Word: fletcherize
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Looking uncharacteristically jowly, Nobel Prizewinning Poet T. S. (The Waste Land) Eliot, 68, arrived at London Airport after a flight from his three-week honeymoon hideout on the French Riviera. At T.S.'s side was his second wife (his first died in 1947), Valerie Fletcher Eliot, 30, a shining inspiration to millions of secretaries dearly hoping to marry their bosses...
...Married. T. S. for (Thomas Stearns) Eliot, 68, St. Louis-born, naturalized-British Nobel Prizewinner and brilliant, brittle poet of time and mortality (The Waste Land, Four Quartets); and Esmé Valerie Fletcher, 30, for seven years his private secretary at Faber & Faber, Ltd., London publishing firm of which he is a director; he for the second time (his first wife, whom he married in 1915, died in 1947), she for the first; in an Anglican ceremony in London's St. Barnabas Church (Kensington) held at 6:15 a.m. to avoid Fleet Street newsbeagles. Obscurantist Eliot on the gulf...
Married. Erskine Caldwell, 53, novelist of Georgia's poor whites (Tobacco Road, God's Little Acre), and Virginia Moffett Fletcher, 37; he for the fourth time (his second: Photographer Margaret Bourke-White), she for the second; in Reno...
Except for an imaginative story by Jos. F. Fletcher, Jr., and a memoir by Francis B. Biddle '09, which was cribbed from a forthcoming book and which has as its only relation to either humor or Lampy the mention of Lampoon twice, there is absolutely nothing worth reading in it. Despite diligent seeking over the years, one cannot find a more fruitful way to waste time than spending an afternoon with Robb Sagendorph '22 ("Upon this occasion of the 80th Anniversary of the Lampoon, we must not forget in our fond reminiscing aobut the past, that the present and future...
...Fletcher, who seems to have been the 'Poon's only sword during our generation, has a nicely constructed little tale about tattered Tweek, boy of the streets, who achieves SUCCESS by spitting his chwing gum in the path of rich J. Pomeroy's spinning Cadillac wheel. But let the reader find for himself why! Mr. Biddle's reflections, while gay in spirit, read like a census of Mount Auburn Cemetery, and seem grossly out of place. But at least they are interesting and even pleasant...