Betterments of Cruising, Including the Scandinavian
For a long time now we’ve been in general agreement with an old publisher friend who holds that nothing is as good as it used to be, but at the moment of writing we are in the throes of recognizing an exception to this otherwise almost self-evident tenet.
France, of course, will never recover from the loss of General de Gaulle, just as it never really recovered from the death of Napoleon. Smart Parisian friends who would never speak of the old General, either in office or out of it, as anything except a grotesque, a buffoon, a relic from the past—suddenly, these people look rather sheepish and forlorn.
The eyes of Texas Re The Tin Star State (February): Gary Cartwright got a few surface facts straight—the University is in Austin, Frank Erwin has been chairman of the Board of Regents, there was a so-called riot in the Chuck Wagon. But the analysis is all cardboard and Styrofoam.
Toward dawn, at the butt end of city winter, when snow lies clumped and grey, the future presents itself in fantasy. A small television set at the foot of the bed suddenly has grown until it covers a twenty-foot wall. To turn it on, I work a miniature cash register.
Love Story earned over $2,400,000 in its first three days. It broke the house records at 159 out of 165 theatres at which it opened, in about that many cities across the nation. Within two weeks (by this writing) it has made nearly $9,000,000, already a healthy profit.
Pretend for a moment that we are in the court of a king who rules in the style of Louis XIV. We are watching him eat his supper. We have been standing in silence, in reverent attentive silence, and watching every mouthful, every course—the subtlest change of expression on the royal mouth, the smallest gesture of the royal hand does not escape our notice —when suddenly the king pauses; he looks up at us sadly and says,“Let me confess something to you good people.
From Those Wonderful People Who Gave You Kent State
I was driving down Second Avenue in New York about five years ago, when I noticed that I needed gas. So I pulled into the Gulf station at Sixtythird Street, and an old man in greasy work clothes came out. He ambled over and when he got close enough I started to say, "Fill’er up," but the words didn’t come out.
The world’s largest open-air fruit market was once in Benton Harbor, Michigan. The world’s largest openair drugstore is in Harlem. Richard Woodley grew up in the former and has traveled widely in the latter to produce An Introduction to Flash (page 79), thus proving again that the only people who can really get to the heart of New York and its horrors are out-of-towners.
It has been said by someone (Aldous Huxley I suspect) that language is not only the vehicle by which we convey our madness but that it is also, in itself, a powerful source of madness. Reading an excerpt from “Report on Project 5-50638,” prepared for the U.S. Office of Education, I am ready to agree.
Elsewhere in the copy of this magazine you hold in your hand you’ll find an advertisement for a unique enterprise, Esquire’s journey back into the eighteenth century, and we can attest to its uniqueness because we are so closely associated with it.
The Women’s Lib movement finds in Miss Germaine Greer (The Female Eunuch, McGraw-Hill, $6.95) one of its most audacious and vociferous champions. Indeed, her book reads like nothing so much as the wild cries of a woman at bay. One sees her (if she will pardon the liberty) naked and beating her breasts in fury over the monstrous regiments of men who exploit, degrade and corrupt her sex, making of women their servants and their playthings.
His name is Jimmy. He is thirty, built like a halfback, and has a trim moustache and moderate Afro. He reached under his soft-brown sweater-shirt which was worn outside his slim, brown custom-made trousers, and from a specially tailored pocket he pulled out a small .25-caliber Browning automatic and laid it gently on the table.
We have a great frost. An Arrival of north. And in the blue dark and bed, Feeling it, I edged nearer and You were southern. Sparrows Are the gay birds. We have them Queuing at the fronded panes And we all share chatter and bread. But they have No use for your beautiful Coffee.
<p>If you’re very old, you’ll instantly recognize the picture on this page as The Saturday Evening Post cover of April 18, 1925; if you’re at least middle-aged, you’ll note that the picture on the next page is the Post cover of March 2, 1946; and if you’re over eight, you’ll know both can be the work of none other than America’s most beloved and honored anecdotal painter, Norman Rockwell.</p>
Prehistoric underwear! Vaccination marks 2000 years before Christ! St. Patrick’s wristwatch! —Movies are better than ever
This film is brought to you at a cost of millions through the labor of thousands, with the largest assembly of extras since the last war. For the past forty years our researchers have researched to find out what really happened, what Troy was really like.
Which in English means Wing Toy goes home to Hong Kong
Wing Toy Dang, who helps lay out many of the editorial pages of this magazine, is the only member of the Esquire staff who was ever a career waiter in a Chinese restaurant. He is also, so far as we know, the only Madison Avenue artist who helped work his way through art school by folding shirts in a Chinese laundry.
I lie here sick, upstairs, in the afternoons watching the shadows of tree limbs move silently across my yellow ceiling, while downstairs Wanda brings in young men. An hour before dinner I hear the front door open and close once, and if the particular afternoon’s automobile or motorcycle is sufficiently unmuffled I can trace its path out to the corner, until, at the turn, a stand of poplars intervenes and silences even the most ambitious exhaust.
There were, and are, only two classes of things in life to be afraid of: little things (the daily routine things, like what ye shall eat and what ye shall wear), and the Big Things (the Bomb, God, Things like that). In the past, most of the little things worked themselves out somehow, leaving free time and energy for the mind to devote itself to the big, ominous things.
You are frustrated because the world is in a mess and seems to be getting worse every day. The political system is bankrupt, the air is polluted, crime is on the rise, the drug problem is out of control. Your solution: replace misdirected action with wisdom and meet problems with rational thought and planning.
You are angry because certain people are conspiring to make you miserable. These people assemble lists; they infest the colleges; they work out master plans of repression; they plot to bomb important buildings. The issue is perfectly clear: you versus them, right versus wrong.
You are confident that civilization as we know it will collapse in the next five years. Goody! War, famine, unutterable disaster are just around the corner. Excellent! Things can’t go on like this. A Higher Power will step in soon. You’re getting in touch with the Higher Power; you’ll inherit the earth.
Where the road is and where it's going: the first movie worth reading
Interior of the Car on Sunset Strip at night. The camera picks up the profile of the Mechanic as he sits in the passenger seat staring at the Strip. He is twenty-three years old. His features are soft, yet ruggedly defined. He occupies space with great assurance and poise; his gestures are fluid and coordinated.
A dissenting opinion on the practice of New Left law
Joseph W. Bishop Jr.
The United States, long preeminent in the production of spectacular criminal trials, is today staging some which must be unique in legal history. A highly visible and audible section of the defense bar (with the unintended cooperation of a few judges) seems to have set out to demonstrate, by turning trials into combinations of political rally and five-ring circus, that the adversary system of criminal justice, in which defense counsel play so prominent a role, is simply unworkable and ought to be replaced by something else, whose nature they have but dimly adumbrated.
It wasn’t his fault; he was destroyed by Kennedy, Eisenhower, Truman, Roosevelt and Wilson
Eugene V. Rostow
<p>Like other veterans of the Johnson Administration, I have thought a good deal, both before and since January 20, 1969, about what went wrong—about what Johnson could have done, or should have done differently, to prevent the bitter and tragic division of the country over Vietnam.</p>
Finally, the ultimate in aeronautic technology: a model plane that flies like a butterfly
The shimmering object on the opposite page is not this year’s idle trinket from Tiffany’s, nor yet a glazed Amazonian butterfly from Brentano’s. What it is, is an indoor flying model ornithopter from Reynoldsburg, Ohio, and a stablemate of the most successful indoor flying model ornithopter thus far produced in America.
I was invited to South America by the Yiddish Press. On the Argentinian boat I occupied a luxury cabin that had a Persian rug, soft chairs, a plush sofa and a private bath as well as a large window facing the water. The first-class passengers were outnumbered by the crew assigned to serve them.
If shoes are constantly taking new turns, becoming, season after season, more imaginative and, on occasion, outrageous, it is not surprising. Over the years, no other article of apparel has exerted so special an appeal. Shoes have engaged the admiring attention of aphorists and men of letters alike, from Thomas Dekker and The Shoemaker’s Holiday to George Bernard Shaw, who observed in Pygmalion, "He's a gentleman: look at his boots."
You Aren’t Playing the Course, You’re Playing the Designer
Six golf architects comment on the aesthetics of the game
In the final analysis the golfer plays against the man who designed the course. The game can be seen as a vast board game in which the board always changes. It does so from day to day according to the weather, and from course to course according to the personalities and tastes of the men who lay out the landscape.
Not the least important part of dressing well is that the preparation should never be apparent. But the garb of golfers has, until recently, been the most contrived, the least casual. The clothes shown on these six pages avoid that fault. They are ideal for the game, but, except for those at left, are not golf apparel exclusively.
Bernardine Dohrn Is Weighed in the Balance and Found Heavy
That’s what the writing on the Post Office wall says
Lindsy Van Gelder
Once upon a time, the criminal underground was populated by badasses. You had your Bonnies and your Clydes, your Jesse Jameses and your Bogart-Cagney gangsters, most of whom had deprived childhoods in Hell’s Kitchen and used lousy grammar.
I Rectitude, and the terrible upstanding member. II The sound of our first gunfire is: beautiful. III Intolerable Sally, loved in vain. IV Mr. Adams of Massachusetts . . . I accept, gentlemen. V Aloes. Adders. Roman gratitude. VI My porch elevation from the Potomac is 174', 7½".
Rather to the surprise of many musicians, the Beethoven year has been a pleasure. Nothing has emerged to change our view of the master, of course, but what little news there is has been good news: it seems less likely today than it did a few years ago that Beethoven had syphillis, and a bit more likely that some of his love affairs were consummated.
Swimming last summer in sun-kindled water, hand in hand, we had to surface-dive to find those cold currents that run like harp chords counterpoint to the lake's heat. Still touching, we swam between them, from cold to cold, like children in a field of scattered trees running from shade to shade for rest.
Sometimes life itself is cruel and unusual punishment
Robert L. Massie
EDITOR’S NOTE: By the time you read this, the resolution of certain issues now pending in the U.S. Supreme Court may have resulted in the execution of the author, though the likelihood of such an event appears to be getting more remote all the time.
<p>The first signs of the death of the boom came in the summer, early, and everything went like snow in the sun. Out of their office windows. There was miasma, a weight beyond enduring, the city reeked of failure. The eerie, faraway scream of a Florida panther, gu-roomp of a bullfrog.</p>
WHO gets the first look at an exclusive excerpt from Philip Roth’s new novel is you, select reader. WHAT Richard Wagner did to bring about Adolf Hitler; the secret, maybe, is in Parsifal. WHEN Julian Bond fit the rebels to win his seat in the Georgia Legislature; a glorious legend forevermore.