For forty-eight years, from the time Bill became managing editor in September 1929, until February 13, 1987, the day he left the magazine, he accumulated in his mind a set of what he called "principles," by which he felt he lived at The New Yorker. He called them "our principles." They were really his principles.

After Mr. Newhouse fired him, Bill wanted so much to explain the "principles" to the owner. He felt – optimistically – that if he could explain what a terrible mistake it was to be guided by "demographics," then Mr. Newhouse would

understand and act accordingly. Bill was very hopeful when Mr. Newhouse agreed to meet with him. He really believed he had to try to tell Mr. Newhouse the truth about what makes a magazine great. In order to fell free of his responsibility for the lives of all the people involved with the magazine, as well as the life of the magazine itself, he truly believed, he had to explain how The New Yorker might survive. He couldn't abandon the magazine before he had done everything in his power to help it keep going. Then, and only then, could he be free of it.

Almost anyone hearing about Bill's eagerness would assume that what was on his mind was the hope that Mr. Newhouse would change his mind about the firing, but this was not what he was thinking about. On the day of Bill's appointment, I dropped him off, at the Carlyle, at four o'clock in the afternoon, Bill's favorite time of day. By five o'clock Bill joined me at home, looking crestfallen. "He was very impatient with me," Bill told me. "He really didn't want to hear what I was so eager to tell him, especially" – Bill gave a self-deprecating laugh – "the part about demographics. He likes demographics."

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