The New Yorker offices (a little creepy)?

Caught an interesting quote by Dan Baum, an ex-employee of the New Yorker magazine. I worked as an intern in the photo department for a semester, but I get a sense of what he’s trying to say…

…the office itself is a little creepy. I didn’t work there. I live in Colorado. But I’d visit 3-4X a year. Everybody whispers. It’s not exactly like being in a library; it’s more like being in a hospital room where somebody is dying. Like someone’s dying, and everybody feels a little guilty about it. There’s a weird tension to the place. If you raise your voice to normal level, heads pop up from cubicles. And from around the stacks of review copies that lie everywhere like a graveyard of writers’ aspirations. It always seemed strange. Making it to the New Yorker is an acheivement [sic]. It is vastly prestigious, of course. And the work is truly satisfying. Imagine putting out that magazine every week! Yet nobody at the office seems very happy. The atmosphere is vastly strained. (via)

In my experience, there’s a hushed way about the offices, but it had nothing to do with death…. it was just the expression of concern that a figure like John Updike (RIP) or a poet laureate would be aurally assaulted by outbursts.

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