Paris Review Editor Goes Public

Back when the Paris Review was still run out of George Plimpton’s apartment, the office was a jumble of antique typewriters, smudged-up manuscripts, and bicycles that hung upside down from the ceiling. The Paris Review was a literary magazine, but it was also Plimpton’s clubhouse, a place where young bookish types sought refuge from the conventions of the real world. Salaries were nil to meager, but such is the payoff for a workday that involves reading Rick Moody stories and joking around with the legendary writer and lover of life George Plimpton.