Phoenix stories.

http://www.robertchristgau.com/xg/misc/supreme-che.php

His thick lips red from the cold, Bowne would enter C Building, descend to the Phoenix office, and plump his meager ass into the imitation-leather chair in the corner. The chair, stolen from a fraternity, was the only comfortable seat in the room, but there was little competition for it. The editor, Peter Wolff, preferred to perch on a stool and lord it over his protégés. Other Phoenix people--there were always a few toward the end of the afternoon, and on Friday, deadline day, the few became a mob--would be busy at typewriters under the casements, or checking copy on the big table in the center of the room, or just studying. Bowne would sit apart, reading, meditating, talking to friends. He was literary editor, but except for the weekly subway excursions to the printer in Williamsburg (mostly to proofread his own copy) he did not indulge in journalistic routine. He was not even a student. Having completed his credits six months earlier, in June, 1961, he refused to take the concentration exam because he had spent his fresh-man year as a chemistry major and senior year immersed in electives, and didn't feel ready. So he spent two semesters reading English lit, tutoring, auditing a few courses, and working for Phoenix.

Phoenix was not an ordinary college newspaper. Wolff gave space enough to sports and campus politics, which were lively that year, and made a good number of left-liberal forays into the great world outside, but his heart and considerable energies were elsewhere. He wanted the paper to be a forum for students the way scholarly journals were a forum for professors. He was arrogant and sometimes crude, impossible to like wholeheartedly, but he turned Phoenix into a precocious weekly event, marred by undergraduate pomposity but imaginative and remarkably ambitious.