The magazine's November '67 cover was made the subject of an open letter to Svetlana Alliluyeva by Roscoe Drummond in his syndicated Washington column which appeared, among other places, in the Chicago Sun-Times. Lest we might be guilty of unwitting distortion of it through quoting only its most immediately pertinent passages, we reproduce it herewith in full:
You have shown singular editorial courage in publishing On the Possibility and Desirability of Peace. Esquire will have done the nation a great service should your action prompt the swift implementation of the Report’s program. Considering the authors’ depiction of the problem of sudden peace, theirs may be modest proposals indeed.
One of the few voices that almost everybody over, say, thirty-five is absolutely sure to remember is the squeaking monster who sang Rinso White, Rinso Bright, Happy Little Washday Song over and over again while we were trying to do our homework with the radio on.
In December, 1960, Esquire published an article entitled The Pleasures of Roy Cohn, by Thomas B. Morgan. “Roy Cohn,” said Mr. Morgan, “is thirty-three now. Six years after leaving Washington, he has power again, albeit of a different kind.
One of the most delightful restaurants in Nassau County on Long Island is Beau Sejour. It’s in Bethpage, just off Route 107 on Stewart Avenue at Central Park Avenue, in a rambling white Victorian house topped by a widow’s walk. It’s set back among big trees and what the English call country gardens, and is as picturesque this time of the year in snow as it is in summer greenery.
Social notes from the Land of Nod, winnowed from a bunch of recent movies: the thing to do upon entering bed (after giving thanks for the warm bath and shrugging out of one’s peignoir) is to whirl like a rotary plow. In The Trip and Bardot’s latest thing, the couples rolled over each other so incessantly that, assuming all their motion to be in roughly the same direction, they must have traversed at least the length of a football field on every scrimmage.
Europe for the Debauched Swinger, which we touch fleetingly on pages 76-79, is an old story to a small number of traveling hedonists and, conversely, to those travelers who can’t enjoy a trip for pleasure’s own sake. For them, a swing around Europe’s spas and health resorts has double justification: they build themselves up after knocking themselves out, they find joy with their revivification; getting over their excesses is half the fun.
Nowadays we publicize the eminent more than ever before; correspondingly, we forget them with record rapidity. Harold Macmillan provides a classic example. It is only a few years since he ceased to be Prime Minister after a lengthy and on the whole successful period of office, yet already he is largely forgotten.
A square meal for the hungry man: how the Guide Michelin preserves the national honor of France
<p>Few outsiders are able to enter the Paris headquarters of the formidable Guide Michelin. I went there, one morning recently, feeling as though I were to approach the inner sanctum of the C.I.A. in Langley, Virginia. (Not that I would want to go there.</p>
The daughter of Leon Esteban, yes the Leon Esteban, committed him to a private sanatorium for elderly incompetents in July. She, Clara Rasmussen, for that was the name of the man she had married and was the name she used even professionally, signed the committing forms as a member of his family and his potential guardian, and two other doctors signed the psychiatric reports required by the law, a model law, too, which Esteban himself had drawn up for the state years ago.
The Pelvis is calmer now, and the sideburns shorter, but there has been no change of heart
Between Memphis and Walls (you turn right a bit past a big sign saying Church of God pastor C.B. Brantley DRINK DR PEPPER), there is a small ranch, a hundred and sixty green and gently rolling acres, a prettier spread than you’d expect to see in the poor, bleak land of North Mississippi.
If there’s one thing depresses Peter Fonda—makes him so depressed he can’t stand it, for God’s sake!—it’s all those people who drive him out of his bird, you know, make him feel like he’s oozing through the rocks
<p>Peter Fonda was lying on his back in a bathing suit of old cut-off chinos, out by his swimming pool up on Lime Orchard Road in Beverly Hills. He lives there, more or less a part of the society he’s been rejecting since he was six years old, with his beard and his moustache and his wife Susan who was in bed with the flu the whole afternoon and his two great-looking kids, Bridget and Justin, and three cats named Limpet and Bamboo and Hashish, surrounded by mountains and cut off from everything that even resembles the Establishment.</p>
Believe Me, This is the Truth About the Army-McCarthy Hearings. Honest.
Secret dealings between our hero and Joe Welch; dating problems of Dave Schine; puzzling utterances from Stu Symington and Ev Dirksen. Now, fourteen years later, the newest version of the myth
<p>From the secure vantage point of a forty-one-year-old looking back on himself at twenty-seven, it would be easy for me to say now what I would do differently if I had it to do all over again. Then, in 1954, I was a relatively unsophisticated chief counsel for Senator Joseph McCarthy’s investigating subcommittee; today I am a New York lawyer seasoned by fourteen more years of experience.</p>
<p>Now, voyager, it is really time to start packing for the moon. We’re halfway there already: Douglas Aircraft’s orbital space station, with television and artificial gravity, is projected for 1980; North American Aviation has planned its space station as a twelve-story orbiting hotel with theatre, sports stadium, and facilities for eleven hundred guests.</p>
A real man goes his own way, pays no mind to the critics, and leaves his papers to Yale
"Say, Jim, I just read somewhere that you’re giving the original manuscripts of all your novels to Yale.” The setting is a beautifully manicured French garden near Deauville on the Normandy coast. In its center is a gently rustic, nineteenth-century cottage, whose roof slants sharply on two sides almost to the eye level of a man.
A piece of motivational research which explains why pinball is the national pastime
<p>I wore a flannel suit, yellow shirt, dark tie. The counterman gave me change of a bill. I strolled one side, the other, scanning machines. All silent, all plugged. A pocketful of pieces jingling. I settled on Big Blonde.</p>
He returned at the end of the 1965 Newport Folk Festival. That was the year Bob Dylan showed up with electronic folk-rock, and it was a nasty time. That summer’s crowds were surly, and when the last concert ended Sunday night the audience wasn’t satisfied.
Marvelous, says this Jeffersonian Democrat, after a Highland fling with a paintbrush and fishing rod
About thirty years ago my father and I were salmon fishing on the Margaree River in Nova Scotia. We camped on the farm of Angus MacDonald, in an area inhabited mostly by people of Scotch descent. The farmers whose lands lined the river doubled as fish wardens.
It may be, as Robert Benchley is supposed to have said, that the only cure for a hangover is death, but now at least there are, as there weren’t in Benchley’s day, ways to conceal the extent of a man’s misery.
In the centers that set the styles, there are as many antiquarians as there are innovators, and this, of course, is as it should be, for the making of a well-dressed man is much less a matter of dispossessing the past than of adapting it to the present.
There was a time in the innocence of each of us when he was grateful for wash-and-wear shirts, permanent-press trousers, and all such other triumphs of textile technology as made life a little bit easier. But, as it turns out, they were mere trifles, nothing to get so excited about.
There is only one way to go on Springfield Avenue—straight ahead. Behind, the glass splatters against the already shard-filled pavement, and, like the sea closing off Pharaoh’s armies, the crowds seal off retreat. You can pick out the sound of anger from the night: “White mother . . . .”