Speaking Up

Asked about the future of women in publishing, Fleur Cowles, purring dynamo of Flair and other Cowles publications (Look, Quick), was hopeful: "It's the brightest, most glorious future one can imagine. But why ask me? Look at the other women whose literary lights have guided them into editorships. At this time, maybe, just maybe, mine was shining just a little brighter."

Dr. Edith Sitwell, poetess of Britain's famed Sitwell clan, explained why critic-baiting was her favorite sport: "I can't resist sharpening my wits on a wooden head any more than a cat not sharpen his claws on a table leg."

Whodunit Author John Dickson Carr (alias Carter Dickson), master of the murder in a locked room, took deadly aim at Whodunit Writer Raymond (The Big Sleep) Chandler, who specializes in hard-boiled detectives and publicly hoots at his clue-scattering colleagues (TIME, April 24). In a New York Times review of Chandler's The Simple Art of Murder, Carr wrote: "If, to some restraint, he could add the fatigue of construction and clues . . . then one day he may write a good novel . . ."

Gregory Ratoff, Hollywood dialect comedian-turned-director, got nowhere when he tried to buy T. S. Eliot's The Cocktail Party. Informed of Ratoff's intent, Eliot said: "I've been dreading this for a long time. I do not want The Cocktail Party made into a film."

Bernard Shaw, convalescing nicely from his broken left thigh bone, had, as usual, plenty of other things to complain about. Once a doctor heard him shriek "Stop her," rushed in to find the white bearded playwright on his stomach with a nurse rubbing oil into his skin. "But Mr. Shaw," the doctor said, "she's only doing that to keep you from getting bed sores. It's nothing at all." "Nothing at all?" howled Shaw. "Who's bottom is she playing with anyway?"

Carrying On

It was almost half a century since the U.S. poetry-reading public first met dangerous Dan McGrew, but Writer Robert W. ("Wullie") Service, 76, was rhyming away the same as ever. At his villa on the Riviera, which has served as his headquarters for the past 24 years, the ruddy, grey-haired Bard of the Yukon said that he expects to live a lot longer ("My hobby is longevity") and do a lot more creating

("My mission is to write a thousand pieces--I call them pieces because I don't like the word poems. So far, I've done seven hundred.") This summer's work netted posterity 30 new pieces to be published next fall. Sample, from Lobster for Lunch:

His face was like a lobster red,

His legs were white as mayonnaise,

"I've had a jolly lunch," he said,

That Englishman of pleasant ways.

They do us well in your hotel,

In England food is dull these days.

Kentucky's ex-Representative Andrew Jackson May, just out of Federal prison after-serving nine months and 13 days on a bribery charge, was in a charitable mood as neighbors and friends gathered on his front porch in Prestonburg to greet him. Said he: "Although I am innocent and was made to suffer through persecution, I am not embittered."

Things had gone from bad to worse with 1948's Prince Charming, Winthrop Rockefeller, and his Cinderella, the former Barbara Paul Sears, according to the Chicago Tribune. "I will never give him a divorce," the Trib quoted "Bobo" as saying. "I want him to suffer the way he has made me suffer; as he has humiliated me before the world." Later, Bobo told newsmen that the Trib had "somewhat distorted" her remarks but "we are still very much married."

Cashing In

Ruth Hussey, 37, grey-eyed star of stage (State of the Union) and screen (The Philadelphia Story), returned to her old alma mater, Providence's Pembroke College (where she was an "average student"), put on the proper costume for playing the part of an Honorary Doctor of Fine Arts (see cut).

British-born Couturier Captain Edward Molyneux put on an "everything must go" sale at his London dress shop (sample marked-down price: $2,800). He will henceforth concentrate on his Paris establishment.

Bung-nosed A. P. ("Peck") Herbert, 60, novelist, wit, and Independent M.P. for Oxford, took to the pages of London's Sunday Graphic to give a vigorous pat on the back to Britain's Chief Representative to the U.N. Sir Gladwyn Jebb, with a sideswipe at one of Sir Gladwyn's chief adversaries, the U.S.S.R.'s Jacob Malik:

Our handsome deb Sir Gladwyn Jebb At Lake Success Has made a mess Of that Smart Alec Whose name is Malik. How Uncle Joe Must hate the show--His bright boy beaten, By Gad, by ETON!

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