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Thus the staff has been urging George to find religion when it comes to noneditorial aspects of the magazine’s business. It isn’t just contracts. Overall we want the magazine to be less ad hoc. We want it to come out on time at least occasionally, which means better planning and more accountability. We would like things like marketing to be taken care of by people who actually know what they’re doing, so we can concentrate on editing.

In other words, we want the Review to be more professional.

However, professionalization is a distinct threat to that spirit of amateur fun so cherished by George. George doesn’t want the Review to be disciplined; he wants it to be young. He wants it to be taken seriously as a competitor to larger magazines, but without taking itself seriously. Quaint and clubby this model may be, but it’s the one he’s always adhered to—the idea of publishing as a spirited venture undertaken by a few like-minded individuals—which is the same model that produced the so-called golden age of publishing, when the family-owned houses were churning out one Bellow, Cheever or Roth after another. George’s own record of success makes it hard to argue that he was wrong.

Yet all institutions need to mature as they get older, and sometimes the Review seems to be getting older faster than any magazine out there. Its image—stately, glamorous and painfully Upper East Side—is inescapably dated, no matter how much George tries to act otherwise. Meanwhile, newer magazines have been elbowing their way into the spotlight, partly with different editorial formulas that seem better attuned to the moment and partly by paying attention to the bottom line.

At the Mercantile Library the cocktail party has already started when Brigid and I arrive, along with Elizabeth, our editor at large. Elizabeth tells me she’ll break the news to George about the anthology, and that until we see how he reacts I should probably stay at a safe distance, on a balcony overlooking the crowd.

Luckily, the balcony is where the bar is. After downing two quick cocktails, I watch as Elizabeth gradually works her away through the library’s vaulted hall and snags George’s attention. He seems delighted to see her—Ha! He’s in a good mood. He listens intently, eyes narrowed, not saying a word as Elizabeth lays out the situation. Then his face seems to darken, and his features seem to elongate, and before my eyes George morphs into a grotesque hawklike bird with a fierce brow and an angry beak. Oh dear. He’s scanning the room for a face—mine, presumably; Elizabeth must have told him I’m here—and it occurs to me that I shouldn’t be spying on him like this. I look again: that angry beak is now mouthing the words (I can see it clearly from across the room) “Where is he? WHERE IS HE?! I want to talk to him now.”

“I’m done,” I say in quiet voice. There’s nothing to do but stand here and wait.

“Don’t worry,” says Brigid. “We’ll defend you. It’s not the end of the world, and there was a reason you did what you did.”

“Thanks, but spare yourself and don’t bother. I’ve been on his shit list for a while. There’s no point in fighting anymore.”

Meanwhile George, led by Elizabeth, has stalked up to the balcony. Strangely, I can’t help feeling worried for him. He’s so furious that he looks like he might explode all over the leather chairs and mahogany desks of the Mercantile Library, and for once in his life you can see that he has absolutely no idea what to say. It’s obvious that he wants to say something, but George just doesn’t express his anger well; he’s not enough of an angry person. Yet he has every reason to be upset—in fact, he should be outraged, because this isn’t about just one screwup; it’s deeper and more personal. Professionalization is just the outer layer of a conflict between George and some of the editors. Yes, we all revere him, but we also look down on him in a funny way, and not just because he’s old and occasionally daffy, but because George is an icon of a different era—that clubby era of guilt-free