Word: hearsts
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SOMEBODY OUGHT TO WRITE a great book about the Hearsts; an epic that has everything. The saga cries out for one: the mining baron who provided the wealth; the son who created the papers and made a fool of himself in print for years; the five overshadowed sons and their spasmodic attempts to claim their heritage; the splashy comic-tragic climax of Patty spitting a debased radicalism in the family's face. They move from "Pop", as William Randolph Hearst is still called by his son, to pop radicalism, bank jobs, and Tommy guns in 50 years. Such a book...
...pick of the draft, the dream began to unravel. Walton was plagued by injuries and played just part of his first two seasons. Caught up on the fringes of radical politics, he was questioned by the FBI when it was suspected that one of his friends had harbored Patty Hearst during her days as a fugitive. Introspective and reclusive in a world of exhibitionists, Walton was a vegetarian who preferred a lumberjack's wool shirts to superfly fur coats...
...William Faulkner, Rebecca West, Willa Cather and other major writers found him a staunch and generous companion. Marc Connelly and William Saroyan phoned him when they needed money. One of the few dissenters was Evelyn Waugh, who called him, with characteristic bile, "an emaciated Jew lately promoted within the Hearst organization from editing a weekly paper devoted to commercial chemistry...
Waugh was miles off the mark. Even at 80, Herbert Mayes is still lithe, but he has never been emaciated, anatomically or creatively. And though he once edited Hearst's monthly American Druggist, he was, when Waugh wrote for him in the 1940s, one of the nation's most eminent magazine editors. By the time he retired in 1969, Mayes had guided the old Pictorial Review, as well as Town & Country, Cosmopolitan, Good Housekeeping and McCall...
...perhaps the most endearing virtue of big spenders is that they are wonderfully entertaining. There is nothing like them. If a conga line could be made up extending from Qin Shihuang and Elagabalus, through Hearst, the sheiks and Allan Carr, we would need no Broadway shows. It is not just their poly urethane clouds and disco chambers; it is their hilarious innocence, their religious concentration on themselves. What's more, they rarely know how entertaining they are. Nero, for example, when he entered his Golden House with its statue of him self, 120 feet high, and its private lake...