I nominate The New Yorker's Jeffrey Goldberg as the Remington of
our time, though without the artistic talent. Remington? Back in 1898,
William Randolph Hearst was trying to fan war fever between the United
States and Spain. He dispatched a reporter and the artist Frederic Remington
to Cuba to send back blood-roiling depictions of Spanish beastliness to
Cuban insurgents. Remington wired to say he could find nothing sensational
to draw and could he come home. Famously, Hearst wired him, "Please remain.
You furnish the pictures, and I'll furnish the war." Remington duly did so.
I wouldn't set The New Yorker's editor, David Remnick, in the
shoes of a Kong-sized monster like Hearst. Remnick is a third-tier talent
who has always got ahead by singing the correct career-enhancing tunes, as
witness his awful reporting from Russia in the 1990s. Art Spiegelman
recently quit The New Yorker, remarking that these dangerous times require
courage and the ability to be provocative, but alas, "Remnick does not feel
up to the challenge."
That's putting it far too politely. Remnick's watch has been