I’ve been a staff writer at The New Yorker since 1974, I’ve worked for a number of editors, and at this point Tina Brown is the editor. Those proverbial tales of adversarial relationships between writers and editors?—I’ve managed to avoid all that. I like Tina. She and I have a clear working understanding. I’ve just spent four years writing a book that was supposed to have taken me a year and a half, during which I haven’t been available to write many pieces for the magazine. So our understanding is that in Tina’s office, in her desk, there is a special drawer. In that drawer is a jar. In that jar are my testicles. One morning my phone rings—Tina: “Trump! Donald Trump! I’ve just had breakfast with him at the Plaza. You’re going to write a profile of him. You’re absolutely going to love him. He’s totally full of shit, you’ll love him! I’ve told him he’ll love you. You’re doing it!” Which indicates that I am doing it. I get to work. This takes several months.
