. So I take part of that scene away, and use it later on in the book. It is the death of a novel to write chapters that are really short stories.
Do you have a favorite novel?
I think The Folded Leaf. It may be for personal reasons—the whole of my youth is in it. Also, when I was working on it, in my mind's eye I kept seeing the manuscript burning in the fireplace; I was so sure nobody would be interested in it.
You taught for two years. Did you care much for that?
I liked it. I taught freshman composition. It was lovely when you found students who responded to things you were enthusiastic about. Teaching them to punctuate properly and to analyze the periodic sentences in Matthew Arnold's "Gregarious and Slavish Instincts in Animals" was something else again. But that wasn't what drove me away from teaching. What drove me away was a silly novel by Robert Nathan called One More Spring, about some people who went to live in a toolshed in Central Park. The gist of the book was that life is to be lived, and, well, it is, of course. Anyway, that book made me restless with my prospects. I saw myself being promoted from assistant to associate to full professor, and then to professor emeritus, and finally being carried out in a wooden box. This was 1933, and only an idiot would have thrown up a job at that point. But I did anyway. And I floundered for several years.
Do you think the writing of fiction can be taught?
I expect you can be taught to write a clean, decent sentence.
After teaching you started editing. How did you first come to work at The New Yorker?
Do we have to go into The New Yorker? There have been all those books. The subject has been done to death, almost.
Maybe we could talk about it just a little.
I needed a job in order to stay in New York. Eugene Saxton at Harper's wrote to Katharine White about me, and she astonished him by replying that there were not many openings at The New Yorker at that time, but that she would talk to me. This was 1936—the Depression—and nobody had heard of an opening anywhere in years. In the course of my interview with Mrs. White she asked me what salary I would require. Some knowledgeable acquaintance had told me I must ask for thirty-five dollars a week or I wouldn't be respected; so I swallowed hard and said, "Thirty-five dollars." Mrs. White smiled and said, "I expect you could live on less." I could have lived nicely on fifteen. A few days later I got a telegram from her asking me to report for work on the following Monday at the salary agreed upon—thirty-five dollars a week.
In those days—it is no longer true—fiction, humor, and art were handled by the same editors. The artists brought their work in on Tuesday and it was looked at by the art meeting, on Wednesday afternoon. At the art meeting were Harold Ross, Mrs. White, Rea Irvin, Wolcott Gibbs (until he gave up his place), Mrs. White's secretary, who took notes of the proceedings, and an office boy named Wilbur, whose mind was on basketball. The editors sat on one side of a big table, with knitting needles. The covers and drawings were placed on a stand by Wilbur; Ross would lean forward and touch the parts of the drawing that were unsatisfactory with the end of his needle. I too had a knitting needle, which I did not use for quite some time. Occasionally Mrs. White would say that the picture might be saved if it had a better caption, and it would be returned to the artist or sent to E. B. White, who was a whiz at this. Ross would lean forward and peer at a drawing with his lower lip sticking out and say, "You can't tell who's talking." Or he would say, "Bird Rock"—a remark that mystified me until I learned that many years before this The New Yorker had published a drawing of a seagull standing on a rock and a man saying to another man, "They call it 'Bird Rock.'" It had become a generic term for an undesirable form of humor. A great deal of what was put before the art meeting was extremely unfunny. Gibbs was repelled by the whole idea of grown men using their minds in this way and seldom said anything. Rea Irvin smoked a cigar and was interested only when a drawing by Gluyas Williams appeared on the stand.
On Thursday the artists returned to find out what had happened at the Art Meeting. Someone had to convey this information to them. Gibbs felt he had been doing it long enough, and so I was taken on. It was called "seeing artists." The first time they paraded in one after another I was struck by the fact that they all looked like the people in their drawings. George Price looked like the man who floated up near the ceiling of that disreputable apartment week after week; Otto Soglow looked like his little king. Cotton was kind and fatherly. Alajalov wore yellow kid gloves. Some artists were too important to be entrusted to me. Peter Arno and Helen Hokinson were seen by Mrs. White. I noticed that they didn't look like the characters they drew.
Then from the art meeting you graduated on to the editorial board?
Yes. Only it wasn't called that. I sat in a big room where the secretaries were; there wasn't even an office for me. But it was a wonderful place to be, because I was right beside the door of Katharine White's office. She moved with majestic deliberation, and between the time she got up from her desk and the time she put her foot on the catch that released her door so that it would swing shut I learned a lot about the workings of the magazine. I remember when Gibbs's parody profile of Henry Luce was going to the printer. Time-Life was in an uproar about it; there was a continuous procession of people in and out of Mrs. White's office. I sat taking in snatches of the excitement.
When the door was closed I sat and worried about how long it would take them to decide it was not worthwhile to go on paying me thirty-five dollars a week. On Mondays and Fridays I had nothing whatever to do but stare at a Thurber drawing above my desk—until Mrs. White suggested that I get the scrapbooks from the office library and read them. She also gave me a pile of rejected manuscripts and asked me to write letters to go with those that showed any promise. After she had gone over my letters she called me into her office and said, "Mr. Maxwell, have you ever taught school?" It was a fact that I had kept from her in our interview: instinct told me that it was not something you were supposed to have done. Anyway, from her I learned that it is not the work of an editor to teach writers how to write.
One day Wolcott Gibbs asked me if I'd like to try some editing. He handed me a manuscript and walked away, without explaining what he meant by editing. I didn't think much of the story, so I cut and changed things around and made it the way I thought it ought to be. To my surprise Gibbs sent it to the printer that way. And I thought, "So that's editing." The next time he gave me a piece to edit I fell on my face. I straightened out something that was mildly funny only if it wasn't too clear what was going on. Gibbs was kind, and said that my editing revealed that there wasn't very much there, but I got the point. In time I came to feel that real editing means changing as little as possible. Various editors and proofreaders would put their oar in, and sometimes I had to change hats and protect the writer from his own agreeableness, or fear, or whatever it was that made him say yes when he ought to have said no. What you hope is that if the writer reads the story ten years after it is published he will not be aware that anybody has ever touched it. But it takes many years of experience—and love—to be able to do that.
Why was this drawing by Thurber in front of you?
It was drawn right on the wall. A self-portrait. His drawings were everywhere, all over the office. There was one drawing on the nineteenth floor by the watercooler of a man walking along happy as anything and around the corner a woman is waiting for him with a baseball bat, ready to swing. One night some fool painter came in and painted over every last one of them. It was a tragedy. Brendan Gill talks about how difficult Thurber was. On the other hand, there's that story of the maid at the Hotel Algonquin who was straightening up his room and found, written in shaving soap on the bathroom mirror, the words "Thurber is a bastard." For that you can forgive quite a lot. Of course, what it comes down to in the end is that an artist is loved for his work, not his sweet disposition.
What was the chemistry of working with Harold Ross? Why was it so exciting?
It had to do with his personality. And being taken into his confidence. People don't often strike me as being larger than life-size, but he did. He was not the unintelligent oaf he has sometimes been portrayed as being. He was clearly in command of the magazine. And he saw things through a prism of humor. I remember his telling me with amusement that his mother used to touch her hair here and there with her hand before she answered the telephone. Also, he was so decent. And, up to a point, much too trusting. It was like having a terribly funny father. He had a personal relationship with everybody in the office, including Wilbur, the office boy. Once, during a period when I had left the magazine to write a novel, I met him on Forty-third Street at about one o'clock, and he said, "Maxwell, what are you doing in town?" and I said, "I came in to go to the theater." It didn't occur to me to explain that my ticket was for the evening performance. He went on to the office and told somebody, "I met Maxwell on his way to a matinee. I don't understand it. I thought only women went to matinees." He was genuinely disturbed, and didn't know whether he was under a misapprehension about matinees or about me. What he cared most about, I think, was writers—about bringing them along. So long as they didn't try to proselytize in The New Yorker, it didn't matter to him what their political opinions were; it was their talent that interested him. I also think he thought that people with talent didn't in general know enough to come in out of the rain, and he was trying to hold an umbrella over them.
It must have bothered him terribly when those feuds began—as with O'Hara, for instance.
Before the feud with O'Hara, Ross worried that O'Hara would manage to get some sexual innuendo into the magazine that the editors had failed to recognize. As he once or twice did. O'Hara as a person amused Ross. Perhaps because they were all young together. O'Hara thought up the idea (based on need) that if he turned in a story and it wasn't accepted he should be paid five hundred dollars anyway. The trouble was, O'Hara could write a story a day without half trying. So instead of the five hundred, Ross went out and bought a large, inexpensive watch and had it engraved, "To John O'Hara from The New Yorker." I don't know how the joke went over.
There's a story in Brendan Gill's book about your going out to O'Hara's house to read three manuscripts he had, and your getting terribly nervous when you disliked the first two. You liked the last. Which was the one you liked?
"Imagine Kissing Pete." I think it is one of the best things he ever wrote. The falling-out with The New Yorker was over the way two of O'Hara's early novels had been reviewed in the magazine. Fadiman's review of—Butterfield 8, I think it was—appeared under the heading "Disappointment in O'Hara," and the pun rankled. O'Hara was not of a forgiving disposition, and the feud lasted for years. I had no part in it whatever. It all went on over my head. Finally O'Hara sent word through St. Clair McKelway that he had finished three novelettes that The New Yorker could see if they would send an editor out to his house in Quogue to read them. I went. I must have been out of my mind. I mean, what if none of them had been right for the magazine? Fortunately, one was. At one point I had three wonderful writers all named John: John O'Hara, John Cheever, and John Updike.
Could you talk a little about editing those three? How does somebody deal with a writer as distinguished? O'Hara, to start with. He was so touchy, wasn't he?
Not about editing. During the first period that I edited his work I barely knew him. I inherited him from Gibbs, who had given up editing entirely to take over the theater page from Robert Benchley. I was young and inexperienced as an editor, but fortunately O'Hara had a great respect for New Yorker editing. When his stories were collected in a book, he always followed the edited version. What I worked on was mostly the Pal Joey series. I knew nothing whatever about Broadway argot, and sometimes now in the middle of the night I groan, thinking about what I may have done to them, especially in the way of cutting. In later years O'Hara would occasionally say no to a suggested change. In one story the words "George Carlin said" turned up every time George Carlin opened his mouth. I suggested in the margin of the galleys that it had somewhat the appearance of a mannerism, and would he consider using "he said" here and there in the story. He wrote me a long, rather preachy letter on style. His style.
Updike is an extreme perfectionist. His manuscripts are always cleanly written, and he usually makes a great many interesting changes on the galleys. When the page proofs were ready I would mail him a set and we would talk sometimes for an hour or two on the phone . . . mostly about whether this or that new change—his change, not mine—was for the better, or might possibly do some damage to the surrounding sentences. It was an education in how to refine language to the point where it almost becomes something else. The pure practiced effectiveness and verve of an Olympic athlete is what it often reminded me of.
And Cheever?
I don't know what service I provided for Cheever except to be delighted with his work. He brought me "The Country Husband" when I was sick in bed with bronchitis. I remember the rapture of reading it.
Did you show your own manuscripts to any of these three?
No, but I did to other New Yorker writers. Frank O'Connor came out to our house in the country for the day, with his wife and baby, and in the course of the conversation he extracted from me the information that I had been working for eight years on a novel I was in despair over. "Let me see it," he said, and I was appalled. I was not in the habit of mixing my two lives. At that time the manuscript of what turned out to be The Château filled a good-sized grocery carton. I hadn't been able to make up my mind whether it should have an omniscient author or a first-person narrator, whether it should be told from the point of view of the French or the Americans traveling in France. I was afraid it wasn't a novel at all but a travel diary. I told O'Connor that the manuscript was in such a shape that it was unreadable, but he assured me that he could read anything. He had been sufficiently trusting to let me see the rough draft of section after section of An Only Child, and I didn't feel like saying that it was one thing for me to see his unfinished work and another for him to see mine. He went off with the grocery carton in the backseat of the car, and read through the whole mess. Then he wrote me a wonderful letter in which he said he didn't understand what I was up to. There seemed to be two novels—which he then proceeded to discuss, in detail, as separate works. My relief was immense, because it is a lot easier to make two novels into one than it is to make one out of nothing whatever. So I went ahead and finished the book.
I showed the next-to-final draft of The Château to Francis Steegmuller, who straightened out my wobbly French in places where corrections were called for.
Before that, at a time when I had almost stopped writing entirely, I showed what I thought was a short story to Louise Bogan, and she said it was a novel, so I kept on writing about those two characters. I sent her what I wrote, chapter by chapter, through four versions, and she never said enough is enough. From time to time I got a penny postcard from her with "v. good" or something like that on it. Once she objected to a physical description, on the ground that the writing wasn't very fresh, so I sweated over it. And another time, when I was stuck, I had a postcard from her saying, "Get that boy up off the bed on the sleeping porch." When I finished the novel she found me a title for it, from Tennyson's "The Lotos-Eaters": "Lo! in the middle of the wood, / The folded leaf is wooed from out the bud / With winds upon the branch . . ."
I also, at times, showed my work to Harold Brodkey. I knew his first wife when she was a little girl, and shortly after they were married she brought him to our house and we became friends. During part of the time I was writing The Folded Leaf I was in analysis with Theodor Reik, who thought the book ought to have a positive ending. And Edward Aswell at Harper's thought the story would be strengthened if I combined some of the minor characters. I was so tired and so unconfident about the book that I took their word for it. Later I was sorry. And when it came out ten years later in the Vintage Press I put it back pretty much the way it was in the first place. While I was making the corrections Harold brought me a marked copy of the book. Mostly the things he objected to were ideas I had absorbed from Reik rather than arrived at from my own experience, and I either cut or rewrote those sentences. When I was working on Ancestors he got so interested in the structure that I showed the manuscript to him chapter by chapter, as I had with Louise Bogan. We had a running argument: What I cared about in fiction was emotion, and though he was not indifferent to emotion he thought—I hope I am quoting him correctly—that ideas mattered as much or more. They aren't, of course, mutually exclusive. But as a result of our argufying I became aware of the extra dimension that abstract thinking brings to fiction.
Now that I think of it I have always shown whatever I was working on to somebody—most often my wife, whose opinions tend to be detached and trustworthy. When I was writing Time Will Darken It I found that the book was proceeding by set conversations, rather like a play. A had a conversation in the backseat of the carriage with B, and as a result B had it out with C, and when C met D on the stairs she said—you get the idea. When I started a new chapter I asked myself who hadn't talked to whom lately. It's not a bad method. Anyway, when I finished a chapter I would read it to my wife, sitting outside on the grass in the sunshine, and it was like sharing news from home.
So you think writers are apt to be good judges of other writers' work?
Well, Updike certainly seems to be a good judge. O'Hara was very good in his letters.
No professional jealousies? O'Hara, who was so competitive about his writing: if he thought for a minute you were on his level . . .
I don't think he thought for a minute that I was on his level, so that was no problem. No, I don't think writers are necessarily competitive. There was a period when I thought they weren't at all. Lately they have seemed more so. In any case, I felt it was important, as an editor, to play down as much as possible the fact that I also wrote. I wanted the writers I worked with to feel that nothing was more important to me than their work. And for the three days a week that I was at my desk at The New Yorker, nothing was.
Ever since the days of O'Hara, something has endured—a New Yorker story. Do you agree? Is there such a thing?
The usual answer from the magazine is no; they point out the range and variety of the fiction writers who have been published in The New Yorker. From Nancy Hale to Vladimir Nabokov is a very wide sweep. Irwin Shaw when he was a young man said once that in the typical New Yorker story everything occurs at one place in one time, and all the dialogue is beside the point. It was not, at the time, a wholly inaccurate description. That is to say, there were lots of stories like that. Something that is characteristic of the writers who appear in The New Yorker is that the sentence is the unit by which the story advances, not the paragraph, and the individual sentence therefore carries a great deal of weight and tends to be carefully constructed, with no loose ends. And style becomes very important. Gibbs said in a memo he wrote on the theory and practice of New Yorker editing—"If a writer has style, leave it."
That memo would be an extremely interesting document to have.
Gibbs was a wonderfully fast and expert editor. In those days New Yorker stories were short—twelve pages was a very long story. And he edited by cutting entire paragraphs. In some mysterious way they were not missed afterward. I never learned how to do this: instead I operated on the principle of never taking out anything I liked. After Gibbs left, the fiction began to get long, perhaps because he was not there to cut it. Or maybe it was just that the subjects that could be dealt with in twelve pages had been exhausted and writers were forced to take in more territory.
How did editing the work of others affect your own work?
I expect it affected the quality of it, made it better. It could hardly hurt anybody to have to pay close attention, word by word, and sentence by sentence, to the work of writers such as those I mostly dealt with.
There was no chance of losing your own voice amidst theirs?
Well, you could just as easily find your voice amidst theirs. The essays of E. B. White are a great help if you are trying to use the pronoun "I" in a way that is natural and unselfconscious.
Could you take time off to write your novels?
No, not as a rule. Mostly I went on working at the office two or three days a week. It took much longer to write a novel that way, but it did allow me to pick up where I had left off with a fresh view of things. Ross heard that I had been working on a novel for four years and came into my office to talk to me about it. He knew that what I was working on—it was The Folded Leaf—was of no conceivable use to The New Yorker, but he didn't like the idea of a writer having to spend such a long time over something. The upshot of the conversation was that he sent me home for six months on full pay so I could finish my novel. When it was published and got good reviews, he was pleased. He felt he had a stake in the enterprise.
What a lovely story.
Well, he was a lovely man, and it doesn't come out in the books at all. I really loved him. And two more different people than Ross and me you could hardly conceive of. There was a story, perhaps legendary, that Mrs. White so enraged him by something she said that he picked up a telephone and threw it at her. But he never even raised his voice at me.
Did things change when William Shawn took over as editor in chief?
How could they not change? Gently and slowly changes have occurred. If nothing changed then the whole thing would come to an Egyptian end. Do you like Egyptian sculpture?
Yes. Cats.
My wife loves it dearly. But when we went down the Nile I was troubled by the fact that the motifs were unchanging for two thousand years—the king of Egypt holding his enemies by the hair, in temple after temple. That's what would happen if The New Yorker never changed—that dead quality would creep in.
Do you have any advice for writers trying to get published in The New Yorker?
I don't think anybody can write decent fiction and at the same time try to match the requirements of a magazine—maybe, but I don't think so. You do what your heart cries out to do. In my own case, I'm often in doubt about something I've written—and I think, well, if I like it, perhaps someone else will like it too. That's the final criterion—whether or not the writer likes what he has written.
As an editor, in deciding whether or not to read a story, how much weight do you place on the first sentence?
A great deal. And if there is nothing promising by the end of the first page there isn't likely to be in what follows. I love first sentences, anyway. When you get to the last sentence of a novel you often find that it was implicit in the first sentence, only you didn't know what it was.
What are some of your favorite first lines? Do you collect them?
No, but offhand I think of "None of them knew the color of the sky," which is "The Open Boat" and "All the sisters lay dreaming of horses,"* which is National Velvet. And the wonderful first line of Pride and Prejudice: "It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife."
Do you spend a lot of time on your own first sentences? So Long, See You Tomorrow begins, "The gravel pit was about a mile east of town, and the size of a small lake, and so deep that boys of under sixteen were forbidden by their parents to swim there."
Originally the first sentence was, "Very few families escape disasters of one kind or another." When The New Yorker bought it, the editors were troubled by the fact that for the first twenty pages it read like reminiscence. A good many readers don't enjoy that sort of thing, and over the years The New Yorker had been blamed for publishing too much of it. Actually, if writers don't put down what they remember, all sorts of beautiful and moving experiences simply go down the drain forever. In any case, The New Yorker was afraid that readers, seeing also that it was very long, would stop reading before they discovered that it was really about a murder. So I moved things around a bit at the beginning.
That didn't bother you, to start at a different place?
I could see that they had a point. Of course there was a certain amount of straining at the seams—any writer would feel it—but I got past that. The effect on me was as if I were shaving and some hand came and took the razor from me and did this part of my face.
It's nice to be shaved sometimes.
And it's nice to have someone genuinely care about your work, to the point that they can do for you what you have failed to see needed doing. In my experience at The New Yorker, the best writers were very good-tempered about suggested changes. I can only remember one instance when the editing process broke down and the writer took back his story. Between the time that we had accepted it and the time we prepared the galleys, another story came in and was rejected, and I suspect that his anger over the galleys was really anger about the rejection. That was the only time. It's almost axiomatic—the more talented the writer, the easier he is to work with, if the editor is both sensitive and sensible.
Are you in the habit of writing every day?
Yes. Seven days a week. An insane life, but what happiness! It's really self-indulgence. I resent any social invitation that keeps me up after ten-thirty, so that I'm not bright as a dollar the next morning.
What if you hadn't been a writer at all?
I can't imagine, I really can't imagine. I would have been so deprived of everything I love if I hadn't been a writer. It would have been awful, awful.
* She was a Wisconsin novelist and playwright—her Miss Lulu Bett won the Pulitzer Prize in 1921.
* This is not the first sentence of National Velvet.
Author photograph by Nancy Crampton.


text:
We are not currently accepting new applications for this program. Please contact the Office of Admission at 630-844-5533 or firstname.lastname@example.com for additional information.
Minor in Strategic Communication: Public Relations and Advertising 20 semester hours
A minor in strategic communication: public relations and advertising offers an integrated approach to traditionally separate programs in public relations and advertising. Students complete this minor balancing theory and practice to create and deliver messages targeted to a wide array of audiences: media, employees, customers, legislators, investors and the community. This program serves well as a complement to degrees in English, political science, psychology, history, business and marketing. The minor helps to prepare students for careers in public relations, advertising or corporate communications.
Required Courses:
- COM2240 Public Relations (4) or COM2250 Advertising (4)
- COM3245 Strategic Writing and Production (4)
- COM4240 Strategic Campaigns (4)
Elective Courses*(select two):
- BUS3280 Organizational Behavior (4)
- COM3000 Navigating Organizations (4)
- COM3810 Special Topics in Communication (4)**
- COM4100 Communication Research (4)
- COM4940 Communication Internship (4)**
- MKT3350 Consumer Behavior (4)
- MKT3370 Integrated Marketing Communication (4)
- MKT3610 Internet Marketing (4)
- MKT4610 Social Media Marketing (4)
*Communication or media studies majors must select two unique electives not already used to fulfill the requirements of the major or another minor.
**To be eligible for the minor, this course requires approval of course/internship content as relevant to minor.

subset: commoncrawl


text:
I have WRT54G Linksys wi fi router... i have it hooked up to my pc.
The network has a WPA encryption.I am not able to discover the network on any of my devices,though i am able to connect manually by typing the network name and password.how can i get around this issue?
Also another one, I am gonna switch all my computer at home to Macs and i don't want to buy an airport.
I wanna use the same linksys router but it doesn't have setup disc for a mac sadly.I want to set it up(incase) easily using my mac in the future when i don't have a pc. All i know is the ISP name,username and password. And i would like to have the setup smoothly like i do with the setup discs on a pc.
Or atleast if there is any other easy way.
Thanks you
The most beautiful phone ever has one wildly annoying issue
The Samsung Galaxy S8's fast speeds and fantastic curved screen make it a top phone for 2017, but the annoying fingerprint reader could sour your experience.


text:
All Cities
Mobile App
Daily Life Tour of Glasgow, Glasgow
Image Courtesy of Wikimedia and Maciej Żytniewski
This self-guided walking tour is included in the iOS app "
Glasgow Map and Walks
" on iTunes App Store and the Android app "
Glasgow Map and Walks
" on Google Play.
There are lots of special places to find in this vibrant city, including lots of attractions that are as popular with locals as with visitors. Take our Daily Life Tour to see all the best exhibition centers, cafes, shops and libraries that Glaswegians love to visit.
Daily Life Tour of Glasgow - Route Map
Guide Name:
Daily Life Tour of Glasgow
Guide Location:
Scotland » Glasgow
Guide Type:
Self-guided Walking Tour (Sightseeing)
# of Attractions:
Tour Duration:
2 hour(s)
Travel Distance:
3.0 km
1) Piping Museum
There are a lot of traditions linked to Scotland: Hogmanay, haggis, tartan, kilts and most of all the bagpipe. No trip to Glasgow is complete without visiting the Piping Museum on Hope Street.
The first bagpipe perhaps originated around Egypt in the time of the great pharaohs or in Samaria – in fact its exact origins are a little hazy, but it has been recorded in several ancient texts around Europe and the Near East for many thousands of years.
How this particular instrument arrived in...
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Image Courtesy of Flickr and j lord
2) Glasgow Film Theater
(must see)
The Glasgow Film Theatre or GFT is an independent cinema in Rose Street. The theatre is situated in a 'B' listed modernist European building with a post art deco interior. The building's design was by Glaswegian architects James McKissack and W J Anderson, and was influenced by the Dutch Modernist architect by Willem Marinus Dudok. The current lobby was designed by Gillespie, Kidd & Coia in 1968. The GFT plays an important part in the cultural life of the city centre, showing...
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Image Courtesy of Wikimedia and Moniker42
Sight description based on wikipedia
3) Willow Tearoom
This is a great place to go to experience a true English tea ceremony. This world famous tearoom, situated on Sauchiehall Street, was designed by Charles Rennie Mackintosh in 1904. Its authentic interior mirrors the atmosphere of bygone times. Its name comes from the Scottish Gaelic meaning of Sauchiehall, translated as "the alley of the willows." Besides enjoying the great tea yourself, you can pick up some to take home at the wonderful Willow gift...
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Image Courtesy of Flickr and dalbera
4) Where the Monkey Sleeps
This curiously named cafe has some of the best coffee in the city, and is popular with everyone, from students to businesspeople to visitors. Inaugurated in 2001, this basement cafe is owned by two graduates of the nearby art school. It's open Monday through Friday from 7am and on Saturdays from...
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Image Courtesy of Wikimedia and Yug
5) Slanj
This centrally-located store is the place to go if you're interested in kilts. It's got a great variety of the Scottish traditional wear at somewhat high prices, although the items are also available for hire. Among other brands, the store offers Dress Sporran, Cravat and Ghillie Brogues, Kilt Hose, Flashes, Sgian Dhu and KiltPin.
Hours: Monday-Saturday 9:30 am – 5:30 pm; Sunday 12:00 – 5:00...
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Image Courtesy of Wikimedia and Artifex
6) Italian Center
This center is considered to be one of the trendiest and most glamorous in Glasgow. It is situated in the northern part of the Merchant City, near George Square and the popular shopping area formed by Argyle Street. Here you'll find a great selection of top-quality clothing, as well as shoes, accessories, gift ideas and more. When you've finished shopping, you can enjoy a great coffee or a bite at one of the several fine cafes and...
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Image Courtesy of Flickr and Romana Correale
7) Café Gandolfi
This famous cafe is a great place to go to experience Scottish cuisine. Its mix of local and European flavors is one of the best in town. 25 years in business, this restaurant specializes in dishes like Stornoway black pudding and Cullen Skink. Open Monday to Saturday from 9am to 11.30pm and on Sunday from 12pm to...
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Image Courtesy of Flickr and tristanf
8) Tron Theater
The Tron Theatre is located at the Trongate in Glasgow. The Tron Theatre is situated in the heart of Glasgow's Merchant City. It aims to entertain, inspire, empower, and culturally enhance the lives of the people of Glasgow, the West of Scotland and beyond, irrespective of age, background or ability. The Tron Theatre Company started life as the Glasgow Theatre Club in 1978, the brainchild of Joe Gerber, Tom Laurie and Tom McGrath. In 1980 the Club took over the almost derelict Tron Kirk,...
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Image Courtesy of Flickr and makimiya
Sight description based on wikipedia
9) Women's Library
Glasgow Women's Library is a public library, registered company and charity based at 81 Parnie Street, Glasgow. Glasgow Women's Library is a provider of information by and about women. Its key aims are: to provide an information resource, run on feminist principles, relevant to all areas of women's lives, history, culture and achievements for use by women and groups from all areas of the community, to provide and promote lifelong learning, training, education, skill-sharing,...
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Image Courtesy of Wikimedia and Thisismanuelator
Sight description based on wikipedia
10) Q! Gallery
For art lovers, this gallery and studio is a paradise of culture and art. One of the city's top visual art venues, it's a great place to go and simply admire the artworks. It's also the home of the GlasGay Festival, founded in 1993 by Dominic D'Angelo and Cordelia Ditton, which attracts 35,000 people each year. The gallery is open Monday to Friday from 11am to...
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Image Courtesy of Flickr and Tristan Manco
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Submit News
CES 2013: AT&T Offers $50 Pantech Discover Smartphone
Tiffany Kaiser
January 7, 2013 1:12 PM
Recipient E-mail
Sender E-mail
The Pantech Discover is a 4G full-featured Android phone
Pantech is releasing a new, full-featured Android smartphone for only $50
through AT&T
this month.
The new smartphone is the Pantech Discover, and it is a 4G phone for only $49.99 with a two-year contract through AT&T.
The Pantech Discover features 4.8-inch HD display with 1280x720 resolution, a 12.6 MP camera, 1080p HD video recording and playback, dual 3D surround sound speakers, near-field communication (NFC), 1.5 GHz dual-core processor, 16 GB on-board memory and Easy Experience/Standard Experience modes depending on the user.
It also offers AT&T's new DriveMode app, which stops drivers from using their device while driving. When the car accelerates beyond 25 MPH, the DriveMode app automatically replies to text messages with a response that lets them know you're driving. All calls are forwarded to voicemail, with the exception of those specified in your "allow" list.
"The Pantech Discover combines a feature-packed experience - complete with a 12.6-megapixel camera and HD display - with a cost-effective price point, giving AT&T customers yet another strong option in our 4G LTE portfolio," said Jeff Bradley, senior vice president- Devices, AT&T. "AT&T is dedicated to educating customers about the dangers of texting while driving and providing real solutions to help prevent the behavior. With DriveMode pre-loaded on the Discover, we hope that users will be less likely to text and drive."
AT&T recently
upped its sales target
to 26 million smartphones for all of 2012. This is an increase of one million from previous estimates. AT&T notes that it sold 6.4 million smartphones in the first two months of Q4 2012.
The Pantech Discover will be available January 11.
Market Watch
"So far we have not seen a single Android device that does not infringe on our patents." -- Microsoft General Counsel Brad Smith
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text:
The BBC was guilty of a "massive bias to the Left" in the past, director general Mark Thompson has said.
He said staff were "quite mystified" by the rise of Margaret Thatcher but that there was "less overt tribalism" among its journalists.
Conservative commentators have long criticised the BBC for being a hotbed of Left-wingers and an internal report from 2007 said it had to make greater efforts to avoid liberal bias.
Mr Thompson told the New Statesman: "In the BBC I joined 30 years ago, there was, in much of current affairs, in terms of people's personal politics, which were quite vocal, a massive bias to the left.
"The organisation did struggle then with impartiality. And journalistically, staff were quite mystified by the early years of Thatcher.
"Now it is a completely different generation. There is much less overt tribalism among the young journalists who work for the BBC."
The 2007 report criticised the BBC for coming late to several important stories including Euroscepticism and immigration which it described as "'off limits' in terms of a liberal-minded comfort zone".
Mr Thompson described relations between the BBC and the Labour government in its last few years as "quite tetchy" and said he was optimistic of a good settlement in forthcoming licence fee discussions with the coalition.
He told the magazine: "What we want is an effective and businesslike relationship with government - it's not about personal relations."Reuse content


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Heel measures approximately 10mm/ 0.5 inch. Skillfully hand-crafted from shimmering silver leather, Esquivel's lace-up Derbys are a cool way to add androgynous appeal to your look. Weekend plans? Slip them on with printed pants and a tucked-in shirt for stylish city lunch dates.
Shown here with: Equipment top, Eddie Borgo bracelet, Chan Luu bracelet, Yves Saint Laurent ring, J.Crew pants, Proenza Schouler bag.
- - Handmade
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Product Code: 341677
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Product Code: 341677


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Suspended from the ceiling, aerial yoga gives the opportunity to explore body flexibility while relaxing and destressing. Minutes from campus, Yoga on High at 1081 N. High St. offers four different kinds of aerial yoga classes throughout the week. Aerial yoga, which uses fabric hammocks ...Read More »
Tag Archives: exercise
New North Recreation Center Opens On-Campus
This package takes you inside the new North Recreation Center and shares all that is has to offer.Read More »
Scarlet Scoop: Target coming to High Street, sticky note dorm trend
This episode of Scarlet Scoop shares news on the recent injury of Ohio State redshirt junior defensive tackle Tracy Sprinkle, takes you inside the new North Recreation Center, gives details of a new Target opening off-campus and more!Read More »
Scarlet Scoop: Dorm overflow resolved, USG update and new fitness classes
This episode of Scaret Scoop discusses the residence hall overflow, gives an update on the work USG will do throughout the semester, talks new fitness classes and more!Read More »
Sonar treadmill could replace 'dreadmill'
Run, run as fast as you can, because a new-concept treadmill will be able to keep up, increasing and decreasing speed without a runner even touching a button. Steven Devor, associate professor in Ohio State's College of Education and Human Ecology, invented and developed an ...Read More »
Rise and grind: Ohio State club works out together Monday mornings on the Oval
For many Ohio State students, the last place they want to be on a Monday at 6 a.m. is campus, but a select few are, and they're breaking a sweat too. A new student fitness organization called GRIND meets every Monday, rain or shine, from ...Read More »
Opinion: Exercise ball a commitment to health, 'new year, new me'
Like many of my peers, I came back from winter break rejuvenated and ready for a new year, new me. On my mental list of things to do to be better this year was something I'd seen glorified in commercials and lauded by Internet experts ...Read More »
Commentary: Bicycling a sign of resilience, strength for Afghan women
The first time I felt both sophisticated and powerful was on my bicycle. I was hooked after the first crash in my driveway and later became an employee at a bicycle shop near Cleveland. I was consumed with the pleasure that selling bikes, riding and ...Read More »
Commentary: CHAARG at Ohio State expands with new school year
The student organization Changing Health Attitudes and Actions to Recreate Girls brought together more than 800 women recently for a nationwide running campaign to spread awareness of the organization, which got its start at Ohio State in 2012. Together, the women ran 1,140 miles in ...Read More »
Switching up workouts is the key for fitness Fall Semester
As summer slowly drifts away and takes the desire for a bikini body with it, there is no reason you can't carry your healthy summer habits with you through fall — and into those skinny jeans. If you have become comfortable with a fitness routine, ...Read More »


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Search for Corrie Sanders' killers continues
Police were on Sunday night searching for those responsible for the killing of former world heavyweight boxing champion Corrie Sanders at a restaurant in Brits, North West police said.
Brigadier Thulane Ngubane said investigations were underway to lead to the arrest of the suspects who burst into the Thatch Haven Country Lodge on Saturday night, robbed patrons at the restaurant and fired shots, wounding Sanders.
The gunmen apparently took several personal belongings of the attendees at the restaurant.
The 46-year-old boxer was apparently at the restaurant celebrating his nephews' 21st birthday when armed men arrived and fired shots randomly.
Sanders, who was shot in the hand and stomach, died at the Kalafong hospital on Sunday.
Police were investigating a case of murder.
Sanders won the WBO heavyweight title in March 2003 after he dropped Ukrainian powerhouse Wladimir Klitsckho in the second round in Hanover, Germany, in March 2003. A southpaw, nicknamed 'The Sniper', he fought 46 times in his professional career, losing only four times, and winning 31 bouts by knockout.
He retired in 2008, after going down to fellow South African Osborne Machimana in his last contest in the ring, and Sanders, a successful businessman, became a keen golfer after hanging up his gloves.


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Unlike wine, for example, whisky is not really about mystification, but it does bring its own jargon. Any unusual terms you are likely to come across are described and defined in this section.
We discover the Wadden Isles, explore the spirit of collaboration behind Glenmorangie's latest expression and look at mizunara casks
100 Greatest Distilleries to Visit
Our team of writers around the world give you the distilleries you should visit.
December 2011, Issue 100, page 30
A bourbon thoroughbred
Stuart Maclean Ramsay was totally sedcued by Kentucky's smallest distillery, which uses Scottish copper pot stills and a rare method of distillation.
December 1999, Issue 7, page 30
A different beast
Canada's whisky industry is a pale imitation of what it once was. But if you're thinking of visiting its distilleries be prepared for a lot of travel – its few remaining distilleries are spread righ...
September 2007, Issue 66, page 32
A family affair
John Lamond examines the history of this independent distillery
July 2002, Issue 24, page 52
A Flirtatious Spirit
Ian Buxton heads north to find a Distillery in a basement
September 2012, Issue 106, page 40
A gem in the eye of a storm (Cardhu)
Say the word 'Cardhu' and it stirs up images of underhand dealings. But the distillery intrinsically linked to last year's scandal is charming and impressive, and its staff outstanding. Ian Buxton r...
January 2005, Issue 45, page 30
A Highland Queen
A Custodian Collection from Tullibardine
January 2016, Issue 133, page 29
A new flame (Kilchorman)
Gavin Smith takes a stroll by Kilchorman, the first new distillery of the millennium-and the first on Islay since 1883
February 2002, Issue 21, page 22
A Rich Heritage
Small and perfectly formed, we visit the new Perthshire distillery
March 2014, Issue 118, page 30
A Road Less Travelled
Gavin D. Smith follows the Northern Highland Whisky Trail
July 2011, Issue 97, page 34
A single malt for the purists (Balvenie)
Once just William Grant's 'other' Dufftown distillery, Balvenie is starting to build a big reputation for itself. Ian Buxton went to pay homage
February 2004, Issue 37, page 42
A Still Called Annie
The spirit starts to flow in Glasgow
September 2015, Issue 130, page 19
A third step
We investigate the process of triple distilling
February 2014, Issue 117, page 36
Alike in dignity (Ardmore and Glendronach)
Ardmore and Glendronach have much in common but at the moment their experiences are very different. Dominic Roskrow visited both
July 2007, Issue 65, page 32
All in the Mash
Iorwerth Griffiths explores a particularly Irish style
March 2011, Issue 94, page 18
An Imperial Solution
The state-of-the-art Dalmunach Distillery
October 2015, Issue 131, page 17
An Original Choice
Paul John whisky from Goa
September 2016, Issue 138, page 43
Among great bourbon families it doesn't get much bigger than the name Beam. And as Charles K.Cowdery reports, another generation is considering its options
September 2004, Issue 42, page 40
Beauty is in the glass of the beholder (Old Pulteney)
Gavin D Smith tells the story of Old Pulteney, a beautiful whisky from a 'ginm, windswpt fishing town.'
February 2001, Issue 14, page 38
Bladnoch's bold revival
Gavin Smith retraces the resurrection of Scotland's most southerly distillery, and discovers why it is being directed by an Irishman.
April 2000, Issue 9, page 28
Born again- and again and again (Benromach)
Benromach Distillery reopened last year, for the sixth time in its hundred-year history. Jim Murray hopes that this time it's for good
June 1999, Issue 4, page 28
Bring Back the Flavour
Dave Broom reflects on the changing fortunes of the Irish whiskey market
June 2011, Issue 96, page 10
Burning Issues
How often have we read in a distillery's history a phrase along the lines of "…the following year much of the site was devastated by fire…"? Gavin D Smith investigates in the first part of our...
April 2009, Issue 79, page 48
Celtic Cousins - Made in Bretagne
Martine Nouet looks at the whisky industry in Northern France – and plots its Celtic roots
November 2004, Issue 44, page 26
Chills and thrills (Yoichi)
Dave Broomtries to discover the secret of Nikka by visiting its North Japanese Yoichi distillery
October 2003, Issue 34, page 32
Claiming the title
Scotland's northernmost mainland distillery
June 2013, Issue 112, page 31
Cometh the hour
Fettercairn has been at best ignored and at worst pilloried for many years now. But a fight back is underway. Dominic Roskrow follows a two year rehabilitation campaign
October 2010, Issue 91, page 40
Coming of Age
Looking back on 21 years of distilling at Lochranza
September 2016, Issue 138, page 27
Cowboys and Whisky
The blending room at Balcones Distillery in Waco, Texas is a bright, airy space with brick walls and white tables. On a hot Monday afternoon in August, dozens of covered Glencairn glasses were laid ou...
January 2017, Issue 141, page 36
Craft Fair?
Has the distillation world effectively spawned an uncontrollable, unregulated monster
September 2014, Issue 122, page 22
Cragganmore: the reclusive classic
Gavin Smith coaxes this hermit crab distillery out of its shell
August 2002, Issue 25, page 52
Cut to the Point
Zak Shenfield from Strathearn Distillery
April 2016, Issue 135, page 46
Cutting no corners (The Macallan)
The Macallan is one of the truly iconic distilleries but it is not resting on its laurels. Dominic Roskrow went to stay there
April 2007, Issue 63, page 32
Dewar's World of Whisky
Times are a changing for these centuries old distilleries
October 2014, Issue 123, page 32
Dispelling the myths
This month, Diageo's £40 million complex at Roseisle opened its doors to the press, offering an insight into one of Scotland's most ambitious - and controversial distillery projects in the last deca...
October 2010, Issue 91, page 46


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LeaderShape is a national non-profit association, dedicated to help young people "to lead with integrity." The professional world requires an ethics-based leadership developmental approach. LeaderShape puts ethics at the core of its training. The program utilizes highly interactive programming methods rather than focusing on classroom lectures. During the LeaderShape Institute, everyone is both a teacher and a learner. So be prepared to participate in activities, discuss new topics and challenge yourself personally!
For more information, visit the LeaderShape website.
Students from the University of Houston learned to lead with integrity and develop their leadership skills through LeaderShape, a six day course open to all University of Houston students and put on by the C. T. Bauer College of Business, where they had the opportunity to hone their leadership skills.


text:
By DE Editors
Sunglass has launched the private beta release of its cloud-based ecosystem for collaboration and sharing of 3D content.
The solution creates a file-sharing environment for social design that is compatible with more than 40 file formats. According to the company, this will allow designers to collaborate, share, and create products and structures by giving them the cloud simulation tools necessary to work together "with anyone, anywhere."
The Sunglass solution allows users to drag and drop models of any file format into the Sunglass Stage. Once models are in the Stage, Sunglass becomes a rich environment for
social design.
Designers, architects and engineers across the world can simultaneously edit 3D models in an instant, giving real-time feedback through Sunglass chat or by making a call through voice chat. The Stage also supplies a sketch tool for marking and annotating changes directly. Sunglass s co-viewing and editing capabilities are similar to Google Docs. Designers can pull any 3D files from Dropbox into any Web browser, and even make changes on the fly. No plug-ins are required.
The Sunglass Player further simplifies sharing designs across the Web. Transforming 3D models from bulky files, typically difficult to embed, into links that can be shared anywhere on the Web; the Sunglass Player makes displaying designs on the Web effortless.
Designers can use a simple API to share their work via the Sunglass community. Sunglass has also built a utility for cloud-based streaming rendering that cuts down on design time considerably, rendering 3D objects in about 45 seconds.
For more information, visit Sunglass.
Sources: Press materials received from the company and additional information gleaned from the company's website.


text:
Industry News
Most people don't believe their phones can be unsafe, but a story by Fox 5 News in Las Vegas said some people may be victims of mobile hacking and may not even know it. Mobile security software could become increasingly important for users of mobile devices over the next year.
Antivirus software is an absolute necessity in a college campus environment, and Darragh Delaney said internet filters at many schools may not be up to par.
While it may be far-fetched, one writer said a simple way to stop the need for equipping antivirus software and internet security would be banning infected PCs from the internet until they are fixed. Steve Ranger of Silicon.com said botnets put computers at risk, and once they are diagnosed as infected, steps should be taken to keep them off of the internet.
After internet users discovered a Facebook security flaw, private pictures of the founder Mark Zuckerberg were released to the public. For those on Facebook, internet security precautions should be taken and nothing private that needs to stay private should be on the website without extreme caution.
When using a smartphone for anything involving payments or sensitive information, users should be careful, especially when putting a credit card number into an e-commerce website. Mobile antivirus software could be a good first step, and AARP senior editor Carole Fleck outlined whether it's safe to make purchase on a smartphone.
With an increase in material on the information superhighway, TechTarget said CIOs will have to be more aware of their surroundings. One thing that can go a long way is installing powerful antivirus software to help prevent viruses from making their way into a businesses computer system.
While most people have email and internet security to block out spam emails, India's Minister of State for Communications and IT Sachin Pilot told the Times of India that spam email accounted for 75 to 80 percent of emails in 2011, with 5 to 6 percent coming from India.
While it may be the time of year for giving, one internet security expert warns people to be careful how they use their social networking accounts to share what gifts they'll buy and where they are. Hemanshu Nigam told CBS New York said giving too much information could make someone a good target for fraud.
With the knowledge that cybercrime is on the rise, those who surf the internet should make sure they not only have internet security and other protective programs, but common sense should come into play as well. A report by Consumer Reports shows that 75 percent of Americans don't use the strongest type of passwords for sensitive accounts.
As technology moves forward, so do those looking to take advantage of the technology, according to research by Cloudmark. The company said mobile security software could be used to protect users from SMS fraud and scams.
Healthcare is an industry with lots of sensitive data, so companies need to make sure they have the proper internet security and antivirus software systems set up so no important, private information is accessed by the wrong party.
As the use of the internet grows and mobile devices become more en vouge, Wi-Fi networks are expected to see huge growth as well over the next four years, according to research by IGR. With the growth of WiFi, internet users need to secure themselves with antivirus software and other internet security methods.
An unpatched threat in Yahoo Messenger gives hackers the ability to easily change people's status messages, according to PCWorld, which could allow the spread of viruses. Users should be aware of these possible threats and always keep an antivirus program up and running in case a seemingly-friendly link turns out otherwise.
While Android phone sales have been on the rise, there has also been criticism that the phone is succeptible to viruses. Jason Fell writes on Entrepreneur.com that users of the operating system need to be careful when installing mobile applications and use antivirus software suited for the device.


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Retreat Roll-Arm Four Piece Sectional, Quick ShipDetails http://www.ethanallen.com/en_US/shop-furniture-living-room-sectionals/retreat-roll-arm-four-piece-sectional%2C-quick-ship/657430G4Q1033.html
Item #: 657430G4Q1033
$6,076.00 Now $4,860.80
Dimensions: 100"w x 126"w x 40"d x 36"h
Custom made, ships Premier In-home Delivery. Expect delivery within 30 days.
Choose Fabric:
Hailey Oatmeal (Q1033), solid textureAdditional Information
Product Details
Time to relax. Fall into the deep-cushioned, luxe proportions of the Custom Quick Ship Retreat four-piece sectional (two 17" pillows are included). The Custom Quick Ship Retreat family also includes two sofa sizes, a three-piece sectional, a loveseat, a chair, and an ottoman, so you can get comfortable faster than ever – find your Retreat today.
- Welted loose back and seat cushions
- Two 17" pillows included
- Stain-resistant fabric
- Available in leather (677430G4)
Additional Information
- Interior seating area: 77"w x 97"w x 23"d x 16"h
- Seat back: 16"h
- Seat height: 20"h
- Arm height: 25"h
- Cushions: standard with -6 Everyday Comfort foam cushions
- The dimensions listed are not precise measurements; they have been rounded up to the next whole inch. Because hand-tailoring our upholstery involves manually cutting, sewing, and fitting material to frames, the dimensions of each style may vary slightly from piece to piece.
This sectional is comprised of the following pieces:
- 657424 right arm facing 2-cushion sofa
- 657425 left arm facing 2-cushion sofa
- 657427 one cushion armless
- 657430 square corner
- Packaged weight: 437 lbs
- Hand tailored in North America by Ethan Allen artisans
Construction Features
- Expertly designed for outstanding comfort; tested for lifelong safety
- Eco- friendly construction includes the use of only CertiPUR-US® certified foams in our mattresses and upholstery. The fiber wrap we use is made of 80% recycled materials, and our springs are made from 50% recycled heavy-gauge steel.
- Seven-ply engineered hardwood panels with glued and stapled mortise and tenon joints for extraordinary stability
- Long-lasting oven-tempered coil spring units function independently for individualized comfort across the seating area
- Heavy-gauge wire coil with protective coating minimizes body impressions and eliminates seating noises
- Horizontal channels in back pillows minimize fill shift and settling. To prevent pressure punctures, nonwoven ticking allows air to escape during use.
Download the Ethan Allen Limited Warranty >