ON TUESDAY NIGHT, The Paris Review opened the doors to its handsome, capacious office in lower Manhattan to celebrate its newest issue, #179. The desks seemed to have vanished; in their place were long tables heaped with vodka, whiskey, and potato chips. Much was made when founding editor George Plimpton died in 2003 about the end of an era, and ... (Full article: 1309 words)
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