THE GROWING STONE, the long story by Albert Camus beginning on page 111 of this issue, is a felicitous example of that old shop rule around Esquire that we have cited every so often on this page—to wit, our continuing determination to give you “good stories, even if they are literature.”
I am sure that the sick joke, subject of Gerald Walker’s article (December, 1957), is not only as old as the hills, but has steadily become less and less humorous as time has gone by. For all we know some Roman chronicler interviewing a prominent lady on March 16, 44 B.C., asked, “Apart from that, Mrs. Caesar, were you impressed by yesterday’s opening ceremonies at the Senate?” Certainly the contemporary poet Catullus would have had an ample sufficiency of gall to do just that.
A roundup of good fashions wherever you go: down south to the tropics or north to the snow
Carib-being: The fashion people owe a great deal to the travel people, we believe, which is not at all a bad situation. Even in the earliest days of summer fashions for men— which were nothing beyond taking off your hat and rolling up your sleeves—there was the “Panama” hat and the “Palm Beach” suit.
WE saw flakes of blue light coming from the stockade at the Disciplinary Training Center one night in May of 1945. Acetylene torches, someone said; later we heard that they were reinforcing a cage to hold Ezra Pound. The Disciplinary Training Center spread over a broad field a few miles north of Pisa on the road to Viareggio.
THE after-dinner drink is an art which has so far eluded most Americans. Next time you're at a cocktail party, and surrounded as usual by self-elected authorities on liquor, ask them to name five after-dinner drinks in ten seconds. They’ll give you B & B, crème de menthe frappé, and maybe one other, say pousse café or some other concoction they’ve never drunk.
I had played the night before," said Johanna Martzy, somewhat gleeful in the recollection of the story, "in Lausanne, the Mozart G Major, and I was to play that night with Rosbaud, in Geneva. I drove down in the morning for the general rehearsal, and Rosbaud said he'd heard of my great success the night before.
THAT crack that sounded like a pistol shot a little while ago was our slapping the side of our head in dismay over having overlooked the Deauville in the roundup of new Miami Beach hotels in the December issue. We got the Deauville in fine last March for a spring preview of this winter's Miami Beach developments, and we mentioned it again in November.
BILLY TAYLOR is not only one of the outstanding piano performers of the day, but possibly the most articulate. Recently he was invited to give several lectures at Columbia University to music teachers taking advanced degrees. Taylor was asked for his opinion on the prime sources pointing to the future direction of jazz.
The hipster and his preoccupation with speed, sex, drugs, jazz and death
JOHN CLELLON HOLMES
LAST September a novel was published which The New York Times called "the most beautifully executed, the clearest and most important utterance" yet made by a younger writer; a book likely to represent the present generation, it said, as The Sun Also Rises represents the Twenties.
IT was a slack afternoon in the City Room and Bowker was set to write up obits. He went up to the wired-in cage on the tenth floor, picked himself a cubbyhole and started work on the files in the morgue, starting with H. He brought a metal file of H's to his table and began to distill biography from the mounds of clips.
Lana Turner was discovered at a soda fountain, Dorothy Lamour in an elevator, Esther Williams in a swimming pool. What wonder, then, that Germany’s newest and loveliest starlet should attract the attention of important film personages not only with her blinding good looks, but with a ringing, bell-clear yodel as well? Lo, on these pages, the remarkable Gudula Blau
Having no luck with J. D. Salinger, James Joyce or Ernest Hemingway, they settled for....
IF you actually want to hear about it, what I'd better do is I'd better warn you right now that you aren't going to believe it. I mean it's a true story and all, but it still sounds sort of phony. Anyway, my name is Goldie Lox. It’s sort of a boring name, but my parents said that when I was born I had this very blonde hair and all.
It resembles warfare and the cry is for “unconditional surrender”
THE uniformity of the current college generation is a much lamented phenomenon of our time. It has its advantages, however; how else could I produce here a treatise on the mating habits of 3,450,000 college students on 1,800 campuses and have it come anywhere near the truth?
"Death is a great friend,” Frank Lloyd Wright has said, and at eighty-eight, with not too many years left him before meeting it, the world’s best-known architect — perhaps its greatest — carefully arranges the hours of his day for their maximum yield: breakfast at seven; writing from eight to twelve, a time occasionally broken by visitors (left, state officials, in this instance, whose permission Wright seeks to destroy and rebuild at his expense a bridge that mars the approach to his Wisconsin estate);
A somewhat affectionate account of my lifelong struggle against my toughest competitor
JOHN LLOYD WRIGHT
<p>I am told that one of my father's clients once suggested to producer Jed Harris that I, as an architect, could build him a house just as "Wright-worthy" as any my father could design. Harris is said to have shrugged off the suggestion with the reply, "People of my faith believe in the father rather than the son."</p>
A cold, salt wind blew in from the Gulf of Mexico, carrying a few clouds like puffs of cannon smoke. The wind blew through the pines and swept across the long rows of blue-grey Navy dive bombers, the sturdy Douglas SBD's that had swarmed on the Japanese carriers at Midway, and had sunk the Shoho in the Coral Sea.
<p>The doleful clown at left is not José Ferrer in the role of Toulouse-Lautrec. It is, of course, Marcel Marceau in the role of José Ferrer in the role of ToulouseLautrec. France’s most magnificent mime (photographed for the first time without his “Bip” costume) was, on this occasion, the guest of honor at a Hollywood party in the home of Charles Boyer.</p>
The scene at left—the debarkation in New York of a British team about to engage in an Anglo-American Vintage Car Rally—took place ten months ago. In the light of the circumstances, Esquire’s admission of a tardy report on a timely event is made without apology: the paintings on these and the following two pages are by Peter Helck, an artist whose interpretations of classic cars have become classics themselves.
WELL, I've got the summons," Ned said, coming home. "For Thursday." “Dinner?” Claire asked. “Or do we come under the heading of those who come in afterward?” “I’m not an exec,” he reminded her. “Yet.” So it was for after dinner, in the new manager’s hierarchy.
New records, not the old ones, have a value greater than their cost
MARSHALL W. STEARNS
<p>A great but untapped bonanza for the collector of American music beckons today. Contrary to the notions of old-time collectors of recordings, the LP has not ruined a lucrative hobby—conditions have simply changed. True, the days are past when you can pick up a King Oliver, Bix Beiderbecke, or Jelly Roll Morton for a few pennies at your local Salvation Army store and sell it the next day for $25 or more.</p>
The ex-Prime Minister throws new light on the Kremlin bosses
RUSSIA is working out a new way of life these days. Under Stalin’s rule, the Russian people lived like derelicts. In Stalin’s terms, all Russians alike were numbers in a lot—militarized civilians and soldiers obeying the Party’s orders. But since Stalin’s death, since Beria’s death, and, above all, since the advent of the 20th Congress, the Russian people have become more and more demanding.
IT'S a festive western Europe you'll find when you cross the Atlantic this year, a continent in a mood to salute thirteen years of almost uninterrupted peace and developing prosperity, and very happy to have you over to help celebrate—especially as the United States and its tourists have done so much to build that prosperity.
BACK it is we are from Europe after winding up Festive Europe in 1958, which begins on page 89, and covering the twenty-seventh annual convention and world travel congress of the American Society of Travel Agents (ASTA) in Madrid. Our usual mood of languor and post-trip lassitude was shattered when this department’s Vice-President In Charge of Routes and Itineraries skimmed a reader’s letter onto our desk.
THE automobile swung clumsily around the curve in the red sandstone trail, now a mass of mud. The headlights suddenly picked out in the night—first on one side of the road, then on the other— two wooden huts with sheet-metal roofs. On the right near the second one, a tower made of coarse beams could be made out in the light fog.
JUST after World War II a flock of jets was zipping across Japan, heading for another airstrip. They were flying at 40,000 feet, indicating air speed 450 miles an hour ETA (estimated time of arrival) 0930. Just a little before eight o'clock, one of the pilots was crooning Deep In The Heart Of Texas when the squadron leader said, "Knock it off. Listen!" Sure enough, the control tower of the target airstrip came in loud and clear: "You're flying too high.
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