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And so I thought, ‘I don’t want my mind to go completely to mush.’” “I can’t imagine not working,” he told me. Opio, a thirty-minute drive from Cannes, had an olive mill and a twelfth-century church at home, with a terrace overlooking the Mediterranean, Carter, who was sixty-eight, meditated every morning, did Pilates, and answered letters. He no longer had any editors to distribute stories to, so he sent links out to friends.

In 2017, when Carter’s tenure at Vanity Fair came to an end, he jetted off with his family to Opio, a small medieval hill village in the South of France, where there was suddenly a lot more time to comb through periodicals. Carter would arrive at Condé Nast the following Monday with a pile of clippings, marked up with notes, and hand them to his assistant to distribute to editors. Arms loaded with European periodicals, they’d return home and spend hours tearing out stories they liked, passing them back and forth. He and his wife, Anna Scott, would walk from their townhouse in Manhattan’s Greenwich Village to Casa Magazine, a little shop with floor-to-ceiling racks of glossies and knee-level stacks of newspapers from around the world. Back when he was editing Vanity Fair, Graydon Carter had a weekend routine.