If sometimes there seems to be a sort of sameness of sound in The New Yorker, it probably can be traced to the magazine's copydesk, which is a marvelous fortress of grammatical exactitude and stylish convention.

Oh, I never look under the hood.

Commas in The New Yorker fall with the precision of knives in a circus act, outlining the victim.

A shaft of sunlight at the end of a dark afternoon, a note of music, and the way the back of a baby’s neck smells if it’s mother keeps it tidy,” answered Henry. “Correct,” said Stuart. “Those are the important things. You forgot one thing, though. Mary Bendix, what did Henry Rackmeyer forget?” “He forgot ice cream with chocolate sauce on it,” said Mary quickly.

The critic leaves at curtain fall To find, in starting to review it, He scarcely saw the play at all For starting to review it.

The whole duty of a writer is to please and satisfy himself, and the true writer always plays to an audience of one.

I would feel more optimistic about a bright future for man if he spent less time proving that he can outwit Nature and more time tasting her sweetness and respecting her seniority.