Word: friendlies
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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Bulgaria. Though he holds no official government job, Todor Zkivkov, First Secretary of Bulgaria's Communist Party, considers himself the Bulgarian Khrushchev and, like his hero, is fond of making trips into the countryside to pose as the peasants' folksy friend. In Zhivkov's case, the effect is diminished by monotone oratory and a repugnant personality. A onetime printer and World War II partisan leader, chunky Todor Zhivkov, 49. is cold, humorless and conceited. Under his leadership, Bulgaria has become the only European satellite which has successfully herded virtually all its peasants onto collective farms...
Before Zorin's blast, the Africans might have felt free to express these doubts publicly and to condemn the consequences of Hammarskjold's Congo program as imprudent and improper. Many Africans would have been happy to have Khrushchev for a friend in their battle against colonialism...
...word to the leaders of Africa's other new and needy nations. Cried Peking's Mayor Peng Chen: "U.S. imperialism is the most vicious enemy of the national independence movement in Africa. Imperialism remains imperialism, just as the jackal remains a jackal." Replied Touré: "Our friend, the mayor of Peking, is absolutely right in describing imperialism as a wolf which changes its clothing as it wishes . . . but it can never change its nature, that is its actions toward sheep, above all when they are not united...
...Wildflower, gave Broadway his first real hit, amassed his fortune not as the "Wild Bull of the Pampas" but as the owner of six ranches on it. But to whom did Bachelor Firpo leave the bulk of his estimated $4,000,000 estate? To his longtime great and good friend. Miss Blanca Picard-a bequest his relatives are now contesting in Buenos Aires. The argument over Hammerstein's reported $10 million to $15 million estate was not among heirs (his widow will receive 49%, with his three children dividing the remainder), but between tax-hungry states-New York, where...
...Home!" "I deny that I am a recluse," he once wrote a friend. "Neither am I an unsociable hog." But when a feature writer wanted his views on art, he testily wrote: "I suppose you think I am . . . interested in art. That is a mistake. I care nothing for art." If a visitor knocked at his door, he would yell, "Mr. Homer is not at home." Gradually, Homer became so isolated that he had to hire a local man to call on him each morning just to make sure he was still alive...