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The Importance of Bob Silvers The Importance of Bob Silvers
(about 1 hour later)
Robert Silvers was an American, Chicago-educated, and he went at things free-style to create, in The New York Review of Books, a literary journal unlike any other, his “paper,” the repository for every marvel of his inquiring mind. Like Saul Bellow, acknowledged here, he was drawn to every facet of the American parade, and, like Bellow, he could not abide wan expression or the wasted sentence. Robert Silvers was an American, Chicago-educated, and he went at things as he had taught himself, free-style, to create, in The New York Review of Books, a literary journal unlike any other, his “paper,” the repository for every marvel of his inquiring mind. Like Saul Bellow, whose opening to “The Adventures of Augie March” is borrowed here, he was drawn to every facet of the American parade, and, like Bellow, he could not abide wan expression or the wasted sentence.
Raised in a Jewish family on a Long Island chicken farm, he enrolled at age 15 at the University of Chicago, had a Paris sojourn, loved France and Britain with an ardor rarely devoted to both those antagonistic nations, and somewhere along the way acquired an accent that Tom Wolfe described as having arrived from London in a box. But he was an American, to the core, American in the scale of his reinvention and adventure, in his work ethic and boundless embrace of possibility, in his enthusiasms and sense of responsibility for the world, particularly its persecuted.Raised in a Jewish family on a Long Island chicken farm, he enrolled at age 15 at the University of Chicago, had a Paris sojourn, loved France and Britain with an ardor rarely devoted to both those antagonistic nations, and somewhere along the way acquired an accent that Tom Wolfe described as having arrived from London in a box. But he was an American, to the core, American in the scale of his reinvention and adventure, in his work ethic and boundless embrace of possibility, in his enthusiasms and sense of responsibility for the world, particularly its persecuted.
Bob, as he was known, died last month at the age of 87, having edited the Review for 54 years since its foundation in 1963; until her death in 2006, Barbara Epstein was his co-editor. The twinkle in his eye never dimmed. Nor did his creative mischief, the unlikely marriage of reviewer and author that yielded what Mark Lilla has called “the digressive review-essay style that became the paper’s trademark.” Another Review trademark is the truth, debate, inquiry, intellectual rigor and range threatened today by the nationalist crassness and “alternative facts” Bob abhorred. His “paper” stands, beyond him, as a twice-monthly act of liberal, pluralistic defiance against stupidity and the hate-mongers on the march.Bob, as he was known, died last month at the age of 87, having edited the Review for 54 years since its foundation in 1963; until her death in 2006, Barbara Epstein was his co-editor. The twinkle in his eye never dimmed. Nor did his creative mischief, the unlikely marriage of reviewer and author that yielded what Mark Lilla has called “the digressive review-essay style that became the paper’s trademark.” Another Review trademark is the truth, debate, inquiry, intellectual rigor and range threatened today by the nationalist crassness and “alternative facts” Bob abhorred. His “paper” stands, beyond him, as a twice-monthly act of liberal, pluralistic defiance against stupidity and the hate-mongers on the march.
There was never any question of Bob stepping down, and so he worked and edited almost to the last. Retirement was for sissies; better to step up to the plate. No eye for imprecise thought was ever more discerning; no edit a sharper yet gentler distillation than his. He had his quirks. He hated the word “stance.” He was a stickler for accuracy. The pencil in his hand went to the heart of the matter. To edit, for Bob, was to make a writer better and get out of the way. That may sound simple. It’s not and it’s rare.There was never any question of Bob stepping down, and so he worked and edited almost to the last. Retirement was for sissies; better to step up to the plate. No eye for imprecise thought was ever more discerning; no edit a sharper yet gentler distillation than his. He had his quirks. He hated the word “stance.” He was a stickler for accuracy. The pencil in his hand went to the heart of the matter. To edit, for Bob, was to make a writer better and get out of the way. That may sound simple. It’s not and it’s rare.
I learned of Bob’s passing while I was in France, where he’d worked for the Paris Review in the 1950s. I was a friend, not a close one, but I’d written one piece a year or so for him since 2008, and he would take me to lunch at En, a Japanese brasserie near his downtown office. He was gallant, droll and courtly (another description of his accent, reported by Thomas Meaney in The Times Literary Supplement, captured it as “Mineola via the Grand Tour”). He was also challenging, indignant about all injustice, and a quiet saboteur of every jejune idea.I learned of Bob’s passing while I was in France, where he’d worked for the Paris Review in the 1950s. I was a friend, not a close one, but I’d written one piece a year or so for him since 2008, and he would take me to lunch at En, a Japanese brasserie near his downtown office. He was gallant, droll and courtly (another description of his accent, reported by Thomas Meaney in The Times Literary Supplement, captured it as “Mineola via the Grand Tour”). He was also challenging, indignant about all injustice, and a quiet saboteur of every jejune idea.
When we talked about Iran, where I’d witnessed the postelection tumult in 2009, he broached human rights, the Iran nuclear threat and the movies of Abbas Kiarostami with effortless authority. What did Iran want? How could its people be brought closer to the world? How might their yearning for liberty be satisfied? Bob probed. He was always ready to learn, even if he always seemed to know more than you. He was the generalist rebuking the specialist. He prodded me, most recently, to write — and then rewrite — a review of Elena Ferrante’s work. He liked writers in new territory.When we talked about Iran, where I’d witnessed the postelection tumult in 2009, he broached human rights, the Iran nuclear threat and the movies of Abbas Kiarostami with effortless authority. What did Iran want? How could its people be brought closer to the world? How might their yearning for liberty be satisfied? Bob probed. He was always ready to learn, even if he always seemed to know more than you. He was the generalist rebuking the specialist. He prodded me, most recently, to write — and then rewrite — a review of Elena Ferrante’s work. He liked writers in new territory.
At a memorial service for him this week at the New York Public Library, the immensity of Bob’s loss was palpable. Justice Stephen Breyer sent a note, read by the Review’s publisher, Rea Hederman. It extolled the importance of Bob’s forum for distinguishing “sense from nonsense.” Ian Buruma captured Bob’s particularly Jewish identification with the oppressed and his “decency” – that word dear to Camus, who observed in his novel “The Plague” that, “It may seem a ridiculous idea, but the only way to fight the plague is with decency.” Mark Danner evoked the love of Bob’s life, Grace Dudley, and his sense of not knowing “who I am” after her death late last year. Still, Bob kept working. There were always “things to do.”At a memorial service for him this week at the New York Public Library, the immensity of Bob’s loss was palpable. Justice Stephen Breyer sent a note, read by the Review’s publisher, Rea Hederman. It extolled the importance of Bob’s forum for distinguishing “sense from nonsense.” Ian Buruma captured Bob’s particularly Jewish identification with the oppressed and his “decency” – that word dear to Camus, who observed in his novel “The Plague” that, “It may seem a ridiculous idea, but the only way to fight the plague is with decency.” Mark Danner evoked the love of Bob’s life, Grace Dudley, and his sense of not knowing “who I am” after her death late last year. Still, Bob kept working. There were always “things to do.”
Yes, it is time to fight with decency the indecency seeping from high office; to reject nonsense; to resist contempt for the persecuted and the refugee; to uphold love lived to its limit; to honor industry over ostentation. Bob was the greatest editor of our time. Editors cut; showmen splurge. And one day the showman is unmasked.Yes, it is time to fight with decency the indecency seeping from high office; to reject nonsense; to resist contempt for the persecuted and the refugee; to uphold love lived to its limit; to honor industry over ostentation. Bob was the greatest editor of our time. Editors cut; showmen splurge. And one day the showman is unmasked.
Before the service I had read a moving tribute to Bob by Jennifer Homans, a dance critic and the widow of Tony Judt, a regular contributor to The Review. She mentioned a note in which Bob had said, “I am nowhere without Grace.” That made me think, “And we are nowhere without Bob.”Before the service I had read a moving tribute to Bob by Jennifer Homans, a dance critic and the widow of Tony Judt, a regular contributor to The Review. She mentioned a note in which Bob had said, “I am nowhere without Grace.” That made me think, “And we are nowhere without Bob.”
Then I imagined how Bob would dismantle with a smile my sloppy thought. “Nowhere without me? I hardly think so. You’re somewhere, kiddo, and there’s work to do. So go to it.”Then I imagined how Bob would dismantle with a smile my sloppy thought. “Nowhere without me? I hardly think so. You’re somewhere, kiddo, and there’s work to do. So go to it.”