Compulsive
I hereby append a list of those British journalists who should become compulsory reading — under penalty of death or solitary confinement with their own Collected Works and Wit and Wisdom — for the James Restons, the Joseph Krafts and the rest of their company: that supreme exemplar of originality and paradox brought to the defence of orthodox liberalism, Bernard Levin (despite his wicked lapse in the case of the Melita coffee-maker v the Philishave Exclusive, which I had to report in this column two weeks ago); that incomparable wielder of paradox brought to the defence of yet more paradox, Peregrine Worsthorne that master of imma
Spectator November 0,1974 culate prose in the cause of disrobing successive political emperors, Alan Watkins; that fearless hammer of the trendies, Robert Conquest; that infant propagandist of elegan! and erudite Conservatism, Frank Johnson; anu that unique proponent of an extraordinarY mixture of Nationalism and Socialism (perhaps it's national socialism?), Paul Johnson. The journey through customs and into New York may be quintessentially American, but not so the Algonquin — the only hotel I have stayed in about which seven books have been written, one of them on the official reading lists of many American universities. It all began to happen in the 'twenties and 'thirties when Dorothy Parker, Robert Benchley, George S' Kauffman and other Round Table intellectual dandies would meet for lunch here every rig (there is still a Round Table reserved for their spiritual heirs). It was during one of these lunches that someone rushed up to Dorothy Parker with tbe news that Calvin Coolidge was dead, thus inspiring her immortal riposte, “How can theY tell?" Not that it was all. talk in 1925 — Har°I„id Ross dreamt up, consulted, discussed en,: actually created the New Yorker within tu` Algonquin walls. Today most of the Algokn" quinites continue to be paid-up members of ti'ne International Culture-Pushing Mafia, wn° discuss their latest book /film /play with n'e bellman, the porters and the waiters that nelr change but only fade-away — in fact 1 strong'Y suspect that the job of the Algonquin lift-oPer" ator is the last hereditary post in the Nevy World. "I've been here for eighteen years and t,, staff still look at me as a newcomen.r , complained Andrew Anspach, the debon4,'5 Yale graduate, who manages the Algoncluirl's married to the owner's daughter and continu to be in love with both. "It's not a hotel — it 's° inn," he says and "nobody is a customer ; everybody is a guest." Still, there is ifat undoubted hierarchy. The 'welcome' note the awaits everyone with fruit or flowers in room, becomes 'welcome back' at the sectTo, visit, 'welcome back again' at the third un,,sci tthheroungehopehayg, initiation baeteangesuccessfullY cua the ultimate goal — a little hanfdir-IvavIrliytterenac;c1 that just says 'welcome home.'
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