Names make news. Last week these names made this news:

A quiet type when he is not playing literary lion for the public, stringy Author Colin (The Outsider) Wilson, 25, was about to sup one evening with his true love, mousy Joy Stewart, 25, in his bohemian quarters in London's West End. Without warning, the door of the book-glutted flat was suddenly flung open and in burst Joy's enraged father. "Aha, Wilson! The game is up!" roared Accountant John Stewart, 58, brandishing a horsewhip. Beside Father Stewart stood his wife, bearing a sturdy umbrella, plus Joy's younger sister and brother. Confronting the steamed-up Stewarts, Colin Wilson had good reason to blanch: not 15 miles away he had a wife and son. With no further pleasantries, Mrs. Stewart fell to pummeling Philosophy Collector Wilson with her weapon, while the others tried to drag Joy from the villain's premises. They screamed at Joy: "You will go to hell!" Their efforts were futile. Wilson was unbruised, Joy unbound, when bobbies swooped down on the domestic scene. Crimson with anger, John Stewart offered Wilson's diary as proof that the rapscallion was "not a genius" but just plain "mad." Rasped Stewart: "He thinks he's God!" The diary, noted newsmen, was indeed rather bizarre. Excerpt: "How extraordinary that my fame should have corresponded with that of James Dean, Elvis Presley, Bill Haley and Lonnie Donegan, et al. Like James Joyce and the Dadaists ... I have always wanted to be worshiped ... I must live on--longer than anyone else has ever lived. I am the most serious man of our age." Not far from the locale of this British parlor farce, Wilson's estranged wife deplored Mr. Stewart's stern tactics though not his aims: "When Colin is threatened, he only becomes more obstinate. I have felt like horsewhipping Colin myself sometimes." The strife-torn saga was not concluded at week's end. After abandoning his. Netting Hill Gate lodgings, Outsider Wilson and the heedless Joy were reported bound for America, where Wilson hopes to get a divorce.

Defense Secretary Charles E. Wilson was accosted at the White House (where Postmaster General Arthur Summerfield had just been sworn in again) by three news-service lensmen. who hung on his lapel a button inscribed "S.O.D." Its meaning: "Sons of Dunghill," commemorating the January occasion when "Engine" Charlie, fresh from another White House palaver over his remarks about the National Guard (see NATIONAL AFFAIRS), declined to comment on the meeting, blurting: "This isn't my dunghill!" Quip-per Wilson finally explained last week exactly what he had meant, thus increased his renown for honesty, if not discretion. Said Charlie Wilson: "I meant that this particular place is not the place where I can talk best. I was not referring to the White House as such. There was an old Roman senator who said: 'A cock crows best on his own dunghill.' He meant, when he is in his own house."

After the New York Times plumped for federal pensions for ex-Presidents, the son of one, Cincinnati's Mayor Charles P. Taft, took mild exception to an editorial reference to his family's wealth. Wrote Taft: "You speak of 'the late Senator Robert A. Taft, son of a relatively wealthy President' . . . [President] William H. Taft was not wealthy by any financial standard . . . He saved while he was in the White House . . . My brother and I inherited from our father and mother only the house at Murray Bay, Canada, now, unfortunately, burned."

So soon a figure of history, Britain's resigned Prime Minister, ailing Sir Anthony Eden, 59, arrived for a month's rest in New Zealand after a 35-day voyage from England by way of the Pacific. Wan and drawn, Sir Anthony perked up on sighting his chosen garden of Eden, crisply observed: "Now I have no plans. I am just at the mercy of your wise government and your sun."

The big three of Ivyland gathered at Princeton to hail the university's retiring President Harold W. Dodds, 67. Two other famed prexies, Harvard's Dr. Nathan M. Pusey and Yale's Dr. A. Whitney Griswold came to honor Dodds with solemn praise, but the occasion also had its mortarboard merriment. Spoofing Princeton's miasmic weather of yore, Yale's Griswold asserted that four Princeton presidents had expired within five years back in the 1700s. Then he quoted from a letter, hopefully quilled by Princeton's trustees to a presidential prospect in 1766. The missive's gist: Don't let our weather scare you; those other four men were all sick when they took the job. Princeton's Dodds, however, recalled the short careers of those predecessors of his, claimed that three of the four deceased were Yalemen, presumably in ill health from their undergraduate days.

At a film studio near London, 526 years after Joan of Arc was burned at the stake, realism-bound Producer Otto (The Moon Is Blue) Preminger sought to restage the event, almost succeeded. Shooting the burning scene for his movie version of Shaw's Saint Joan, Preminger watched happily as his fledgling star, young (18) Iowa-born Jean Seberg, mounted a pile of faggots and was duly chained to the stake. Soldiers lighted the faggots and Jean's eyes rose with the flames. Suddenly, before a dummy could replace the lady not for burning, a gas pocket, fed by hidden jets, ignited and enveloped Jean in fire. Chortling make-believe satisfaction a moment before, the film extras now screamed in dead earnest. After foam extinguishers doused the blaze, Jean, luckily only singed, was carried off by a studio cop and a hooded executioner from the cast. Later, through her ointment, Jean, only a year or so out of bobby-sox, offered a thoroughly unsaintly version of her martyrdom: "I smell like a singed chicken. At first, I didn't know what was happening. Then I felt myself going pffft!"

Venezuela's racy weekly Elite cornered Argentina's booted ex-Dictator Juan Peroon, 61, in one of his Caracas haunts, learned that megalomania still makes PeroOn's world go round. Boasted Exile Peroon: "I have multimillionaire friends all over the world. For the past two years, a castle and a speed boat have been waiting for me in Lake Como, Italy. I could spend the last years of my life eating thousand-dollar bills, but I chose the harder road." Does that road lead back to Argentina and a joyous welcome home? Maudlin at the prospect of this vision, Juan Peroon disclosed the degree of his power sickness: "Peroonism without Peroon! It is easy to say it! It is hard to achieve it! Venezuelans stop me on the street and embrace me with tears. Imagine how it would be in my country! Where is there another Peroon? Who can replace me? If I should ever find this other Peroon, I would give him an embrace, a kiss and all my influence!"

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