Very deep is the well of the past. So wrote Thomas Mann in the first line of one of his novels. We thought of that line as we started to summarize, for this year’s announcement of our Business in the Arts Awards, the background of this idea of trying to encourage the mutual support and involvement of art and industry.
The New Journalism has now become so established that it is apparently recognizable whenever and wherever its practitioners seek to perform it. Gay Talese’s new book, Honor Thy Father, is complimented by Newsweek as “one of the New Journalism’s finest achievements.”
Despite or because of the cold climate and their heritage of Puritan frigidity, the people of Boston approach sport with voluptuary, Mediterranean abandon. Where else can one find grown-ups who grow passionate enough to send a fans’ lobby marching on Washington? Where else can one meet an outfielder earning $1,200 a hit? Where else on Sunday evenings can a man hear three sports radio programs at once, if he owns three radios?
One afternoon a couple of years ago, Orson Welles and I got just a little soused in an elegant bar near Guaymas, Mexico, where he was acting in Mike Nichols’ movie of Catch-22. They’d given him most of the day off, so we retired to do some taping for a book I’m writing about him and his films.
The fuss about the publication of the Pentagon Papers in The New York Times, with The Washington Post valiantly next in the column, reached us rather obscurely over on this side of the Atlantic. We understood that a lot of people were very hurt and angry, but it was difficult to understand precisely what about, since only brief and somewhat garbled extracts from the Papers themselves were printed, at any rate in the publications I see.
I hope it is possible to exult modestly in the new freedom of expression now available to us and at the same time to insist (modestly) that there is entirely too much screwing of the wrong kind going on in the novels coming off the presses. Not that I’m worried, as Malcolm Muggeridge was a while back, that the novels do not faithfully represent life.
Following are the answers to last month’s quiz on the Sixties. Our judges are still busy grading papers—winners of Official Esquire Softball Shirts (yes, the same one Candy Bergen wears!) will be notified by mail. To all losers, tough rats! Decisions of the judges are final, void in states where prohibited.
I agree with A.J. Weberman, “You are what you throw away.” If someone comes across the November issue of Esquire in my trash can, please, oh please, have him read the poem Wall-eyed Glancing by Alexander LehmannHaupt—and he won’t think too badly of me for buying the November issue.
Probably the most prescient piece of music ever written—the one that forecast most exactly where composition was going to go in the decades ahead—-is the slow movement of Beethoven’s Hammerklavier. The piano techniques required to play it are different from those demanded before, and in some ways look forward to what Schumann and Chopin would ask.
Peter Mezan is a young American who graduated from Harvard with honors in English History and Literature in 1964; went to Harvard Medical School for two years; went to Cambridge University for two years doing English again; drove from London to Afghanistan one summer and worked in a hospital there; returned to Harvard for graduate work in English for one year; and moved to London, where he lectures, studies and writes.
It could well be that in the middle of the winter holiday season you’re in no mood to think about a spring or summer boating vacation, no matter how inexpensive or intriguingly different; but, if so, you’ll just have to pay attention anyway, because if you put things off you’ll be too late to make your reservations.
I look and I look and I look, but the only significant change I see is the eight-and-a-half-pounder who now lives in my house. Welcome, Atticus Augustus. May you change what awaits you more than it changes you. As for the rest of the world, it’s just the way it was last month, and that goes for the New York Literary Establishment too—the which, according to my notes, continues to flourish despite hysterical reports to the contrary.
<p>In sharp contrast to the attitudes this magazine has adopted in the past, we are resolved, for once, to view the last twelve months with cheerful equanimity. Here goes: Henry Kissinger got sick but it was all a blind to cover Nixon’s trip to China, James Reston had his appendix out in a Peking hospital, the Pentagon Papers prove our government lies to us, the L.B.J. library is the ugliest thing we ever saw, our boys in Vietnam are full of death-dealing drugs, Northern Ireland is burning down and it’s everybody’s fault, the Senators have left Washington, Lindsay has left the Republican Party, and Muhammad Ali has been beaten in a fair fight.</p>
<p>I have experienced many emotions since I ceased to be a network news commentator at NBC, but foremost among them is the relief that derives from no longer thinking of myself as a civil servant, a highly paid one, but a civil servant nonetheless.</p>
How Television News Covers the World (in 4000 Words or Less)
No, Walter, that’s not quite the way it is
<p>“We have certain difficult problems in television. The pictures which become available to us from various agency services, and through our own cameramen, do not always reflect what a reader of The Times would think of as the most important news of the day.</p>
Can the analyst who made madness scientifically respectable do the same for the mystic vision?
<p>Only unsteadily do I recall those occasionally revolutionary days of the lateawakening Sixties. In Cambridge, Massachusetts, for instance, I recall people ambling down Brattle Street toward their therapists’ offices, in hip pockets and book bags shiny new copies of The Divided Self or, later, The Politics of Experience and The Bird of Paradise—charmed texts of a power to toll the knell, some then thought, of the private mind’s once last resort, psychoanalysis.</p>
<p>Moldenke lived the hainted life. As a child he was kept in a crumbled brick of a house where thick windows moaned in their frames through summerfall and gathered ice by winter. In the prime of his boyhood an ether tree patiently died in the view from his bedroom window.</p>
This is, while it lasts, a wonderful world we all live in, and one of the most wonderful things about it is that the air surrounding the whole thing moves up and down in thermal and convection currents, as well as sideways in winds. If it were not so, the pictures on these four pages could never have been taken, and the ten thousand or so licensed glider pilots in the United States would be only mortals like you and us, instead of the privileged creatures that
“Most players know she is there to mock them, to bespeak the tawdry end of all human risk'’
<p>The voice bubbled behind me: “The score? What’s the goddamned score?” I twisted the swivel chair away from the television set and looked at the face suspended above me. Puffed, overpainted features exploded in all directions around my eyes; long, blue-bordered teeth thrust toward me from fragile emplacements in receding gums; a rancid combination of alcohol and intestinal degeneration wafted over me.</p>
His ambition was to compose his music exactly as a chef composes meals
Roy Andries de Groot
<p>When Igor Stravinsky died earlier this year, the world lost not only its most renowned composer, but also one of its most assiduous and enthusiastic gourmets. Now, with musical tributes being played and sung all over the country, Esquire has chosen the occasion of its annual Christmas feast to commemorate Stravinsky the lover of fine food and wines.</p>
Once aroused, apparently, the peacock is not easily put down, and though the excesses of the recent revolution in male apparel have gradually disappeared, man is not yet entirely bereft of an urge to primp. Now this expresses itself in a growing vogue for medallions, dog tags, chains, bracelets, belt buckles, and rings that are considerably more discreet than those that garishly graced the pinkies of such as Frank Nitti in the Twenties.
On not being Jon Voight and other theories of acting
<p>Jon Voight has just said something coarse, startling the crew of his new movie and causing attendant journalists to scratch intently on their note pads. He is about to be lowered over the edge of a thousand-foot precipice in Rabun County, northern Georgia, a cliff which, in the script, he has just climbed, but there’s a delay:</p>
Houston on Two Thousand Five Hundred Dollars a Day
The hotel for the man who has tried everything else in Houston
“An Adventure in the good life as it must have been lived by famous folk in Legend, in Literature, and now in the Lunar Age” can be yours for only $2,500 a night, the going rate for a unique American experience now available at the Celestial Suite atop the Astroworld Hotel in Houston.
New Jersey on Nineteen Dollars and Fifty Cents a Night
The hotel for the dog whose master is busy tonight in Houston
<p>“A new era of elegance and luxury in kenneling” can be yours, or at least your dog’s, for any price between $3.50 a night (toy dogs only are eligible for this rate) to $19.50 at Aranwood, a kennel (if we dare apply the word) on a twohundred-acre estate in the foothills of the Ramapo mountains in New Jersey.</p>
As the boots and shoes shown on these and the next two pages attest, Publilius Syrus knew what he was talking about when he observed some two thousand years ago that “You cannot put the same shoe on every foot.” But they attest to something else, too, which is that, with the prodigious assortment of styles these days, no man ever needs to be unattractively shod.
Let the buyer beware, and therefore the seller be afraid
Gabriel García Márquez
<p>From the first Sunday I saw him he reminded me of a bullring mule, with his white suspenders that were backstitched with gold thread, his rings with colored stones on every finger, and his braids of jingle bells, standing on a table by the docks of Santa María del Darién in the middle of the flasks of specifics and herbs of consolation that he prepared himself and hawked through the towns along the Caribbean with his wounded shout, except that at that time he wasn’t trying to sell any of that Indian mess but was asking them to bring him a real snake so that he could demonstrate on his own flesh an antidote he had invented, the only infallible one, ladies and gentlemen, for the bites of serpents, tarantulas, and centipedes, plus all manner of poisonous mammal.</p>
Page 71: Soup can photographed by Beth Charney. Page 72: Edgar Mitchell, Al Thompson, U.P.I. ; all others, Wide World. Page 73 : Beau Hickory photographed by Stephen Weiss ; Lawrence Welk, Wide World; all others, U.P.I. Page 74: Rudy Yallee, nuns gambling, U.P.I. ; Gary Powers, Lord Longford, Allen Ginsberg, Super Chicken, Wide World.
As Britain’s adherence to the Common Market seemed more and more likely throughout the summer months, your European correspondent took the one step which seemed dictated by the cruel logic of historical necessity. Since the unkindest thing which British opponents of entry can find to say about the Common Market is that the whole scheme is a protection racket to featherbed French farmers, the best precaution for a prudent Englishman was to become a French farmer.
SUPER TEDDY KENNEDY SECTION Chappaquiddick and After: the whole story by Burton Hersh. Chappaquiddick for the historyminded tourist by Ron Rosenbaum. Teddy’s Six Crises A Teddy Cabinet (should it come to that). Five other pretenders to the seamless charisma of J.F.K. ASK NOT WHAT MORE THIS MAGAZINE COULD DO FOR ITS COUNTRY