Join me in laying one last wreath on the grave of William Shawn, the dauntless editor who labored for many decades against writers as formidable as Norman Mailer,John McPhee and Pauline Kael to keep naughty words out of the New Yorker. More often than not he succeeded, but his prudishness was interred with his bones, and under the glasnost of Tina Brown and David Remnick, profanity now struts and swivels its hips across the magazine’s pages.