At the risk of resembling a stuck needle in the groove of a phonograph record, this page must be a sequel, if not a virtual appendix, to last month’s, called “That Slovenly Servant, Memory.” We thought at the time that last month’s was something of a candid confession, dealing as it did with how far our memory had strayed from the truth in recalling what few changes we had made from the original typescript when The Snows of Kilimanjaro was first printed in these pages in August, 1936.
One of the few constants in this world of woeful change is that no healthy right-minded American rejects the opportunity to get into the movies. In our long and eventful history as a nation only one person has ever voluntarily got out of the movies, and that person was a Swede.
The article on former President Johnson (Lyndon, August) is ludicrous. Mr. Halberstam needs to go back to school, where he might learn some facts and realize that the Halberstam view of the world is not held in such high esteem as his journalistic colleagues might lead him to believe.
I have lunch in a New York restaurant with five friends, and the talk this summer afternoon in 1972 is of the 1950’s political blacklist. One of us has just bought Thirty Years of Treason, Eric Bentley’s selection of testimony before the House Committee on Un-American Activities, and it turns out everyone else at the table has already read the book.
Austria, smaller than the State of Maine, with fewer people than the City of New York, last year had the second-highest growth rate, right after Japan and on a par with France and Holland, among the highly developed countries in the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development.
The reappearance of the Russian anarchist, Michael Bakunin, in the contemporary pantheon of the young is signalized by a selection from his voluminous if fragmentary writings, edited with an introduction and commentary by Sam Dolgoff, and containing a biographical sketch by his friend and disciple, James Guillaume (Bakunin On Anarchy, Knopf, $10).
It seems curious at first that there could exist 100 sets of loving parents who, for one week in the summer, send their sons to the Joe Namath Football Instruction Camp to learn the path of the straight arrow from the proprietor of three singles bars.
For some years now there has been a great gulf between the rulers of America and the people over whom they rule, and every fourth year television makes the gulf inescapably apparent. The rulers of America are deeply and incessantly fascinated by politics, and the people are not.
I am always in the market for a film (or novel, play, advertisement, or even cereal-box instruction) that really tells how something works. The Candidate does that superbly. Robert Redford plays a young reformer sort who is persuaded by the back-room boys to run for U.S. Senator from California against the incumbent, one of those white-haired, square-jawed, moss-backed types who speaks exclusively in platitudes.
The idea that blacks and other minorities might somehow be inferior to whites in terms of I.Q. keeps sprouting anew, only to be copiously jumped upon by hordes of the wrathful and indignant. Much of the trouble started in 1969 when Dr. Arthur R. Jensen, an educational psychologist at the University of California, published a long and scholarly article in the Harvard Educational Review suggesting that the lower median scores of blacks and low-income whites seem to be attributable to genetic differences in learning patterns between social classes and races.
<p>A boy and a girl are taking a shower together in the bathroom. How to explain the significance of it? It is a Friday night in June, the first night of the tenth reunion of the Class of 1962 of Wellesley College, and a member of my class has just returned from the bathroom with the news.</p>
International travel has always been a great teacher of art, archaeology, anthropology, architecture, geography, history and gastronomy, but for visitors abroad this year the curriculum has been extended to cover economics and international finance.
Introducing a new service: bliss from $7.50 to $1,000
E. E. Spitzer
All items in this catalog are sold with a Satisfaction or Money Back Guarantee, providing that the following conditions are met: Conditions Each item or service must be used with enthusiasm and with a complete mental commitment. (Happiness House reserves the right to apply a Post-Enthusiasm and Prior Commitment Test to those seeking refunds or credits.)
President Nixon’s famous détente with his slightly bloodstained hosts in the Kremlin has brought very little comfort to the 124,000000 Europeans outside Russia who live behind the Iron Curtain—or even to dissidents among the 180,000,000 Europeans who are thrown together inside the Soviet Union.
The English psychiatrist Joan Riviere once conjectured that all artists work largely through the feminine side of their personalities. Granted its reductiveness and perhaps even some reverse sexism, the point is worth thinking about a bit.
Called to arbitrate between a director and a producer, I suppose I would be inexcusably prejudiced against the latter— particularly inexcusable in my case because so far I have personally had very little trouble with producers or the studios they might be representing, most of our relations having been more than friendly.
Cracking my neck at the moon, The muscles jump like something Caught in my throat. If I were To jump up and down I would Spin like an eggbeater, whipping The elements. As it is I teeter Here wondering if the moon is Moving or not. Concentricities Surface the sky; the burnt-
<p>Woman the eternal receptacle. Man the immutable rod. Woman the trusty scabbard. Man the terrible swift sword. It was ever thus. But from the looks of recent revolting developments, it may very well be otherwise now. The tool of man’s long, hard thrust through history is presently being recalled.</p>
OK, Citizen Kane is a great movie, but does Orson Welles deserve all the credit? Pauline Kael and John Houseman say no. Herewith, another view.
<p>In an international poll taken in 1962 by the leading film quarterly, Sight and Sound, Orson Welles’ Citizen Kane was ranked above such masterpieces as Greed and Potemkin, the vote placing it first among all the great films ever made. The same magazine took a similar poll ten years later and though other films on the list had changed, Kane once again came first.</p>
What does the spirit avail if the flesh is in a wheelchair?
<p>Two days after the 1968 election George Wallace held a breakfast for his campaign staff. It was a curious gathering. It wasn’t the usual post-election loser’s wake at which all feel sorry for one another and lament the fate of the Republic.</p>
We have a surprise for you. It has to do with your problems and ours and finding a good happy place to live these days. The place we have in mind is a suburb, and part of the surprise is that it started out as a suburb, not as a last resort for desperate people fleeing inner-city decay.
<p>This will not be an article describing the acne, carbuncles, dandruff, sexual gymnastics, racial difficulties, political ineptitudes, hairy freak-outs, or the non-rapid transits of Los Angeles. Others have already spat on us, bit, pummeled, stoned, kicked, and despised us over the years.</p>
It’s an exciting idea, and he’s been nursing it for a while, the idea of excavating all those Los Angeleses beneath his backyard. There were seven Troys, he knows, but things move quickly out here. How many cities might be under his feet, how many Helen’s Crowns and Priam’s Staffs?
In L.A. it’s not what you wear that counts—it’s performance that counts. Since busy executives live and work in the suburbs, they have no 8:05 to the city to catch and they certainly don’t have to get all dressed up to go to the office. Mo Ostin (facing page, bottom) is representative of the Los Angeles business style.
Though I have lived less than a season in Beverly Hills, I have had more than casual encounters with the city’s latest craze: backgammon. Alleged to be “the king of games, the game of kings,” backgammon has generally been restricted to, if not the noble, then the well-to-do.
Last spring, when I lived in Hollywood, I found myself for the first time in my life going about in disguise. I did not quite understand why Los Angeles awakened in me the compulsion to appear as somebody else, or why I spent so many of my hours there driving long distances to push through racks of musty velvets and threadbare boas in junk shops from Los Feliz to Long Beach.
Most American suburbs are swinging these days—consenting adult couples make new friends in dark bars, or arrange Saturday-night socials by mail, or join clubs where names, addresses, and Polaroids are exchanged. In most American suburbs, swinging occasions like these are depressingly alike: potato-chip and onion-dip breaks, with some clumsy rolling around on wall-to-wall Acrilan carpeting.
Which Writer Under Thirty-five Has Your Attention and What Has He Done to Get It?
Four possibly historic replies
Isaac Bashevis Singer
Leslie A. Fiedler
<p>If someone asked me what is the most important quality by which literary talent can be recognized, especially young talent, I would say: the inclination and the power of a man to go his own way, and not to become part of a literary community, to avoid the pitfall of developing into an artistic fellow traveler.</p>
...Also Kaopectate, Vicks VapoRub, calomine lotion, cough syrup, and Gelusil, Maalox or Amphojel, depending, and that’s all he keeps in his medicine cabinet
William A. Nolen, M. D.
<p>When I walk into a drugstore and see all the medicines on the shelves I wonder, “Who in the hell needs all those things? No one I know, certainly. Most of the patients I see aren’t even sick.” That’s right. Somewhere between 50 and 60 percent of the patients who walk into a doctor’s office have no physical ailments.</p>
There were six identifiable trends in rock in 1972: a black gospel resurgence; the emergence of black hippie music; the flowering of black Muzak; a slick, white eclecticism; a new jazz ecumenism, and a general nostalgia, reworking the songs of rock’s infancy (the music is now in its adolescence, if you’ll accept Bill Haley’s 1955 hit Rock Around the Clock as a legitimate birth date).
See Dick. See Dick Run. See John Osborne Watch Dick Run.
Meet the journalist who makes the President perfectly clear
Richard J. Whalen
Early in the Fall of 1969, a member of the White House staff with whom I'd worked in the Nixon campaign the previous year shot a nervous glance around the busy downtown Washington restaurant and confided the shape of things to come under “the Germans,” the insiders’ nickname for Presidential assistants H. R. (Bob) Haldeman and John Ehrlichman.
<p>Jack replaced the lid on the stove, then went to the door. The snow came up to the doorsill furnished with an icy crust. After looking outside warily, he closed the door, shot the bolt, turned and shuffled back to bed. “Son of a bitch,” he said. On the cot lay a magazine, pages thumbed yellow.</p>
You could set the whole ad biz on fire with that damn thing!
<p>When I first went to work at the Doyle Dane Bernbach agency in early 1959, a posse was out for my neck because of the Ear. One of the agency’s owners, Bill Bernbach, asked me to come up with a newspaper campaign for a new product called Kerid ear drops.</p>
In the beginning was the world, which rotates once every twenty-four hours—too slow to watch. In the end is the quartz crystal, like that shown inside the Girard Perregaux watch opposite, which vibrates exactly 32,768 times a second—too fast to count.
The largest ship in the whole world floats because its owner, Ravi Tikkoo, is 99 and 44|100% pure smart Hindu businessman
<p>One day this autumn, in a Japanese shipyard near Hiroshima, a slim young Hindu woman will christen an oil tanker, thereby causing approximately 723 Greek shipowners to have apoplexy. The tanker, the Globtik Tokyo, belongs to the woman’s husband, Ravi Tikkoo, and it will be the biggest ship in the world, 477,000 tons, which is 104,302 tons more than the largest now afloat and about twice as big as anything owned by Onassis or Niarchos, those two most widely publicized pooh-bahs on the shipping scene.</p>
This being the beginning of our 40th year, that wonderful time in life when the juice flows strongly and there is judgment enough to set its course, we direct to you these next several pages which commemorate, in timely fashion, a timeless ideal: good-looking clothes on men who know how to wear them well.
Picture Credits: Page 99: photograph from Citizen Kane courtesy of Memory Shop. Page 132: Barton Midwood by Jerome Schwartz. Page 133: Philip Roth by Jill Krementz. Page 134: Mark Shorer by Jack Mitchell. Page 135: Leslie Fiedler by Phil Hillman; Bill Hutton by Mary Lou Privateer, courtesy of Coach House Press.
As an ex-Sid Caesar comedy writer, I admit I never heard Sid quote that line. But it describes the hurt look in his eyes when he read the first TV script we wrote for him. Sid not only felt stabbed, but even worse, he was certain the writers were out to dispossess him of all his worldly goods, including his oversized cuff links.
The hills stretch under a green beard And sleep. The mimosas Purl in the soft wind that shakes The palmetto, where the scorpions Creep in oval caves. Tucked in Like switchblades their great stingers Rest. We go from mound to mound Looking for holes.
I have no music What is yours? I stamp my feet on hairless earth but no echo. I snap my fingers in empty stations but nothing. I buy a harmonica and practice like hell. Friends would say You have no music Sell that thing Harmonicas are the lips of mourners, and their sounds are not music