Dec 1, 09 | 9:39 AM
BY Michael Wolff
There is a club in the West 40s in Manhattan which includes among its members many old newsmen who, curiously, have sworn, on pain of expulsion, never to utter its name in the press—a quaintness by which I will abide. I had lunch yesterday, in the members’ dining room, with one of my favorites, back in New York for the holidays from his retirement home in Florida. This is what old newsmen talk about: The world will be in sorry, sorry shape when newspapers die,...
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