We lost the great Russell Baker this week.
An easygoing witticism factory who mined a seam of everyday observational humor without playing to the lowest common denominator, Baker once provided what might be the greatest reason of all to become a writer.
At this time I had decided the only thing I was fit for was to be a writer, and this notion rested solely on my suspicion that I would never be fit for real work, and that writing didn’t require any…
Yes, it takes work to win a couple Pulitzers like Baker did. But not work.