Word: mah
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...Look at him, the white liberator of Africa," cracked an aide as Kwame Nkrumah (pronounced En-kroo-mah) poked his lathered dusky face out of a Blair House bathroom. Laughing lustily, the irrepressible Prime Minister of Ghana (pop. 4,800,000) finished his shave, draped on one of his $300 tribal robes of kente cloth, plunged into three days of red-carpet treatment in Washington. Fresh from a dignified state visit in Canada, he carefully controlled the spellbinding flamboyance that made him the "show boy" hero of the Dark Continent, but his warm humor hid just under the surface...
Wodehouse laments the fact that "the Edwardian butler . . . has joined the Great Auk, Mah Jong and the snows of yesterday in limbo." Says he: "The change in conditions in English life has made it rather difficult for my kind of writing. Comedy does so depend on prosperity." Once a professional drama critic (for Vanity Fair), in recent years he has habitually left any play after the first act, no matter how good or bad. Rather sadly he recalls that England was once full of the dotty people he wrote about. "But I suppose a couple of wars have made...
...Andy Griffith) is a pippin. The hillbilly is so dumb he thinks R.O.T.C. is a disease; but he like to bust, he's that crazy about "thuh Ayuh Fowerce." After his first visit to the mess hall, he happily hollers, "Nevah had sech a fill a beans in mah whole lahf...
...chandeliered, high-windowed concert hall of Moscow's Tchaikovsky State Conservatory echoed last week to the rubbery beat of Blue Moon and the striding chords of Embraceable You. Then a reedy Texas voice rose above the piano: "A-a-ah've got you un-dah mah skin!" The singer was long-legged, tousled Van Cliburn, 23, prize-winning pianist at the Tchaikovsky International Piano and Violin Festival (TIME, April 21 ), who had got under the Russian skin as no foreign artist had done in modern memory...
...generally evenings are quiet and bedtime is 11. Alec works on his sides for the next day, reads a little Dickens, has a go at mah-jongg with Merula-he is "mad for the game." Weekends he stuffs his pockets with patented French fuzees and stalks about the Guinness acres (there are ten of them) waging chemical warfare on the moles. Last week, as he jabbed a poison capsule into the ground with the point of a stout stick, he cocked a fiendish eyebrow and remarked: "I feel beastly, but one of us has to go." And then back...