[The following essay first appeared in 1967.]

[Charles Addams is] still tops when it comes to projecting the nervous side of life. Thirty years on The New Yorker has not diminished his sting—nor, for that matter, his style, which is as unmistakable as a gabled and turreted Victorian house, an architectural vintage he seems, in effect, to have invented.

But for all his dipping into the well of black humor, Addams, the man, emerges an aristocrat. He's a gentleman of enormous charm—and talking with him is, unfortunately, not even a little bit painful. He comes on smooth and easy—and funny. (p. 161)

[Ask] him about black humor, and the answers get a little vague. Like, "It's been going on for centuries." Or, "People are generally discouraged about the state of the world." Prod him a little about his own work and he'll say, "It's really all based...