THE emergence of total power, with the splitting of the atom in the Forties, has made total warfare such an awesome possibility that ours has been an anxious age ever since. But along with that brute, total power, three graces have been emerging, and their shapes are much less terrible, though not much less awesome.
Let me express my appreciation for The Case for the White Southerner in the January issue. The author, Mr. Perry Morgan, has done a fine job. It is indeed rare to see anywhere in print a lucid, unemotional, realistic view of this knotty problem.
<p>WELL, no one can say they didn’t try. Mr. Samuel Bronston, the producer of King of Kings, discussed the script with the Pope. Mr. Nicholas Ray, the director, spent a year visiting “Europe’s art museums, cathedrals and libraries.” Twenty-four artists “hand-painted”—nothing but the best —“the intricate mosaics” of Salome’s dance hall, producing something like a credit manager’s idea of total luxury.</p>
<p>YOU have to know something of our deadline situation to be able to understand how we could say something in Have A Home In The Virgins, which you’ll find on page 101, and then come through with a seemingly conflicting statement in this corner.</p>
A food adventurer could have lunch or dinner practically every day of the year at either of the Sun Luck restaurants in New York City without ordering the same dish twice. The menu is practically boundless (it’s almost a pamphlet: sixteen pages, with the classifications and the dishes in Chinese and English), but the Sun Luck people provide greater liberality; they assure you that any dish not listed can be prepared upon request, and in any of the major styles of Chinese cooking:
IT’S kind of a funny thing, but have you noticed that most of the moaning about how bad Miami Beach’s tourist business is lately seems to be coming from Miami Beach’s competitors? The Miami Beach people, meanwhile, are too busy catering to their guests and working to attract new business to pay much heed.
Reviewing a major pianist and catching up with records
GEZA ANDA, a serious, strong young man in horn-rimmed glasses, came to America in 1955 as highly touted as an artist can be; he was, we were told, the new Chopin-Liszt player to make us forget the Rubinsteins and Horowitzes of old. He was then thirty-four, and thus fully formed; he was fifteen years beyond his debut (at nineteen, under Mengelberg, in Budapest, where he was born and trained), and thus not subject to platform nervousness.
How I Selected Westerns, Bought Socks & Prepared Paintings for President Eisenhower
An ex-Army noncom tells all............
I WAS designing an ad one day about two years ago when my secretary held the phone receiver to her chest and said, “It’s the White House calling.” I was designing an ad, I should explain, because that’s what I do: I am a designer, and the art director of a New York advertising agency.
It's time to play Beat the Press, the game where the target begins firing back. And now..... here's Jack
<p>There is a well-oiled old saw among reporters which says that they are afraid of only three things: chronic alcoholism, hemorrhoids and impotency. I would like to submit a fourth: the truth. I'm not sure that newspapers are much better anywhere else, but I know the American press is a mess.</p>
In some way or other, sooner or later, everyone is faced with the painful problem of funding himself responsible for someone he doesn't really feel he ought to be responsible for
<p>LENA, her employers admitted, looked awful. She had two long, yellow teeth in the middle of her mouth, and no other teeth at all; the rest of her face was shrunken, tiny, and wrinkled; her eyes were small and bloodshot; her hair was thin, and painfully she had dragged its peppercorns into a series of tiny topknots, bound together by strips of cloth.</p>
Line of work: On stage—acting, singing, dancing—“I hope.” But what would you really rather do? If I could start all over again I would do exactly what I am doing, but I would study more in every field. Mainspring: A passion for giving; I feel I can never give enough for the things that have been given to me.
Line of work: Musician, composer and potential ambassador of good will. But what would you really rather do? Nothing else. The same thing, except I’d really rather start at the top. Mainspring: White folks. White people are responsible for my success.
<p>AMONG the many medallions struck in honor of this century’s bloody conflicts, there is one, uncatalogued, that has already worn almost indistinguishably smooth. After twenty-five years, the faceless alloy exposed beneath its vanished silvering proves too soft ever to have held any lasting stamp, but, more important, the idea behind it now seems almost too immense to begin with, as if it had forced too many symbols into the medal’s shallow, unfirm relief:</p>
Automation expert John Diebold symbolizes the application of the new art of success
<p>IN Paris a few weeks ago, a glittering group of international business executives sat in the impressive UN-styled auditorium of the International Chamber of Commerce and listened respectfully as a tall, fair-haired young man told them what they should do to become even more successful.</p>
If you want to know where the smart money is riding, get a map of the world and a sharp broker
VARTANIG G. VARTAN
THE roller coaster of stock prices around the world made a lot of people richer in 1961. Stock markets in Europe boomed amidst a prosperity pumping out autos and refrigerators. And in Japan, the land of terraced rice paddies and pagoda-tiered temples, the most spectacular stock rise in modern history went hurtling onward.
For the executive who wants to go forward, onward and upward, the best direction is back to school
JAMES B. SIMPSON
U. S. EDUCATORS on every campus, from the community college to the Harvard Yard, are joyously and efficiently accommodating the expanding executive appetite for advancement, as thousands of businessmen enroll annually in manifold courses, classes, conferences, institutes, and seminars.
The Research Institute of America tells how to hitch your wagon to the gravy train and stay on
<p>As every Harvard Business Schoolboy knows, the highest-paid executive of a publicly held company in the United States in 1960 was Frederic G. Donner of New York City. In a manner becoming the Chairman of the nation’s largest manufacturer that managed to improve both its sales and profits in what was not a notably sanguine year for American business generally, Mr. Donner was compensated for his services to General Motors with $574,025 in salary and bonuses.</p>
CUSTOMVS. READY-MADE. THE CUSTOM SUIT: The gentleman in the grey flannel pinstripes is Theodore W. Kheel, member of the law firm of Battle, Fowler, Stokes & Kheel. Those dashes and dots on his dummy jacket serve as a floor plan for a custom-tailored suit by the British-origined Madison Avenue Bernard Weather-ill Tailors.
THE READY-MADE SUIT: The executive, at right, trying on a ready-made suit, is Ivan Obolensky, president of the publishing house of the same name. (A current title: Ladislas Farago’s story of World War II submarine operations, The Tenth Fleet.)
Mr. Obolensky (opposite), selection in hand, stands against an impressive background of dress shirts in De Pinna’s. Solid whites, blues, greys, tans, and yellows are supplemented with a variety of stripings from hairlines to candy-striped bolds, and with such distinctive variations as white collar and cuffs on vertically striped bodies.
“Custom shoemaking is a dying art." The speaker is Thomas Moore of the renowned Oliver Moore, and the “art” exercised by Moore, a third-generation New York custom shoemaker, promises perfect fit and true balance, and, therefore, a shoe that lasts longer, never loses its shape.
<p>AFTER lunch not long ago, Darryl F. Zanuck Productions, Inc., a company of artists, craftsmen, and white-collar workers led by Darryl F. Zanuck, the independent producer of motion pictures, was in the process of making one about good old D-Day at a location called Pointe du Hoc near Omaha Beach on the English Channel shores of France.</p>
The time has come to reconsider the varieties of the knock-knock joke of the Thirties, a time that was simple, primitive, unsophisticated. That that primitive life is over, let us give thanks. Thanks who? Thanks are-bad-all-over...
Business is good; the climate is wonderful; there are concerts near by in St. Thomas, and theatres and festivals in San Juan. Now that the Virgin Islands are nearly as close to New York in time as New York is to Westport, why not build your second home on a palm-studded beach fronting on the Caribbean?
<p>THE scene may be different, but the script is always the same. A bunch of guys get together for lunch—it might be in New York’s East Fifties, or around Michigan Avenue, or someplace near the Penobscot Building in Detroit, or off Boston’s State Street, or wherever—and one of the men, perhaps with cheeks of fresh tan, announces at about the time of the second Martini, “Well, I'm finally packing in the rat race—I’ve bought myself a hunk of island!” and that takes care of the conversation for the rest of the luncheon.</p>
From Saratoga to Hialeah, there’s one name that gets the nod, and the shudder, from the jocks, books and touts
Hialeah Race Course, the rich green vortex of what Floridians lovingly call The Season, was spinning at an even dizzier speed than usual several winters ago when a small man caused a sensation by getting off a horse. He was William John Hartack, Jr., a jockey; a hot-eyed doughy-nosed, five-foot-two-inch stripling whose convictions often dwarf his hundred-and-nine-pound body.
<p>SCOTT FITZGERALD was one of the most lackadaisical students who ever dreamed his way through three years at Princeton. He was no scholar, though in other respects college excited him. Having come from a small prep school, he liked the big-time competition for power and status, and seemed certain that his talents would win their deserts.</p>
Before gentle winds prevail, before winter peters out, we must let Leo roar and March winds blow; but one thing is certain, sometime during this month with an unpredictable reputation, the winds will be taken from her sails and winter will take her last gasp.