Ernest Buckler, of Bridgetown, Nova Scotia, who was the mainstay of The Sound and the Fury columns in this magazine’s early days, has not been heard from around here in a long time. So he felt a certain diffidence, after writing a letter addressed to The Sound and the Fury, and decided instead to send it to me, as the last remaining link with the editorial makeup of the Esquire of the Thirties, where he had long been so much at home.
Take time to observe a commonplace scene in an American city, a moment in the life of twenty-five-year-old John Cain. Slender, six-four, hair a loose, curly mop, Cain is from Boston, his family very heavy in potato chips. He works as a photographer, was educated at Boston University and Pratt Institute in Brooklyn.
It is horribly hard To overcome the reproach Of the bearing beast inside one That says, “I speak, I obey, “And you hear me too, you hear me, “Nor do you want to tame me, “Lame me, shame me, make me lie; “You are too weak. But I’ll stay.” Sweet bearing beast inside me, I shall never not listen, never Refuse to hear what you say, Who keep you caged, in your right rage, As we age; you know If I let you loose we would each Die.
In reply to Walt Rostow’s prolonged defense of his unusual behavior in the Kennedy-Johnson years (Aftermath, December): It is very hard to respond to a zealot who is sublime in his own sense of objectivity and who does not know he is, indeed, a zealot.
The sign on the door says Film Productions, and it all couldn’t seem blander. The receptionist is a plump, pleasant woman named Frances, who looks like any receptionist in any office. But this is not, Frances assures me, any office. “No way,” she says.
One of the activities editors are supposed to do is think of ideas, turn these into articles, and vend them for the information of the public, i.e., the non-editors. This is impossible unless one at least imagines one knows what kind of knowledge people wish to know.
There is no life-style like that of string-quartet players, practitioners of the collaborative art in excelsis. No doubt the first violinist is usually the first among equals, because he is normally the member of the quartet closest to the possibility of a solo career; no doubt, too, that some quartets are under the thumb of a leader:
The New York Knickerbockers are only a basketball team and quite probably not even the best of such. And yet they are, finally, the only team in all the games that men play these days which can evoke the romance of history. The Knicks are every small and isolated state that ever mocked and beat back an empire.
MANILA: The seeker of places where all the tourists haven’t been these days is faced with an ever-decreasing choice of destinations. All the good spots, it would appear, have long since been packaged by the tour wholesalers; and the independent traveler must compete unfavorably for hotel rooms, the best restaurant tables and the most knowledgeable and articulate guides.
William Buckley’s latest collection of his periodical pieces (Inveighing We Will Go, Putnam, $7.95) came to me with healing on its wings just when I was suffering acutely from a surfeit of explanations, domestic and transatlantic, of how President Nixon’s landslide victory signified nothing at all, or, if it did, only showed what a rotten little man he was, and how fraudulent were American elections and abysmally stupid the American electorate.
Hays, Kansas, where we’ve been shooting Paper Moon, is geographically almost directly in the middle of the country. It's an old town—Custer rode out from Fort Hays on the way to his fatal encounter at Little Big Horn—and a couple of remnants of the fort have been preserved as an almost touchingly tacky tourist attraction.
He had nothing to fear but the fear of what people would think
At four a.m. in the Starlight East Roof of the Doral Hotel in Miami Beach, George McGovern was quietly celebrating. An hour before, he had delivered his acceptance speech, culmination of his two-year campaign for the Presidential nomination, and the tumultuous Democratic National Convention of 1972 had rung to a close.
<p>Freddie Bartholomew was too good to last; but there’s no reason in nature why Arlo Guthrie and Joe Dallesandro should be eternal. Recently we saw A Separate Peace and Bad Company, where we spotted a trend worth noting: the ill-kempt, scruffy teen-ager was gone, replaced by the sort of earnest, well-scrubbed lads who might sock-hop to Glenn Miller (A Separate Peace) or swipe apple pies (Bad Company).</p>
The two young men who star in the film version of my novel, A Separate Peace, John Heyl and Parker Stevenson, have intelligence, they are both complex personalities, and their emergence may mean a turning away from the scruffiness in vogue in the Sixties.
Laurel and Hardy were unavailable, Fred and Ginger were just wrong for the picture somehow, and the executives at Paramount just didn’t think we had enough audience appeal ourselves, so the Great Casting Hunt began. Jeff Bridges was seen in a rough cut of The Last Picture Show and the only question was:
The days, at last, dwindle down to a reasonable number
<p>One. Forty is not an age. It is a time warp. Two. The shock comes not in passing through the warp. That, in fact, can make for quite a good party. The shock comes in arriving upon the other side, only to find yourself exactly where you were, minus a dimension.</p>
Do you have as much trouble as we do believing that some of these people are only forty this year? Yet they all saw the light in the same year as the very first Petty Girl. We asked Mr. Petty to redraw her, showing how she’s holding up at forty; not bad.
If you’re thinking about running out to the nearest supermarket in search of this luscious steak, forget it. The possibility of admiring such an ideal hunk of beef on the typical American meat counter is about as remote as finding perfect French bread at the neighborhood bakery.
<p>Sometime between the year 1528 and the year 1532, the Treasure of Tumbez, as it has come to be called, disappeared, much to the distress of Francisco de Pizarro who had spent those four years importing a small army of Spanish soldiers to Peru to sack Tumbez and bear the Inca treasure across the Isthmus to his ships.</p>
An inquiry into the increasingly high cost of dental care
Curious, your opinion of dentists. Your own is possibly a likable man to whom, on occasion, you have been immensely grateful. But you hate to go see him or even think about him except when you must. Some irrational fear (he doesn’t hurt you that much or that often) gets in the way of an orderly assessment of what he does for you, and you tend not to examine his charges with the same dispassionate cost accounting you bring to other services for which you pay dearly.
1. Examine the waiting room. If patients pile up, chances are the dentist is a mass-producer who won’t spend enough time on your individual problem. 2. He should use high-speed drills, ultrasonic cleaning equipment, a hygienist for routine work.
These average charges for dental procedures are based upon figures compiled in 1970 by the American Dental Association, to which Esquire added a conservative ten percent as an adjustment for increases since that time. Six states are shown here, and the U.S. average, based on figures from all fifty.
If you were born after 1947, you can communicate with your friends without letting your elders know what you are talking about (“Let’s do up a jay and truck on down to the libo”). But old folks also have a secret language, consisting of many subtle, interlinked allusions to events, persons and things of long ago.
A good hotel, like a good book, ungrudgingly offers what we bring to it, according to our neuroses and our needs. A yearning for anonymity it may be, or for vagrancy, disorder, drink. Clandestine trysts or convention saturnalia. Isn’t the New York Hilton and the Christmas Modern Language Association meeting the closest thousands of professors will ever come to Pamplona and a purgative Fiesta de San Finnin?
And if it doesn’t, too bad: General Motors has just paid $50,000,000 for it
A recent and rather pithy statement from General Motors Corporation announced that it had agreed to pay $50,000,000 for the rights to the Wankel engine. Admittedly the accounting department at G.M. is quite accustomed to processing checks with lots of zeros on the end; still, fifty million bucks is a great deal to pay for just the rights to something that can only involve you in infinitely greater expenditure for research, development and tooling, and the result has been an unprecedented outbreak of acid indigestion among the board members of automobile manufacturers around the world, not excluding those at General Motors.
And every mother’s son better get his oar—doo-dah, doo-dah
Alan V. Hewat
Night falls swiftly in the South Seas, and though the dinner hour had but shortly passed aboard the H.M.S. Gryphon Clipper, the stately craft was already shrouded in darkness as she plied her graceful way, homeward bound. As though muffled by night, her decks were silent, save for the single voice of a solitary tar, singing at his lonely station, “Yo ho, yo ho, yo hoho.”
The new Paris men’s collections display a markedly American look. Fabrics strive for a soft, natural feel with an old favorite, flannel, making a big comeback. Trousers are now cut straight from the hips, with pleats, yielding a loose effect.
Perhaps the major fashion revival of the new season is the return of the cardigan sweater. The new edition features a blouson shape which is reminiscent of the Eisenhower jacket: very short waist, tight around the body, slightly belled sleeves.
Here he is again, America. The last time Sam Peckinpah directed a movie (Straw Dogs), Pauline Kael called it “a fascist classic.” It was a violent movie, America, and so was The Wild Bunch before it, and people got hurt in those movies, hurt bad, and they spewed blood all over.
I met Somerset Maugham once. He said to me, “Young man, I envy you.” Suspecting irony, but prepared for flattery, I asked, “Why do you envy me, Mr. Maugham?” “Because you are an American and write short stories. There is a short story on every street corner in America.
Page 24: photograph of George Petty by Gigi Carroll. Pages 66-67: black-and-white photographs courtesy of Paramount Pictures. Page 71: Michael Caine courtesy of Transworld; Kathryn Grant, Philip Roth. Susan Sontag; courtesy of Pictorial Parade; F. Lee Bailey, Godfrey Cambridge, Neale Fraser, Roosevelt Grier, Rod McKuen, Roman Polanski, Andrei Voznesensky, and Yevgeny Yevtushenko, U.P.I.; all others, Wide World.
It will be remembered that in Luis Buñuel’s The Exterminating Angel (1962) a party of Mexican aristocrats eats a sumptuous dinner, but afterward at the normal hour for departure its members find they are prohibited by some mysterious force from leaving the drawing room to which they resorted after the meal.
One of the oldest restaurants in New York City's Greenwich Village has a new ownership and a new host, but for a while at least it will have the same old facade and the same old milieu which has kept it a favorite place of Village residents and Off-Broadway theatre habitués for so many years that no one really remembers when it was a carriage house.
<p>What we have been becomes The country where we are. Spring goes, summer comes, And in the heat, as one year Or a thousand years before, The fields and woods prepare The burden of their seed. Out of time’s wound, the old Richness of the fall. Their deed Is renewal.</p>