I’m reading James Thurber’s The Years with Ross. It turns out that for a while Thurber’s rejects from The New Yorker were being bought for the special hip/with-it page of the New York American, a newspaper owned by William Randolph Hearst. Apparently a lot of them were of dogs (no surprise) because Hearst sent the editor this note:

Stop running those dogs on your page. I wouldn’t have them peeing on my cheapest rug.

Damn. The weird thing, of course, is that Hearst liked George Herriman so much. It’s hard to imagine one man being able to appreciate George Herriman but not James Thurber, or vice versa. But, given that such a man existed, I suppose it was inevitable that someone made a movie about him.