Commas in The New Yorker fall with the precision of knives in a circus act, outlining the victim.
Television should be our Lyceum, our Chautauqua, our Minsky's and our Camelot.
It is a miracle that New York works at all. The whole thing is implausible.
The world likes humor, but it treats it patronizingly. It decorates its serious artists with laurel, and its wags with Brussels sprouts.
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