I was reading the January 12, 1998 edition of New Yorker last night and came across a tribute to Brendan Gill from Alison Rose in which she refers to his book "Here at the New Yorker". I think that all the bananafishers will enjoy it. "It's possible to stay all evening and hear about his glorious childhood in Hartford, Yeats in old age, the New Yorker in the late forties - he's in a state of ecstacy now - when editors with proofs of a new Salinger story in their hands strolled down the corridor in a state of editorial euphoria that has since become extinct." Aaah, euphoria...the thrill of a new offerring from one's favourite writer. Any word on Hapworth?? Lesley P.