I help grow our consumer clients into different markets and win new business across each of them. As I have a global role, I do travel a bit, usually for new business or to give creativity training.
Doc Humes, who had arrived in Paris not long before. As its managing editor, he was doing the magazine a favor by remaining aloof from its activities.
Besides, he had decided to become a writer; administrative work was behind him. That first summer of he applied to Harvard as a graduate student and was accepted. Archibald MacLeish took him into his English writing course.
He left for the United States. Somewhat peremptorily perhaps—since they forgot to inform him—they lowered him down the masthead to the position of Advertising and Circulation Manager—a somewhat curious title in retrospect, since he had as little to do with these departments as he did with managing.
He hurried down from Cambridge. He had a rubber stamp made up with his name and an exalted title. Down on the wharves he got into the shipping crates where he began stamping the masthead page of the magazine in red ink, half a thousand copies or so, until his arm got tired.
His clipped, wry perception of things was what one might associate with an Oxford don rather than a young graduate newly arrived in Paris. He would not suffer fools or people who bored him. Those he wished to discourage were diverted with an invitation to an address in Montparnasse where Train said he lived.
There on a large sheet-iron gate on a wall too high for the visitor to see that behind it was a vacant lot, Train gummed his calling-card which, on occasion, he would replace.
I, on the contrary, after my postgraduate work in Comparative Literature, was convinced that theories, both literary and political, are the enemy of art.
My eyes were opened on this subject by Bernard Berenson. I was Staying with him in Vallombrosa, and one day accompanied him on one of his little walks, meaning not much walk and a lot of talk. Turned out in perfect light tweeds and carrying a small folded shawl over one arm, he would inch along, holding forth exquisitely.
When you got a foot or so ahead he would clutch you by the elbow, spinning you around toward him, and make a point. One would then straighten out, resume the march and carry on until the next spin-around. On the occasion in question I was describing my objective of getting a doctorate in comparative literature when I noticed that B.
We had trouble over the name.
There were, as might be imagined, innumerable suggestions. I remember calling on our group one by one to push it. It seemed so logical: We took a long time getting started. Raising money was a problem, since although we expected to make money, nobody else could see any basis for that hope, particularly since we were in fact totally unbusiness like.
George came up with a money-making scheme of lofty simplicity. Surely someone knew somebody there. We would offer to do a literary page in each issue; a whole page, filled with stimulating criticism, moving poetry, gripping fiction.
Quite simple, George blandly explained. After all, none of us read the stock pages, did we? To provide a keynoter for the first issue we turned to Bill Styron, who, in his late twenties and already a published author, was an elder spokesman of the group.
He seemed very worldly-wise. After a while he produced a laborious piece wrestling with his own particular literary theories. It was my task to edit this effusion, and I blue-penciled it with vigor. William Styron wrote of the place which he later used as a scene in his novel.
Set This House On Fire: Patsy, lived in a modest but lovely apartment on a Utrillo-like back street in Montparnasse; spacious, airy, its one big room filled with light,the Matthiessen pad the word was just coming into use about then became the hangout for many of the mob of Americans who had hurried to Paris to partake of its perennial delights, to drink in the pleasures of a city beginning to surge with energy after the miseries of the recent war.
For the Americans happily established there, Paris was home, and no place was more homelike than the Matthiessen establishment on the Rue Perceval.
To this I recollect with awe the sense of an almost constant open house, in which it was possible at practically any time to obtain music and food and drink Peter was unfailingly generous with what seemed to be a nearly in-exhaustible supply of Scotch or, if need be, a spot to sleep off a hangover and—of course always—conversation.
The Chaplain had a grand piano, actually in tune, which on occasion music students would play to test their abilities on an audience which included their own peers.
Sometimes the mini-performances were excellent, but there was never any applause from the music students listening, as if to give any would be to acknowledge a level of superiority in one of their own. Once, Zaidee Parkinson, now married to the conductor Richard Dufallo, played there when she was very young, sit-ting like a school-girl with a straight back, her long hair hanging in a fall to the edge of the piano stool she sat on; she played an intricate piece by Scriabin: There was no applause when she finished.The Paris Review is a literary magazine featuring original writing, art, and in-depth interviews with famous writers.
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He did talk the local finance agency into loaning him money to purchase his own airplane, however, beginning a lifetime of aircraft ownership. In , on a dare, he made a parachute jump and finding it exhilarating, signed with Clarence Hinck, promoter of State Fair Thrill Shows, to take part in a group jump.
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