Word: horizons
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Dates: during 1940-1949
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Expendable Churches. But, says the FORUM, there is hope on the horizon. A handful of moderns are trying to restore to church architecture the pioneering role it once played. Their tentative answers to the problem (see picture supplement) may not seem equally inspiring to all worshipers, but they do suggest some brand-new approaches...
Author Bowles, 38, a composer and former music critic, has lived since 1947 in the casbah of Tangier. His little-magazine verse and a handful of short stories had already won him cheers from Manhattan's horizon-watching literati. The Sheltering Sky, with its mixture of emotional nausea, intellectual despair and desert primitivism, will come close to justifying their hopes...
Connolly was frank to say that he did not think they would. Founded in 1939 with the money of dairy-fortune heir Peter Watson and the brains of waspish, cherubic Editor Connolly and Poet Stephen Spender, Horizon never reached more than 10,000 subscribers, though it was probably the best of the little magazines. Lately circulation and advertising had been slipping and costs rising. More important, the galaxy of literary lights who had once brightened its pages-T. S. Eliot, Arthur Koestler, Evelyn Waugh-have not shown there in the last year...
Like other little magazines, Horizon could not find enough authors capable of writing what it wanted at prices that it could pay. What good authors it did find were soon lured to other, higher-paying British magazines or dollar-paying U.S. publications...
Although Connolly had once said that Americans would consider Horizon "sissy" writing, it was actually U.S. subscriptions that had encouraged him to keep publishing. They had risen in two years from 500 to 1,200 while a "traveler sent around the big towns of the north [of England] was able to sell only one subscription in a year." Lamented Connolly bitterly: "The public gets the magazine it deserves. London, of course, is a particularly disheartening center from which to operate . . . that sterile, embittered, traditional literary society which has killed so many finer things than a review of literature...