Mark Singer in the New Yorker, December 27, 1992-January 4, 1993:

During my first conversation with William Shawn in 1974, he astonished me by extending an invitation to work for the New Yorker. I was twenty-three years old, a bright-green rookie, and far from convinced that I was a writer, much less a writer worthy of Shawn's nurturing indulgence. There have been few, if any, days since when I have not thought of him, always with gratitude and wonder—often with more complicated emotions—and asked myself what the hell this whole thing had been about...

He had an oracular presence, and virtually every encounter with him felt loaded, full of intrigue and possibility. Often, seated in his office, studying his impassive expression as I babbled away about this or that, I had to restrain the impulse to blurt "Mr. Shawn, I love you." I did love him and I still do. I loved him, though I never for a moment imagined that in some everyday, familiar sense, we were actually friends.

Occasionally, late on a day when I had submitted a Talk of the Town story, my phone would ring.

"Hello, Mr. Singer."
"Hello, Mr. Shawn."
"That's an ingenious and wonderful piece you wrote."
"Thank you very much."
"Thank you for doing it."

No, please, thank you. Again, though certainly not for the last time, thank you.

†