It sounds like Maeve Brennan had the easiest job in the world.
From 1954 to 1981, the Irish journalist and short-story writer sat in Manhattan’s cheaper bars and restaurants, martini in hand, and wrote down what she saw for The New Yorker.
In fact, Brennan was a genius at the art of intense observation. That genius was increasingly forgotten by the world as she fell prey to alcoholism and paranoid mental illness in later years. A brief 1954 marriage to St. Clair McKelway, The New Yorker’s drunken, philandering managing editor, lasted five years.
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