AN issue in which we print a contribution (page 90) by Scott Fitzgerald’s daughter, Frances “Scottie” Lanahan, seems a peculiarly appropriate place in which to break the good news for Fitzgerald fans that the House of Scribner is, this fall, at last going to issue the Pat Hobby stories as a separate volume, uniform with the rest of the original editions.
Blimey h’if I arvent just completed prom’nent lydy writer Mitford’s little go-on how some of us talk English (Whut They’re Thanking Down There, May, 1962) an’ ’andle our Coloreds, and it struck m’ parts—you know which—about m’ first trip to Lunnen, where culture’s thick as Sawth Calina hoecakes.
IF the coverage we’ve given to the Spanish island of Ibiza (on page 108) starts you thinking about going there, you might be interested in the cost of things if you expand your trip to the mainland. Despite the inflationary effect of American bases in Spain and projects built with American aid—and the great tourist influx—you can still enjoy Spain for appreciably less than you’d have to pay for comparable pleasure in many European and western-hemisphere countries.
"WE played the Webern Five Pieces in San Antonio,” says Claus Adam, the tall ’cellist of the Juilliard Quartet, "and somebody told us that during the intermission a lady turned to her little girl and said, ‘See ... if you don’t practice, you’ll sound like that.'"
THAT was a fine hop to Madrid we had on TWA on the way to cover the piece on Ibiza which begins on page 108. For company we had Bette Davis, Glenn Ford, Thomas Mitchell, Sheldon Leonard and a lot of other film people, and their antics in Damon Runyon’s Pocketful of Miracles happily took care of 136 minutes out of the 415-minute flight.
JUST imagine, during World War II, a cargo plane being forced down into some Shangri-La kind of place, its crew getting back to the outside world only this month. No doubt somewhere on that plane, as part of every U. S. serviceman’s equipment, were some of Esquire’s famed gatefold pinups.
Women of America, Now Is the Time to Arise: "Yes!"
RICHARD H. ROVERE
<p>AS an unregenerate and rather doctrinaire male feminist, I am one of a vanishing and, in many quarters, dishonored breed. It is not in my nature to be militant, so I don’t bring the matter up very often, but I stick by my lonely guns when challenged, and the challenges—particularly from women who have sought emancipation or had it thrust upon them—are numerous and at times ferocious.</p>
<p>AS was their nightly custom, the boys gathered in the back room of The White Gelding to sip coffee, play chess, and eventually end the evening with the hopeless discussion having to do with the Old Days, which most of them were too young to remember, when men were really Men.</p>
Women of America, Now Is the Time to Arise: "Maybe (?)"
<p>GENTLEMEN, I’m awfully afraid you are in danger of becoming bores. Like the hypochondriac who could surely take up his bed and walk if he had a mind to, you are unconvincing. You have overdone your sad story of ill-treatment at the hands of American women, and one wonders if you have not begun to enjoy your invalidism.</p>
How to Lie Successfully to a Woman and How to Tell When a Woman Is Lying
Keep it short, simple and emphatic. Overelaborate prevarication will arouse instant suspicion, and her self-respect will impel her to trap you
THE only way any man can ever lie successfully to a woman is when, for reasons of her own, she lets him. These reasons may be subconscious ones—a desire to feel loved, a need for satisfaction of vanity, a wish to observe convention and the status quo—or they may derive simply from the knowledge that it is often easier to accept a lie than to be faced with the truth and the ensuing problem of what to do about it.
Torn between two national idols—Mom and Marilyn—the American woman is often at a loss to recognize her rightful role and image. But there are always artists around to help her out. They still have an eye for the ladies just as they did 20,000 years ago when an Aurignacian sculptor fashioned the first known sex goddess, the bulbous Venus of Willendorf.
Beauty is available for all ages, all sizes, as it emanates from the eighth arrondisement in Paris, home of most famous salons. In these svelte wilds, destruction is for the meek, survival for the chic. Any man who has the courage to enter must bear nerves of steel.
Jacqueline Kennedy, the wife of the President of the United States; Mary McCarthy, the country’s most acute and most intellectual literary critic and novelist; and Brenda Lee, America’s foremost female rock-’n’-roll star—all three are ladies of some significance in American life today and are of logical interest to large segments of the population.
<p>A few of you may remember that on February 14, last winter, our First Lady gave us a tour of the White House on television. For reasons to be explained in a while, I was in no charitable mood that night and gave Mrs. Kennedy a close scrutiny. Like anybody else, I have a bit of tolerance for my vices, at least those which do not get into the newspapers, but I take no pride in giving a hard look at a lady when she is on television.</p>
The lady is pretty and nice and smart. Smarter than you are, probably. The pretty lady is smiling at you. What do you think she’s thinking. . . .
<p>MARY McCARTHY has the Nicest Smile. At the slightest social pressure, it springs open and automatically catches. She can hold it there—flicking its long, white upper blade of handsome, emphatic teeth this way, that way at every threatening conversational turn—for sometimes five, ten minutes at a stretch.</p>
<p>AT the age of seventeen, Brenda Lee is the reigning teen-age princess of popular song. Her dominions extend far beyond the United States. She has conquered Brazil, where she had to be protected from raging teen-agers by a round-the-clock police guard; England, where a movie company is eager to star her in a film opposite Robert Morley; and Australia, where she was the only American girl singer in living memory, or so her manager claims, to survive a tour without either being booed or having tomatoes thrown at her.</p>
The Greatest, Most Beautiful Issue Ever, Chock Full of Surprises, Surprises Surprises, on Page after Page, with Colorful Delights that Are Wonderful, Yes, Yes, Yes, They Are! Oh my God, It’s Too Much! Etc. etc. etc.
Who knows when the magic moment will come? Will he arrive on a white charger or an iron horse?
Mavis Oglianna Swernner
<p>"Well, Marcia Ann Johnson," I said to myself, "this time your impulsive ways have really gotten you into a heck of a scrape!" As the assistant buyer for a large Gotham department store, I certainly could have afforded a cab to my appointment, but on a whim I had chosen the subway.</p>
Fabulous and adaptable. Delight in deft variations of a classic staple and transform the most mundane meal into a memorable (low-calorie) feast. 1. Chill in refrigerator 4 hours, pour into tumblers. Serves 5. 2. Shoot it into your veins.
“Show me,” pleads Franny Hill, Smith ’39, “my true beauty. I know it’s there somewheres.” Our lab springs alive! We give a lesson in makeup “magic” to the darling girl. First a soupçon of white ’neath cute lids to catch limelight. Up with these brows, dear, for Aware look.
Q. My husband who is active in business circles says it is all the talk these days how the Democratic Administration is planning to move the Federal Capitol back to Philadelphia. What is your opinion of this proposal? A. In my many years in Washington, I have heard numerous rumors about moving the Federal Capitol back to Philadelphia, but, to the best of my knowledge, nothing has ever come of them.
In recent columns I have attempted to relate certain of the more exciting, albeit personal, experiences of my life in the hope that they may prove not only interesting, but instructive, to younger readers, who will undoubtedly have to face many of these experiences themselves.
NOW, for the first time, an effective remedy for whipped-cream stains! “For years,” writes Mrs. Martha Shemming of Utica, N.Y., “my husband has been going off every afternoon, nobody knows where, and coming home at eleven at night with a bruised lip and whipped-cream stains all over his suit.”
For being the Svengali of the scissors, for clipping the poor as well as the rich, all hail the King of Hair
KENNETH BATTELLE, known to his business associates, clientele and several million American females as “Mr. Kenneth,” is a boy from Syracuse not yet forty but already at the top of his trade. As chief hairdresser and supervisor of the beauty salon at the ladies’ retooling emporium of Mme. Lilly Daché, he commands a fee of $15 for a haircut and “styling”—which means that after he finishes cutting he will instruct an assistant in exactly what he wants done with what remains.
WALT WHITMAN, that endearing old charlatan, was fond of addressing the Women of America in lyrical terms to the effect that he would impregnate them one and all with his mighty seed. This undertaking, like so many emanating from America, was more observed in the general than in the particular.
<p>Centretown, Ohio, June 1, 1962 Dearest, dearest Babs: I have a piece of the most wonderful, exciting news to tell you . . . Fred and I are moving to Washington, we hope in September! Fred’s been appointed to an important job in the Administration, which we can’t tell you about yet because it’s still “top secret.”</p>
<p>FROM the far reaches of the Pacific where Queen Salote Tupou rules the one hundred fifty islands of the Kingdom of Tonga and Prime Minister Mrs. Sirimavo Bandaranaike guides the government of Ceylon, to the very chambers of the U.S. Senate (where the club’s only female members, Republican Margaret Chase Smith of Maine and Democrat Maurine Neuberger of Oregon, have recently captured and divided between themselves “the choice two-room suite on the front of the Capitol”), women are steadily amassing political strength.</p>
To see ourselves as others see us—sometimes this can be the most horrible of sights to bear
I thought it was kind of funny, after we’d been bowling a while, that they didn’t put anybody on the alley just to our right. The place got pretty crowded and filled up way down the line, but the one right next to us stayed empty. ’Course they might’ve had it reserved, but this is a sort of neighborhood place and you don’t see that sort of thing very often.
Line of work: Writing. But what would you really rather do? The same. Mainspring: Be of use—doing some kind of work that I would enjoy doing even if I were not paid for doing it. Most paradoxical quality: Like to be inconspicuous but look well.
Evolution of a hot spot: the avant-garde makes the discovery, the tourist follows: thus it was with Majorca and St. Tropez— now, meet Ibiza
TRAVEL is often a fashion thing, and nowhere is this truer than in Europe. Places suddenly, sometimes almost inexplicably, become fashionable to go to and to be seen at, then the avant-gardistes who discovered them move on to some-place else, but by that time they leave behind them a popular resort, so nobody is too upset by their departure.
THE OSCARS have been duly and dully awarded; on TV, the two-hour orgy was even flatter than the one in Dolce Vita. The selections could have been worse. Jerome Robbins deserved one for the choreography of West Side Story as did Maximilian Schell for his acting in Judgment at Nuremberg and Abby Mann for his script for same.
The Pyramid, Other Monuments, and Needles in Haystacks
The Pyramid, other monuments, and needles in haystacks
KATHERINE ANNE PORTER’S novel Ship of Fools took twenty years in the writing. There is never a slackening of its pace, never a lazily written passage, never a portrait roughed in. To those of us who, after filling a postcard, are obliged to lie down and have wet cloths applied to our brow, this is not a book.
Some of the people know July was named after Julius Caesar who was horn this month, but all of the people know, ’twas on the fourth day of the seventh month of the year 1776, that we won our Independence. So set off the rockets and flares, a celebration is in order.