Word: lovelornness
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...sounds stark and anticlimactic, albeit traditional: "The chief end of man is to glorify God and to enjoy him forever." No Christian will quibble with that. One may, however, argue heatedly over, or reject totally, the basic assumption that the pop culture-bestsellers, TV shows, advice to the lovelorn columns, cartoons, comic strips, dialogues with taxi drivers-constitutes the best method for judging the drift and destiny of a civilization. No one judges Greece and Rome that way-there is no reason to believe that the hoi polloi in 5th century B.C. Athens knew any more about Euripides than...
Since most users agree that the stuff is vile-tasting ("It's glubby," said a Dallas dieter, "absolutely nauseating"), many mix it with gin, rum or bourbon. Some freeze it and eat it like sherbet. A Washington lovelorn columnist advised the wife of an alcoholic to spike her husband's gin with Metrecal. One happy user of a similar supplement is Dallas' Specialty Store (Nieman-Marcus) Tycoon Stanley Marcus. "I've lost 15 pounds," says he, "several times." Marcus' specialty is "a kind of Spanish gazpacho soup." He mixes the dieting powder with cucumbers, tomato...
Columns of advice to the lovelorn frequently warn of dangers ahead when lovers come from widely different backgrounds and environment. In London last week, Princess Margaret and her commoner fiance, Photographer Antony Armstrong-Jones, were discovering how right the columnists...
...week's end the newsmen and photographers from all over Europe who filled the court were uncertain what impression was being gained by the twelve apple-cheeked Swiss jurors who will decide whether lovelorn Pierre Jaccoud goes free or goes to jail for life for "murder with singular perversity." But already the testimony had been such that staid, strait-laced Geneva-the society that ignores tourists and scorns international conclaves -is not likely to be the same for a long time to come. Said a Swiss-German lawyer of the Swiss-French city: "This is the undoing...
...crack shot, Ruark has given up big-game hunting, explains: "I've just lost the taste for seeing things die." He still rambles off on safaris, photographing the big game and potting birds for dinner. (His barstool story is that his white hunter imitates a lovelorn female rhino, and when a nearsighted male rumbles toward the sound, Ruark hangs his hat on the beast's horn and the hunter slaps a Ritz Hotel sticker on its behind.) Ruark will spend the next few months "doing all of Africa" for the Scripps-Howard newspapers, because "I have a hunch...