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Alexander Chancellor’s Laugh

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Malcolm Vanderveen
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A while ago, there was an editor at The New Yorker who was widely disliked in New York City.

Everything would go through his typewriter, so to speak.

The general perception, in anticipation of his arrival, was that a clueless Englishman was being put in charge of a section in close proximity to the soul of New York City and this magazine.

It was part of a larger sense of affront at an Englishwoman taking over a quintessentially New York, and American, magazine.

I was a new staff writer, wandering disorientedly through the halls of the magazine.

It sounded like a toddler playing a washboard, or someone crumpling a hard plastic cup, or a duck with something stuck in its throat.

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Malcolm Vanderveen
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