I just finished Nobrow, subtitle: "The Culture of Marketing, The Marketing of Culture" by John Seabrook. It's partially a memoir of his days as a staff writer at Tina Brown's New Yorker, and also exactly what it sounds like.

My favorite line comes near the end, when he is thinking about how Conde Nast head Si Newhouse made the New Yorker move its offices from an old, appropriately shabby place to the shiny new Conde Nast corporate HQ, and how that seemed to him like a death knell for the New Yorker's identity.

The good part is in bold because I find it so satisfying:
Since the future New Yorker was likely to exist, if at all, as an act of Newhouse's patronage, its debts paid for by the profits from Vogue, Glamour, and Vanity Fair, it was a little unrealistic to expect that the magazine or its writers should remain in their former glory. Independence was the price we paid for survival.
Sound familiar?


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