George Plimpton Passes on at 76
When the title of this journal was selected, it was done deliberately to honor two things: Kensington in west London where a few extremely glorious years passed, and the Paris Review, a literary journal without rival. While the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea will carry on, the future of the Paris Review fell into grave doubt last week with the passing of its editor, George Plimpton, at the age of 76.
Mr. Plimpton was a lovable toff from cradle to grave -- indeed, the only other person left alive who speaks his version of American English is William F. Buckley, Jr. He knew Adlai Stevenson as a friend of the family, Jacqueline Kennedy nee Bouvier as a debutante, and Robert Kennedy as a Harvard classmate (and walked ahead of RFK through the kitchen of the Ambassador hotel in Los Angeles one horrible June night). His house on the E. 500 block of 72nd Street in New York overlooks the East River and is worth millions, yet he could often be seen riding through his neighborhood on a rather beaten up black bike with a rather silly looking white basket on the front. And occasionally, he said "hello" to a perfect stranger who admired the view of the river outside his home. More accurately, the young writer pretended to admire the view because of a dreadful bout of shyness when confronted with one of his heroes.
Early in his career, Mr. Plimpton took on participatory journalism -- that is, doing something one has no business doing, and then writing about it. Thus, he was allowed to play quarterback for a miserable series of downs for the Detroit Lions in the NFL (Paper Lion), box with Archie Moore and pitch to Willie Mays. And he perpetrated the greatest April Fool's joke with his Sidd Finch article for Sports Illustrated. Later, he appeared in the odd movie ("Good Will Hunting") and TV show ("The Simpsons" as a spelling bee professor).
However, he was also the man who published up-and-coming authors Philip Roth and Jack Kerouac. His journal printed interviews he had done with the likes of Ernest Hemingway and William Faulkner on the craft of writing. It was done out of love, for the journal he edited for fifty years never had more than a few thousand subscribers, and even ran it's bank account to $1.16 in 2001. Mr. Plimpton didn't need money, and so didn't do the work for the money. He did it because he cared deeply about making each issue a worthwhile read.
This issue is dedicated to the man the American Academy of Arts and Letters called a "central figure in American letters," a chevalier in France's Legion of Honor, and a gentleman on whose shoulders many stand.
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