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PERPLEXING, SINISTER, headlined London's Daily Express (circ. 4,097,106) last week to describe the subject of a new biography that it was excerpting in four installments. "Sometimes a devil seems to enter into him," ran one extract, "[and he exposes] his own raw resentment against the hollow parody of power that his life has become." Many a perplexed reader wondered what the devil had got into the Express. This unflattering portrait was none other than that of the Express' own boss and Britain's foxiest old (75) press lord, William Maxwell ("Max") Aitken, the first...
...language in which it was written. That language is English to be sure, but it is a political English filled with wild, though sometimes provocative images. I suppose the poet must have exercised some control over his imagery, and that he must have wanted to squeeze some concentrated extract of meaning out of his story when he decided to employ the type of speech he used. But his efforts were not notably apparent. A single hearing left me, at least, with an impression of trackless confusion far deeper than the Amazon jungle where part of the play takes place...
...British run torture centers in Cyprus where they beat their prisoners, inject them with truth serums, extract their teeth and fingernails," cried Athens' Voice of the Fatherland radio, beamed to turbulent Cyprus. U.S. Secretary of State John Foster Dulles, said one newspaper, is "the accomplice of the most shameful international crime of our age." When a policeman was killed trying to keep order on the island, Athens beamed back its own version: "Agents of the foreign dynasty [Britain] provoked the riots and killed the policeman in order to provoke further rioting...
...poetry. Over cocktails, it turns out that her beefy husband is Tom's dentist. Tom and Louise lark off for a weekend together and get found out. In one of the more bloodcurdling scenes in recent fiction, the cuckolded dentist, drill in hand, hovers over Tom ready to extract a moment of truth...
TOWN HALL TONIGHT, by Harlowe Randall Hoyt (292 pp.; Prentice-Hall; $7.50), is a somewhat casual and bluntly nostalgic backward look at the small-town theater of the '80s and '905, when Uncle Tom's Cabin and The Old Homestead were sure to extract their quota of tears. The illustrations are of appropriate corniness...