On one hand, she deserves tremendous credit for having clawed her way out of promiscuity and underlying depression into a productive career after 20-some years of surrogate-mother-ing as a university teacher and academic writer. This is a tough one to rate. I felt vaguely stunned in his presence. Groth attempted suicide by turning on the gas oven in her Greenwich Village apartment and going to bed. I came to this book with great expectations. White, a beautiful, 19-year-old, blue-eyed blonde from the cornfields of Iowa lands a job as a receptionist at The New Yorker magazine. She was passive and deeply insecure in those years, she said, because she grew up far from the publishing world in the flyover states of Iowa and Minnesota, the daughter of an alcoholic father.
I could not conceive that he could give a public reading that night. Perhaps this tells more about what I was looking for in a summer read than what she was offe I came to this with an expectation of more about what it was like to be involved at the New Yorker in the 1960s and beyond, and was somewhat disappointed. I've loved The New Yorker for years and as soon as i heard about this book, I was itching to read it. His courting was full of high-flown compliments about the magnificence of my face, the golden flamingness of my hair, the metamorphosis of my body from its former student shape into what he perceived as its present womanly glories. The last time I saw John he was bearded and very famous indeed, having won a Pulitzer for 77 Dream Songs. The title pretty much says it all, but Groth encountered some pretty fascinating people during her tenure at the mag, including E. In addition, a fair amount of the book doesn't even have anything to do with being a receptionist at the New Yorker but is more about her travels on summer vacations 8 weeks! But I intensely disliked the way she was portrayed in this book and how Groth took a couple of reactions and turned them into a character study.
This memoir of a particular time and place is an enchanting tale of a woman in search of herself. I'm sorry, but it just came off as so silly. So he loved me before he knew me So it's a pretty rocky path until she has it all figured out -- but at least she's willing to experience a lot along the way, and that in happening 1960s New York, so for those who are interested in this sort of finding-oneself story there's a decent amount of color here. Overall, it seems like there are many other books from the writers of the New Yorker about the magazine that are more worthwhile than the view from this receptionist's desk. Her use of language is a throwback from most modern-day memoirs, and I loved it. White, Charles Addams and Joseph Mitchell. Kahn, Calvin Trillin, Renata Adler, Peter Devries, Charles Addams, and many other New Yorker contributors and bohemian denizens of Greenwich Village in its heyday.
So what kept me reading? On one of his visits to the office of Louise Bogan, the poetry editor of The New Yorker, he discovered me behind a desk on the editorial floor. I practiced it with this book. It didn't hel This is a book about a blond chignon attached to an ambulant cloud, that eats many fancy meals and records conversations, until the book is almost over, when the cloud coalesces into a human person, who happens to wear a chignon. Reading this book is like being at a cocktail party with author Janet Groth. I was there, among the men and women who wrote and edited the magazine, for longer than many of them were.
I got the book to read about the great literary luminaries of mid century America who wrote for the New Yorker. Decades are jumped between paragraphs, then doubled back to, her whole second career as a graduate student, teacher and critical author is completely left out, and the conventional Happy Ending is a long-delayed marriage to a man whose self-satisfied pronouncements make him sound like an utter prick. It is still an interesting story, even if you don't go back that far. My older daughter wants to be some kind of writer. Janet Groth really takes narcissism to a whole new le I couldn't even finish this book because it was so bad.
If you are a Minnesota girl, newly graduated from college, with aspirations to be a writer, do you jump at a chance to work at the fabled New Yorker Magazine? Oh, I don't know, an editor or something? Her explications of literature are of little interest and typical pompous pedagogical fluff. Would not take hold of a morsel of bread, much less a bite of a sandwich. Well, I want eventually to write, of course, but I would be glad to do anything in the publishing field. I was afraid, you see, that if I became a skilled typist, I would wind up in an office typing pool. She does a lot of name-dropping, and boy, she did get to see all of the famous people and events of the time. What happened after I got there is a more complicated story. However, the period of time in which Groth was a receptionist there was from the early 1950's to early 1970's, way before I started to read the magazine, and I was unfamiliar with most of the people she talked about.
Nor do I want to hear the details of where she made love or the look of her lovers bodies. I was an English major too, but my creative writing never received any praise in my small Virginia school. But I thought the book would consist of more than mere mentions of whom she worked with. He had remembered, with sorrow, our broken date. I doubt if she received that much encouragement from her writer friends to break out of the mold. McKelway were once young marrieds down in the Village but in their later years, split from each other, shared histories of colorful breakdowns.
Her heart doesn't offer resistance, because Feminism hasn't happened yet, and she willingly engages in behaviors that seem naïve and passive, but were common and adaptive for most women of her day. For the first time Mr. We see John Berryman drop by and take her out to lunch Groth was a former student of his at the University of Minnesota and propose marriage apparently, he did that a lot. Our Minnesota girl is young and unsophisticated, but blond and very pretty. Also,there was little sense of what it was like to work in the offices of the New Yorker, in fact there was more information about that on the inside flap of the dust jacket than in the book itself. Kahn, Calvin Trillin, Renata Adler, Peter DeVries, Charles Addams, and many other New Yorker contributors and bohemian denizens of Greenwich Village in its heyday. Mitchell, like Berryman, was a mentor.
For readers who can't get enough New Yorker lore, an amiable view from the inside. White at The New Yorker. The Berryman chapter, one of the first in the book, is also among the finest. I liked the short chapters of her specific relationships and experiences. The Receptionist turns out to be the account of 'an education', but relatively little of that takes place at or having to do with The New Yorker. It's nice that she finally found someone worthy of her love, but even he sounds like a bit of a windbag. Yet with the exception of one six-month stint in the art department, I did not rise from my initial post.