Here and There

The New Yorker prides itself on near perfection in its content, by way of the most famously vigorous fact-checking and most utterly grammarian of copy desks. I dare say its reputation is as close to spotless as a publication can get.

That’s precisely why I get so happy when I find what I consider to be mistakes in the magazine. If catching a double space somewhere is a sip of tea, this latest one is a full banquet of fresh game, organic succulent fruits and vegetables, and artisan cheeses.

In the March 12, 2007, issue, in the story about the chalk beds of Europe by John McPhee, on page 62, you can find the following sentence:

He was a skilled blender, according to the geologist James E. Wilson’s “Terroir: The Role of Geology, Climate, and Culture in the Making of French Wines,” but, contrary to Pérignon’s worldwide reputation, he did not add to the wines the magic bits of sugar and yeast that enhance carbonation in the second fermentation and result in champagne as we know it and he did not.

So, what’s up with the two “he did not”s? It’s easy to imagine the sentence appearing fresh on the copy desk with only one “he did not” or the other. Perhaps a copy editor found the sentence clunky (or, haha, not clunky enough) and set out to recast it. Perhaps from there, every set of eyes that read the sentence glazed over the end, or by the time they got to the end, they forgot entirely the original “he did not,” which they can be forgiven for as it would seem as far away in time as does the beginning of this sentence.

So there it is. I’d love to have the logic of this construction pointed out to me. I’d love to be wrong. I’d love to continue believing there are superhumans at work on probably my favorite magazine in the world, week in, week out. But I’m kinda pretty close to sure that I’m right here.

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