George Plimpton seemed as unsinkable as anyone. As shocking as it was to hear this morning of his death, it was almost as surprising to realize that he was 76. I call it surprising not because I expected him to be much younger, but because his protean identity made him someone I never thought of as having a particular age at all.
If the first obituaries are any indication, it will be first and foremost as the author of Paper Lion that Plimpton is remembered. It’s no mean distinction, and the book is well worth revisiting. But you could do worse, too, than to visit the Paris Review and remember Plimpton in the round.
UPDATE: Sports blogger extraordinaire Eric McErlain has a nice tribute.