In Here at The New Yorker, Brendan Gill describes a New Yorker writer's reaction to receipt of galleys "with scores, perhaps hundreds, of penciled hen-tracks of inquiry, suggestion, and correction." The article will be improved, but the writer "will be pitched into a state of graver self-doubt than ever. Poor devil, he will type out his name on a sheet of paper and stare at it long and long, with dumb uncertainty. It looks — of Christ! — his name looks as if it could stand some working on."