Word: arthurs
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...friends assuring one another that life goes on, telling stories, singing, laughing. Outside, the tracks and fields and sidewalks were lined with many thousands of people waiting to say goodbye. It was dark by the time the assembly reached Arlington; the pallbearers seemed lost, unsure where to go. Arthur Schlesinger described the scene of Ambassador-at-Large Averill Harriman asking Kennedy brother-in-law and campaign manager Steve Smith if he knew where they were going. "Well, I'm not sure," Smith said. But "I distinctly heard a voice coming out of the coffin saying, 'Damn it. If you fellows...
...What John F. Kennedy was: cool under pressure, a shrewd decision maker, an inspiring speaker, a man who could learn from his mistakes. What he wasn't: a devoted husband, a vigorous athlete, a martyred saint, a budding King Arthur. With his sudden, shocking death, however, these truths were transmuted, through understandable grief, into the gauzy unreality of Camelot...
...commended in some quarters for awarding the honor to Bob Dole, whom he had just defeated in the 1996 election. But many Presidents keep it within their political party. During his tenure, Jimmy Carter awarded the Medal of Freedom to liberals like anthropologist Margaret Mead, Supreme Court Justice Arthur Goldberg and biologist Rachel Carson, and Ronald Reagan - apart from picking Hollywood friends like James Cagney, Frank Sinatra and Jimmy Stewart - came under fire for lauding anticommunists like Clare Boothe Luce and Whittaker Chambers...
...Oscar platform Schulberg had mounted for Waterfront proved a soapbox in A Face in the Crowd (1957), another Kazan film with Andy Griffith as Lonesome Rhodes, a singing hobo who becomes a multimedia demagogue. (The character was said to be fashioned on folksy radio and TV host Arthur Godfrey.) Lonesome's derisive description of his audience is pure Schulberg: "Rednecks, crackers, hillbillies, hausfraus, shut-ins, pea-pickers - everybody that's got to jump when somebody else blows the whistle. ... They're mine! I own 'em! They think like I do. Only they're even more stupid than...
...transparency, and allowed unfettered access to my own imagination, I started to question everyone, including my own friends. Had one of them sold me out? Who could I trust? It was a path of suspicion that led unexpectedly to myself. I began to understand Rubashov in his cell, in Arthur Koestler's Darkness at Noon, a man driven by his own logic to accept and even defend the judgment of his tormentors. Maybe I deserved it, maybe I had it coming. Not yet accused, I was already guilty. I had convicted myself...