George Plimpton died overnight. He was 76.
While he was better known as an author, actor, wit, and noted racounteur, Plimpton was also a damn fine businessman.
For decades, he edited and ran the highly-esteemed, but little read quarterly The Paris Review, running the literary journal on not much more than his own enthusiasm and funds. Despite occasional run-ins with $1.16 corporate balances, the Review still publishes today because of his efforts, intelligence, and ability to scramble, think on his feet, and never give up in the face of adversity.
In the process, he helped introduce to the world to emerging greats like Philip Roth and Jack Kerouac.
Plimpton once said, “There are people who would perhaps call me a dilettante, because it looks as though I’m having too much fun. I have never been convinced there’s anything inherently wrong in having fun.”
Plimpton loved his life and his work. We should all be so lucky.