I’ve never been woken up at night by someone saying “Oh, this code’s ugly.” I’ve never gotten paged because my Clojure is inelegant.
With success comes a level of sadness. You think, ‘I’ll reach this goal, and then I’ll feel a sense of completeness, of wholeness. I’ll feel that I have accomplished something. I will see myself as a worthy man.’ And it doesn’t really exist.
The ﬁrst box I opened was so ﬁlled with onionskin copies of Ben’s correspondence that its sides were bowed. I pulled one of the folders at random and came across a 1977 letter to Katharine Graham, then the Post’s publisher:
Dear Mrs. Graham:
Messrs. Eugene Meyer and Philip L. Graham must be turning over in their graves because of the way you are dragging down what used to be a wonderful newspaper.
In my humble opinion, I think the persons really responsible for the Washington Post’s decline are Benjamin C. Bradlee and Philip L. Geyelin.
Beneath it was Ben’s response:
Dear Mr. Dodderidge:
Your letter to Mrs. Graham reminded me of the story about W. C. Fields sitting with a drink in his hand in his garden one afternoon.
His secretary interrupted him repeatedly to tell him that a strange man wanted to see him and refused to say what he wanted to see him about. Finally Fields told his secretary to give the man “an equivocal answer—tell him to go fuck himself.”
Tim Tebow trying to throw a forward pass is like a moose trying to fuck a washing machine.
Matt Taibbi of Rolling Stone, in the New Yorker.
The problems began, as they sometimes do, with the king of England
Blogs usually seem to me like a a continuous, self-promotional orgy.
Gary Gallagher, my history professor.
I want to live in a world where someone in Grand Forks or anyplace else can enjoy the Olive Garden. I want to live in a world where people can like things unconditionally, without irony, without sarcasm.
Joe Posnanski, on the now famous Olive Garden Review.