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Died. Charles Jackson, 65, melancholy novelist of guilt and frustration; in Manhattan. After striking it rich in 1944 with The Lost Weekend, the story of a classic binge, he had a long dry spell, writing mediocre books about homosexuality and paranoia. His last work was A Second-Hand Life, a novel of nymphomania published...
...Boston. John Quincy Adams, a Harvard overseer, did not take part in the confirmation vote, and he later wrote in his diary that it was a disgrace to confer the University's "highest literary honors upon a barbarian who could not write a sentence of grammar and could hardly spell his own name...
...Player. Is Wolf God? Or merely man trying to spell God with the wrong mental blocks? Either, or both, is possible. Wolf's academy seems a splendid microcosm for mirroring a civilization and its discontents. Unhappily, as the book progresses, Stern slights the academy in favor of a labyrinthine exploration of Wolf's hang-ups. To the useful tale of his youth, Stern ties a string of current circumstances, including a preposterously pregnant ex-wife and a mad film director whose sole purpose is to prove that God, man and Wolf are all prisoners of their past...
...most Americans, mills spell work, dirt and drudgery. Eager to preserve the charming houses and churches of colonial times, they have seemed downright anxious to destroy their industrial heritage. "Unfortunately, the industrialist who was made by the mills is the guy who cares the least about them now," says Pierson, who was active in efforts to preserve the mill. "All he's worried about is how to make a profit. And the biggest obstacles to preservation are the elected town officers, from the mayor on down. They are tough, pragmatic and just don't care about conserving...
...itching to stomp on Reagan. And in a way, I wanted to get up there on somebody's shoulders and render a version of Charlie's corny speech in which I would tell all those Reagan supporters a thing or two about the problems of this nation. But the spell was broken when Reagan himself drove up, smiling and waving, and worked his way through the crush to an elevator, which the Secret Service would not allow anyone else to enter...