The Magazine Publishers Association, to which virtually all the commercial magazines in this country belong, has come up with a sensible and reasonable proposal to avert the death sentence that now threatens a substantial portion of the nation’s magazines.
Doubtless many grateful readers have been introduced to The New York Review of Books by Philip Nobile’s fine article, A Review of The New York Review of Books, in Esquire’s April issue. It is a credit to your own journalism that you have given N.Y.R.B. the attention it deserves.
The Quiz results (December, of Esquire’s 1971) are Sixties finally in, and the winners are: Jennifer Updike, Washington, D.C., 377 points; Maureen Mudron, Chicago, Illinois, 301 points; Marilee Johnson, Minneapolis, Minnesota, 300 points and a close call for you, Maureen Mudron; Suzan Desio and Ellie Maney (joint entry), Atlanta, Georgia, 291 points; Sandra Wood, Mableton, Georgia, 263 points; Jeffrey Epstein, Lincolnwood, Illinois, 183½ points (top score on all sections except the Magical Mystery Guests.
In the forgotten autumn of another time, he had worn down the incomparable Bill Tilden and then, two tennis generations later, in this last Winter of ’72, he had played the great Rod Laver even. Now, on a dusty bank of courts amid palmetto trees, Gardnar Mulloy, the professional, was competing vigorously in somethingcalled the Florida State Invitational Mixed Doubles.
I wait in a cab on outside Central an Park apartment West, and at the exact appointed moment Zero Mostel, full-bearded, massive, bursts from the foyer to the sidewalk. Flailing a cane, he is a sighted Mr. Muckle, sweeping all from his way, and the thought occurs that here may be the only existing performer who on stage or screen has always been smaller than life.
Albert Camus, who won the Nobel Prize in 1957, died in 1960 at the age of forty-six, not from the tuberculosis he dreaded but in an automobile accident. Already at thirty-one, when I met him in postliberation Paris, he was on his way to becoming a secular saint and father confessor to a generation, the quintessentially “just man”-a role and image that made him uneasy, and that he seemed to repudiate in The Fall.
take out the buildings, put in trees, landscapes, hills: insurrectionist curves. take out the smog, set the clear note of the tuba, winding round and round; take out the figures put in ground. put in: sky, shrugs of shoulders, silences (take out hustling) take out roads, leave leaves.
Martin Mayer’s About Televi-sion(Harper&Row,$10) is easily the best book on the subject that has come my way. I even read it all through in galleys; greater love hath no reviewer than this. What makes the book so goodapart from its being exceptionally well researched-is the author’s attitude toward his subject.
We’ve been suffering from second thoughts about From Nowhere to the New Acapulco which you’ll find on page 112. Maybe we shouldn’t have compared the Cancún, Cozumel, Isla Mujeres section of Mexico’s east coast so glibly with Acapulco.
I have been listening with awe during the last months to five recordings-four of them privately made, the fifth of a commercial antique privately dubbed—of the piano playing of Josef Hofmann. They come from the International Piano Library, a small but persistent library-museum of the instrument and its practitioners run by a strong-minded young man named Gregor Benko and peripatetically based in New York.
One of the invitations I passed up was to an advance screening of Diamonds Are Forever, the sixth picture in which Sean Connery has played James Bond. Nothing is as tedious or as embarrassing as to revisit a fad from an era immediately preceding that in which one is currently enmired.
A few months ago, the British film quarterly, Sight and Sound, wrote me (and a hundred others) asking us to name our ten favorite movies. Caught in a perverse mood, I rattled off (in chronological order) the first ten that came to mind: Young Mr. Lincoln (John Ford), Only Angels Have Wings (Howard Hawks), The Magnificent Ambersons (Orson Welles), Red River (Hawks), She Wore a Yellow Ribbon (Ford), The Searchers (Ford), Touch of Evil (Welles), Vertigo (Alfred Hitchcock), Rio Bravo (Hawks), North by Northwest (Hitchcock).
Pop goes the vineyard: a report on what’s new, light, and inexpensive
<p>Bacchus and his frenzied followers could hardly have designed a more lively scenario : Take sweet wines made from, say, apples and strawberries, put them in colorful bottles, and offer them to the unsuspecting proselytes. The American wine industry has bred just such a genre of wines and the response from young drinkers is intoxicating domestic vintners with the spirit of success.</p>
<p>It won't. It thinks it wants to. It wants to think so. It feels it’s too thoughtful. It lies. It’s scared it might hurt. It half hopes it may. It softens the fact that it has. It can't. It's big, finally, on self-respect. It feigns easy sleep. It dreams hard.</p>
Who Cares What Happened to a Middle-Class Hijacker?
They took his store away from him, he took their plane away from them
<p>There was foreboding in the parting, although at the time Barbara von George didn’t know the reason for her uneasiness. She cried. She didn’t want him to go. But she was not the kind of wife to say don’t go. She would never do that. She placed total faith in her husband.</p>
Medina/Mary McCarthy (Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, $2.45). The Army found Lieutenant Calley’s commander not guilty, but Miss McCarthy will have the last word. From the Dead Level: Malcolm X and Me/Hakim A. Jamal (Random House, $6.95). The best part describes Malcolm before his conversion when he was more interested in dope than that other opiate of the masses.
Hitting the Boiling Point, Freakwise, at East Hampton
Thirty years of hanging out on the beach—with Pollock, de Kooning, Ernst, Dali, Motherwell, Rivers, Rosenberg, Albee, Roth, Kopit, Javits, and the one-way crew of The Free Life balloon
Robert Alan Aurthur
<p>It seems to me a person has to have mixed feelings about an enormous, candy-striped balloon taking off from a field near his house, especially when under the balloon is a gondola with three people in it whose intention is an unprecedented flight from Fireplace Road, The Springs, East Hampton, New York, to the first available landfall in France.</p>
It is high noon. In the electric-blue kitchen of a Pop-artsy apartment in Manhattan, Bud Cort, who just could become this country’s first “creepy kid” film hero, is putting a cheese omelet on the stove. It will burn, of course. How could a Bud Cort omelet not burn?
In exchange for what television calls promotional considerationswhich amount to a credit line at the end of a program-J. Press provides Dick Cavett with his professional wardrobe. Sometimes we wonder why. On the one hand, there is J. Press (New York, New Haven, and with traveling representatives all over the place).
<p>Minutes before dawn, July 3, in the bathroom of his Paris hotel suite, at age twenty-seven, James Douglas Morrison, most flamboyantly swinging but least open of The Doors, a Los Angeles rock group, stopped breathing. The causes, reported six days later and with judicious press management, were described as “natural.”</p>
Unlike the happily short-lived Nehru jacket, the styles inspired by Mao should be around for a while. And with good reason. For one thing, notwithstanding such superficial resemblances as the collar, the Mao has a dash that was lacking in the almost monastic-looking Nehru.
Write Cancún down in your travel datebook-but make it 1974
Mexico wanted another Acapulco, but not quite. This time it is to be carefully supervised, government controlled. No high-rise hotels and condominiums springing up haphazardly close enough together to blot out the sun from each other’s swimming pools.
Is a vasectomy any better for a man than the pill is for a woman?
John J. Fried
<p>Late on a Friday afternoon, an engineer leaves his desk an hour before quitting time and strolls down the street to a doctor’s office near an aviation plant in Los Angeles. About an hour later he emerges and, walking somewhat stiffly, heads back to his plant’s parking lot to find his car and go home for the weekend.</p>
It’s meant to wear while sleeping, because that way you won’t have to see the damn thing
Whatever good may be accomplished by the Jesus culture would seem in danger of being undone by some of the styles it has spawned. No excess of the Peacock Revolution ever exhibited the likes of the cotton nightshirt shown above (Jesus Products, $15).
Telix Toro worked for six years as a private investigator, first as an undercover man in Puerto Rico, then for the I.B.I. Security Service in New York City, in order to save the cash for a down payment on a grocery he wanted to buy. During his time as an investigator, Toro became an expert with his weapon, a .
Carol Burnett: “I think I know when something is funny because I— No. I know when I think something is funny because I think that."
<p>No one of my friends could understand why I wanted to write about Carol Burnett-not that my friends are so much alike or that they make up a New York group-but Carol Burnett seemed an unlikely enthusiasm for me. Partly, of course, that was because of the sort of man I am or seem to be, but partly it was that even in television terms, Carol Burnett is not what my friends would expect me to watch.</p>
<p>At roughly 8 a.m., bearing hot coffee, fresh orange juice and the early edition of The Arizona Republic, a young man knocks lightly on the door of your casita. The desert temperature is chilling-about 40 degrees but it will rise to 70 by noon.</p>
<p>"At this point I interrupted my sister as usual to say, ‘You have a way with words, Scheherazade. This is the thousandth night I’ve sat at the foot of your bed while you and the King made love and you told him stories, and the one in progress holds me like a genie’s gaze.</p>
When the going gets bad, that's when the good get going
Warren G. Bennis
<p>No matter how often Daniel Ellsberg reminds the public that not he but a seemingly endless war in Indochina is at issue, I find that it is Ellsberg the man who touches the imagination. One can’t help speculating on his personal odyssey from loyal insider to defiant outsider, from organization man to prisonrisking dissident.</p>
In the comparatively brief time since it was introduced in this country, the caftan has established itself as one of the most practical and attractive articles of leisure wear. Which is not surprising, since it has for centuries been a staple of even the most meager North African wardrobe.
<p>There should have been a corpse somewhere. If this had been a book, there would have been a body, rudely ripped from life, bloodstained, rotten with clues, intruding one twisted foot into the manicured living room. But the reporter had learned long ago that things never happen in the real world the way they did in books.</p>
Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to acquire one of these super gadgets before Father's Day, which is June 18. Any of them will make the old man feel he's in charge on the bridge of the starship Enterprise or at least in there with the gang on Mission: Impossible.
Wait by the water, love, and hide not from the enormous sun
<p>I want to explain. There are only the two of us, the child and me. I sleep alone. Jace is gone. My hair is wavy, my posture good. I drink a little. Food bores me. It takes so long to eat. Being honest, I must say I drink. </p>
Sooner or later, the flamboyance of sport shirtings had to turn to Impressionist art for inspiration. If such results as those shown at the left strike some people as overly reminiscent of Elmyr de Hory, let it be remembered that de gustibus and so on, and that shirts like these represent a growing trend toward a touch of the artist.
<p>Girls working in banks wear bouffant hair and shed In their passage over the rather magnificent floors Tiny shreds of perforated paper, like body flakes. They walk through rows of youngish vice-presidents With faraway looks, who dandle pencils and tend to ignore The little tigerish lights flashing on their telephones.</p>
<p>Snow curls in on the cold wind. Slowly, I push back the door. After long absence, old habits Are painfully revived, those disciplines Which enable us to survive, To keep a minimal fury alive While flake by faltering flake Snow curls in on the cold wind.</p>
1. The man drowning has these thoughts: I have hands, feet, a torso to give, but no one, nothing seems to want them. Not even the water, which keeps pushing me down in its thoughts. If I could rise just once to the tip of the water’s tongue, I know it would be pleased to speak to me.