Word: fonds
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...arrives, an epiphany in which the adolescent boy realizes he is destined to write. After all, isn't the author of a memoir, especially if he's a distinguished author, supposed to explain how he came to set pen to paper in the first place? The young Coetzee, while fond of books and learning, does not seem particularly driven to his present vocation...
Pittman, who helped build MTV from a low-budget cable channel into an empire of hair and attitude, believes in that consumerist approach. He's fond, for instance, of telling the story of the time when, as CEO of Six Flags, he spent time working as a street sweeper in pursuit of a broom's-eye-view of its New Jersey theme park. Pittman has an intense charm that makes him a natural for AOL's dichotomous culture, where V.P.s brag alternately about late nights and mountain-biking exploits. "I've spent my whole life building brands," he says...
...memoir, Burning the Days is at once uncannily precise and irritatingly vague. Here, in a small paradigm of exactitude, is the way he capsulizes a friend, Robert Phelps: "He was fond of books; steak tartare; gin from a green bottle poured over brilliant cubes each afternoon at five, the ice bursting into applause; cats; beautiful sentences; Stravinsky; and France." Salter's episodic memoir is studded with such fond remembrances of things, and persons, past: an insouciantly comfortable whore at a chic brothel in Morocco; that aged lion of a writer Irwin Shaw, drawn irresistibly to womanly beauty. "The great engines...
That President Clinton sure does like hats: He wore at least seven different ones during his three-week vacation. Not since Eisenhower has a Commander been so fond of haberdashery. Thus far the White House has no gimme-cap room (Who would pay to stay there?), but if the past seven years are any indication, the best inedible gift to give Bill is a baseball cap with something manly printed on it. Above, some of the best hat moments of the Clinton presidency...
...loved Hugh Sidey's article about the demise of his family's old newspaper printing press [AMERICAN SCENE, Aug. 4]. It brought back many fond memories. I was just 13 in 1944 when I got a job at the Alta Advocate in Dinuba, Calif. Every Thursday the rumble and roar of the news press came to life. She was a Country Campbell flatbed built in 1889. My usual chores were sweeping up and cleaning the job presses while Jake, the publisher, made up the front page. By 7 p.m. we lugged the forms to the bed of the press...