Dun Care Quotes

Jerott’s eyes and Philippa’s met. ‘When I meet my friend,’ said Jerott Blyth carefully, ‘there is likely to be a detonation which will take the snow off Mont Blanc. I advise you to seek other auspices. Philippa, I think we should go down below.’ ‘To swim?’ said that unprepossessing child guilelessly. ‘I can stand on my head.’ ‘Oh, Christ,’ said Jerott morosely. ‘Why in hell did you come?’ The brown eyes within the damp, dun-coloured hair inspected him narrowly. ‘Because you need a woman,’ said Philippa finally. ‘And I’m the nearest thing to it that you’re likely to get. It was very short notice.

Writing is nothing but the representation of speech; it is bizarre that one gives more care to the determining of the image than to the object.—J.-J. Rousseau, Fragment inédit d’un essai sur les langues

A listen to tapes only confirms the judgment of contemporary critics. This was truly a bad show, a creaking monstrosity, an ill wind whose time had inexplicably come. Who cared if the contestant won the refrigerator? Refrigerators were boring.

Încă de mică o cuprinsese una din acele iubiri de copil care au în același timp puritatea unei religii și violența unei necesități./ Toute petite, elle s’était prise d’un de ces amours d’enfant qui ont à la fois la pureté d’une religion et la violence d’un besoin. (©BeQ)

The premiere broadcast of Blind Date set the style of this lively show. In the middle of the stage in Radio City’s Studio 6A was a partition. To the right were the studio orchestra, hostess Arlene Francis, and six servicemen carefully selected as contestants: to the left, three beautiful women drawn from the ranks of the screen, radio, and modeling professions. The object was to arrange blind dates pairing three of the servicemen and the three women on opposite sides of the partition.

i am human the lining of mucus still bargain the vain i fear is like a miracle ordinary people would always know about their heart but as for me,, CLUELESS nobody knows me well nobody understands me nobody would care eventhough how much i put an effort into it im helpless till now i didnt changed i really dont and how much my aunt would advice its just like pouring water into the leaves i dunt want it to be, i want to accomplish as i want it to be like i always wanted but i dun know why am i so cruel to myself i didnt try at all i let it go to be like i dunt want it to be i wont let it go to be like i want it to be

Ezra asked me to bring you this,' I said and handed him the jar. 'He said you would know what it was.' He took the jar and looked at it. Then he threw it at me. It struck me on the chest or the shoulder and rolled down the stairs. 'You son of a bitch,' he said. 'You bastard.' 'Ezra said you might need it,' I said. He countered that by throwing a milk bottle. 'You are sure you don't need it?' I asked. He threw another milk bottle. I retreated and he hit me with yet another milk bottle in the back. Then he shut the door. I picked up the jar which was only slightly cracked and put it in my pocket. 'He did not seem to want the gift of Monsieur Pound," I said to the concierge. 'Perhaps he will be tranquil now,' she said. 'Perhaps he has some of his own,' I said. 'Poor Monsieur Dunning,' she said. The lovers of poetry that Ezra organized rallied to Dunning's aid again eventually. My own intervention and that of the concierge had been unsuccessful. The jar of alleged opium which had been cracked I stored wrapped in waxed paper and carefully tied in one of an old pair of riding boots. When Evan Shipman and I were removing my personal effects from that apartment some years later the boots were still there but the jar was gone. I do not know why Dunning threw the milk bottles at me unless he remembered my lack of credulity the night of his first dying, or whether it was only an innate dislike of my personality. But I remember the happiness that the phrase 'Monsieur Dunning est monté sur le toit et refuse catégoriquement de descendre' gave to Evan Shipman. He believed there was something symbolic about it. I would not know. Perhaps Dunning took me for an agent of evil or of the police. I only know that Ezra tried to be kind to Dunning as he was kind to so many people and I always hoped Dunning was as fine a poet as Ezra believed him to be. For a poet he threw a very accurate milk bottle. But Ezra, who was a very good poet, played a good game of tennis too. Evan Shipman, who was a very fine poet and who truly did not care if his poems were ever published, felt that it should remain a mystery. 'We need more true mystery in our lives, Hem,' he once said to me. 'The completely unambitious writer and the really good unpublished poem are the things we lack most at this time. There is, of course, the problem of sustenance.

Willow gazed up at him, her silly grin still in place. "You know wha'? You're kinda cute when you crook your eyebrows down like tha'." Rider muttered a curse, lifted her off the floor, and tossed her over his shoulder. "Juan, you and Hicks help Mrs. Brigham to her room. I'll take care of this little hellion." Willow lifted her head from where she dangled over Rider's shoulder. "See yuh later, Mrs. B." Miriam smiled and waved. "i think Mrs. B is pickled," Rider's passenger said in a loud whisper as he hauled her out the door. "No thanks to you,hellion," he growled, and smacked her bottom. "Ow!" As he carried Willow into the house, Rider was hard pressed to quell a sudden urge to laugh. In her bedroom, he unceremoniously dumped her on her bed, but when he turned to leave, her pitiful sounding voice halted his exit. "Rider,come here a min-it." "Oh,hell, I suppose you're going to be sick." Grabbing a basin off her dresser, he shoved it under her chin. "It serves you right, you know." He watched nervously as she knocked the bowl aside. "Dun...don't be mad." She held her arms out to him. "Come closer. Gimme a kiss and we'll make up. I like your kisses so-o-o-o much." This time Rider couldn't stall his grin and inadvertently leaned closer. She was on him like a duck on a June bug. With two hearty handfuls of his shirt, she yanked him down on top of her and plastered her mouth against his. Talking against his lips, the tipsy girl had the audacity to complain, "Not like this. Do it like before. You know, with your tongue." Rider squeezed his eyes shut and groaned. This isn't fair, he bemoaned silently. He tried to rise but Willow held tight, squirming her voluptuous little body against his. Sweat broke out on his forehead. If he didn't put a stop to this soon...He lifted his mouth from hers. "If I promise to kiss you with my tongue, will you let go of me and go to sleep?" "Uh-huh." Willow's eyes drooped, but the affect appeared more seductive than drunken. Lifting her shoulders slightly off the bed, he wound his arms around her and covered her mouth with his. His tongue explored hers in a long, liquid kiss, tasting of wine and desire. Rider savored its promise, wishing just this once, he could be less a gentleman. Willow wrapped one of her legs over his and shifted her hips, innocently aligning his swelling heat with hers. He started and bolted off the bed. "Holy hell! You did it again!" "What?" Her voice was sluggish and sleepy now. Disgusted with himself, Rider stomped to the door. "Sleep it off, Freckles." Outside Willow's door, Rider slumped against the wall and shook his head. Willow Vaughn was a constant surprise, and he loved the girl so bad it hurt.

[pentru o clipă] pentru o clipă. pentru o singură clipă existența lumii se oprește și se desfășoară în trecut ca un film de cinematograf rulat de la sfârșit spre început. fumul reintră în coșuri. înaltul cade. pașii mă poartă înapoi. priviri care porneau se întorc ca degetele manușii răsucite pe dos. miezul fructului se simplifică se turtește se petalizează. fructul redevine floare. inima mea scade spre noaptea fătului și se preface în sex. * [pour un instant] pour un instant. pour un seul instant l’existence du monde s’arrête et se déroule dans le passé comme au cinéma un film qui est projeté de la fin vers son début. la fumée rentre dans les cheminées. les hauteurs retombent. mes pas me portent à rebours. des regards naissants font demi-tour à l’instar des doigts d’un gant retourné. le noyau du fruit se simplifie s’aplatit se pétalise. le fruit redevient fleur. mon cœur décroît vers la nuit du fœtus et se transforme en sexe. (poème en prose posthume, traduit du roumain par Gabrielle Danoux)

«Addio, monti sorgenti dall’acque, ed elevati al cielo; cime inuguali, note a chi è cresciuto tra voi, e impresse nella sua mente, non meno che lo sia l’aspetto de’ suoi più familiari; torrenti, de’ quali distingue lo scroscio, come il suono delle voci domestiche; ville sparse e biancheggianti sul pendìo, come branchi di pecore pascenti; addio! Quanto è tristo il passo di chi, cresciuto tra voi, se ne allontana! Alla fantasia di quello stesso che se ne parte volontariamente, tratto dalla speranza di fare altrove fortuna, si disabbelliscono, in quel momento, i sogni della ricchezza; egli si maraviglia d’essersi potuto risolvere, e tornerebbe allora indietro, se non pensasse che, un giorno, tornerà dovizioso. Quanto più si avanza nel piano, il suo occhio si ritira, disgustato e stanco, da quell’ampiezza uniforme; l’aria gli par gravosa e morta; s’inoltra mesto e disattento nelle città tumultuose; le case aggiunte a case, le strade che sboccano nelle strade, pare che gli levino il respiro; e davanti agli edifizi ammirati dallo straniero, pensa, con desiderio inquieto, al campicello del suo paese, alla casuccia a cui ha già messo gli occhi addosso, da gran tempo, e che comprerà, tornando ricco a’ suoi monti. Ma chi non aveva mai spinto al di là di quelli neppure un desiderio fuggitivo, chi aveva composti in essi tutti i disegni dell’avvenire, e n’è sbalzato lontano, da una forza perversa! Chi, staccato a un tempo dalle più care abitudini, e disturbato nelle più care speranze, lascia que’ monti, per avviarsi in traccia di sconosciuti che non ha mai desiderato di conoscere, e non può con l’immaginazione arrivare a un momento stabilito per il ritorno! Addio, casa natìa, dove, sedendo, con un pensiero occulto, s’imparò a distinguere dal rumore de’ passi comuni il rumore d’un passo aspettato con un misterioso timore. Addio, casa ancora straniera, casa sogguardata tante volte alla sfuggita, passando, e non senza rossore; nella quale la mente si figurava un soggiorno tranquillo e perpetuo di sposa. Addio, chiesa, dove l’animo tornò tante volte sereno, cantando le lodi del Signore; dov’era promesso, preparato un rito; dove il sospiro segreto del cuore doveva essere solennemente benedetto, e l’amore venir comandato, e chiamarsi santo; addio! Chi dava a voi tanta giocondità è per tutto; e non turba mai la gioia de’ suoi figli, se non per prepararne loro una più certa e più grande.»

The fight spilled out into the press. Allen blasted the censors. “They are a bit of executive fungus that forms on a desk that has been exposed to conference. Their conferences are meetings of men who can do nothing but collectively agree that nothing can be done.” The thin-skinned network reacted again, cutting Allen off in the middle of a barb. Now other comics joined the fray. That week Red Skelton said on his show that he’d have to be careful not to ad-lib something that might wound the dignity of some NBC vice president. “Did you hear they cut Fred Allen off on Sunday?” That’s as far as he got—the network cut him off. But Skelton went right on talking, for the studio audience. “You know what NBC means, don’t you? Nothing but cuts. Nothing but confusion. Nobody certain.” When the network put him back on the air, Skelton said, “Well, we have now joined the parade of stars.” Bob Hope, on his program, was cut off the air for this joke: “Vegas is the only town in the world where you can get tanned and faded at the same time. Of course, Fred Allen can be faded anytime.” Allen told the press that NBC had a vice president who was in charge of “program ends.” When a show ran overtime, this individual wrote down the time he had saved by cutting it off: eventually he amassed enough time for a two-week vacation. Dennis Day took the last shot. “I’m listening to the radio,” he said to his girlfriend Mildred on his Wednesday night NBC sitcom. “I don’t hear anything,” said Mildred. “I know,” said Dennis: “Fred Allen’s on.” On that note, the network gave up the fight, announcing that its comedians were free to say whatever they wanted. It didn’t matter, said Radio Life: “They all were anyway.” Allen took a major ratings dive in 1948. Some

Si les institutions culturelles roumaines font à nouveau mine d'ignorer ce qui se passe, ont hâte que le mois de novembre passe, inquiètes d'un possible renversement de nos hiérarchies et coteries internes, nous retournerons au même degré zéro pour déposer, à diverses occasions, sur la table européenne, des auteurs et des discours dont le monde actuel n'a que faire, mais qui font cependant les délices de nos critiques et essayistes nombrilistes disposés à tout moment à confondre l'expressivité avec les valeurs et le snobisme culturel avec l’authenticité créatrice. [Dacã instituțiile culturale românești se vor preface iarãși ca nu prea știu ce se întâmplã, abia așteptând sã treacã luna noiembrie, neliniștite de posibila rãsturnare a ierarhiilor și coteriilor noastre interne, ne vom întoarce în același punct zero, punînd cu diferite ocazii pe masa culturalã a Europei autori și discursuri de care lumea prezentã nu are nevoie, dar care fac deliciul criticilor și eseiștilor noștri nombriliști dispuși în orice clipã sã confunde expresivitatea cu valoarea și snobismul cultural cu autenticitatea creatoare.] (p. 218) traduit du roumain par Gabrielle Danoux

Il n'en faut pas plus pour se rendre compte d'un éloignement: des yeux qui ne voient pas, une bouche frappée d'un mutisme absent, une laideur du visage observée avec stupéfaction, le constat qu'il n'y a rien à dire et qu'il faut comprendre précisément ce qu'on voit sans illusion, c'est cela, il n'y aura plus rien d'autre, même si jadis il y eut quelque chose. [Nu e nevoie de mai mult ca să-ți dai seama de o înstrăinare: ochi care nu te văd, gură lovită de un mutism absent, o urâțenie a chipului pe care o observi stupefiat, sugestia că nu e nimic de spus și că trebuie să înțelegi exact ceea ce vezi și să nu-ți faci iluzii, asta e, altceva nu va mai fi, chiar dacă altădată a fost ceva.]

J'ai réussi à me rendre à Paris au moment même de la parution de ce livre. J'y ai rencontré Maurice Nadeau, l'éditeur, Anne Sarraute (la fille de la célèbre romancière, Nathalie Sarraute !), la rédactrice, Odile Serre, la traductrice, et Serge Fauchereau, le préfacier de mon livre. Il ne manquait plus que le regretté „desantist” [d'après le nom d'une anthologie] Ovid S. Crohmălniceanu, celui avec lequel il avait, deux ou trois ans auparavant, écrit, en français, un bref essai sur cette « Composition aux parallèles inégales », toujours à l'état de manuscrit... [Am reușit să ajung la Paris chiar în momentul apariției acestei cărți. M-am întâlnit cu Maurice Nadeau, editorul, cu Anne Sarraute (fiica celebrei romanciere, Nathalie Sarraute!), redactorul de carte, cu Odile Serre, traducătoarea, și cu Serge Fauchereau, prefațatorul cărții mele. Nu mai lipsea decât regretatul „desantist” Ovid S. Crohmălniceanu, cel care cu doi-trei ani în urmă scrisese în franceză un mic eseu despre această „Composition aux parallèles inégales”, rămas în manuscris și acum...] (p. 43, extrait d'un article paru en 2001, avec la mention de la note de bas de page selon laquelle l'essai d' Ovid S. Crohmălniceanu a finalement été publié en 2015) traduit en français par Gabrielle Danoux

L'expression la plus adéquate de l'effort spirituel me semble être le fragment. Car le fragment, lui seul, respecte intimement le processus de la réflexion. Nous pensons avec intermittence : intermittence au propre, compte tenu de notre incapacité structurelle à garder active la réflexivité (sur un même sujet) au-delà d'un intervalle de plusieurs heures. (Or, le produit positif, saisissable, de cet intervalle est, la plupart du temps, fulgurant : il y a des instants de compréhension, entourés d'un tâtonnement bourdonnant qui n'est rien d'autre que l'attente active de ces mêmes instants). Mais nous pensons avec intermittence dans un tout autre sens aussi : nous pensons l'infini de chaque pensée avec la finitude de notre appareil réflexif. Être un vivant c'est être un fragment. [„Cea mai adecvată expresie scrisă a efortului spiritual îmi apare a fi fragmentul. Pentru că fragmentul singur, numai el, respectă procedura intimă a gândirii. Gândim intermitent: intermitent la propriu, dată fiind incapacitatea noastră structurală de a păstra în act reflexivitatea (pe o unică temă) dincolo de intervalul câtorva ceasuri. (Iar produsul pozitiv, consemnabil, al acestui interval e, de cele mai multe ori, fulgurant: există clipe ale înţelegerii, înconjurate de un zumzet tatonat, care nu e decât aşteptarea activă a acelor clipe.) Dar gândim intermitent şi în alt sens: gândim cu un aparat finit infinitatea fiecărui gând. A fi creatură înseamnă a fi fragment." ]

La mort ? Un appât qu’on bouge tantôt vers le haut, tantôt vers le bas d’un poisson indécis dont on dit qu’il aurait précédé Jésus Christ. Une ancre qui, lancée, retient son souffle au fond des mers, en pleine tempête ; un mot dont le sens, seuls certains sont en mesure de le comprendre. Un filet de sécurité bien éloigné avec des mouvements enflammés avant le saut mortel à travers lequel le trapéziste veut (pour la combientième fois ?) se réinventer. La mort ? Une fillette qui a soudain de la peine pour le bonhomme de neige dans la cour. Voyez, elle se précipite pour partager avec lui, toute gaie sa petite tasse brûlante de thé. * Moartea? O momeală mișcată cînd în sus, cînd în jos de un pește nehotărît despre care se spune că l-ar fi precedat pe Hristos. O ancoră ce-și ține răsuflarea cînd e aruncată pe fundul mării, în toiul furtunii; un cuvînt al cărui înțeles sînt în măsură să-l știe doar unii. O plasă de siguranță îndepărtată, cu mișcări ca focul de treze, înaintea saltului mortal prin care trapezistul vrea (a cîta oară?) să se reinventeze. Moartea? O fetiță căreia i se face milă de omul de zăpadă din curte. Și, vai! Se repede să împartă cu el, bucuroasă, ceșcuța ei, fierbinte, cu ceai. (traduction en français Gabrielle DANOUX)

L’arche J’ai construit dans mon âme inquiète et brisée Une arche – informe double à la Bible calquée – Et ce sont des troupeaux, des peuples de pensées, Soumis au ciel puissant, qui s’y sont embarqués. Il est temps que du ciel la colère s’abatte ! Une rigide pluie tend sa herse d’acier. Dans la lourde vapeur le navire se hâte Sans savoir où il va, sur les flots incliné. Et le dernier sommet des monts sombre dans l’onde. Vers quel bord, ô Seigneur, et vers quel Ararat Hors des brouillards lointains me portent l’eau profonde ? Sur la mer, un linceul de ténèbres s’abat. Ah, j’entends quelque part une âme se défaire Dans l’aigre mélopée de la pluie et des larmes. Et l’arche dans la nuit, ô Jéhovah, t’espère Qui scellera, d’un arc-en-ciel, les mers de l’âme. (Adaptation en français par Jean Rousselot) [În turburatu-mi suflet am construit o Arcă - Informa nălucire de biblic corăbier -, Și turme-ntregi de gînduri pe puntea ei se-mbarcă, Noroade-ntregi, plecate puternicului cer. E vremea să se-abată mînia Lui! O ploaie De stropi rigizi întinde zabrele de otel. Corabia aleargă… în negura greoaie, Corabia se-nclină, și-aleargă fără țel… Și cel din urmă creștet de munte se scufundă… - Spre care țărm, Stapîne, spre care Ararat Din bruma depărtării mă poartă-adînca undă? S-a coborît pe ape lințoliu-ntunecat. Aud cum se destramă un suflet undeva, Departe, în a ploii acidă melopee… E noapte-n larg… Iar Arca te așteaptă, Jehova, Pe mările din suflet să fereci curcubee. Sburătorul, 20 decembrie 1919]

talisman din fiecare dimineaţă izvorăşte un fluviu iar timpul neterminat se întoarce în mine şi în tine să curgă într-o albie care desparte două grădini – în grădina mea te pândesc uimit cum te strecori în gânduri și depui o sămânţă din altă lume adusă de macii înfloriţi pe malurile tale sub rana fulgerului prin care zori sângerii plouă în lanuri şoaptele noastre cheamă-mă o strigă-mă până când se face amiază am să rescriu povestea în repezişul fluviului pe pietrele umede un talisman vor sculpta valurile din amintirea noastră * talisman chaque matin fait naître un fleuve tandis que l’interminable temps revient en moi et en toi pour couler dans un lit qui sépare deux jardins – dans mon jardin je te guette étonné alors que tu te faufiles dans les pensées et que tu déposes une semence d’un autre monde apportée par les coquelicots fleuris sur tes rives sous la plaie de la foudre de laquelle l’aube ensanglantée pleut en plaines nos murmures hèle-moi crie après moi jusqu’à ce que l’après-midi vienne je réécrirai l’histoire dans le flux du fleuve sur les humides pierres un talisman sculpteront les vagues dans nos souvenirs (traduit en français par Gabrielle Danoux)

One of John Duns Scotus’ most helpful teachings is that Christian morality at its best seeks “a harmony of goodness.” We harmonize and balance necessary self-care with a constant expansion beyond ourselves to loving others. This is brilliant! It’s both simple and elegant, showing us how to love our neighbor as our self. Imagining and working toward this harmony keeps us from seeking impossible, private, and heroic ideals. Now the possibility of love is potentially right in front of us and always concrete.

Keen and Clancy seemed to have no official position: they were simply called in, whenever people were murdered, to help solve the mystery. “We usually work along with the police, ma’am,” Clancy might say, explaining their presence. They seemed to have vast powers of arrest: they barged into homes without search warrants, ignored official procedure, shunned due process, and cared little for the rules of evidence. Keen was charming and persuasive, but his voice took on a mean edge when confronting a killer. And in the style of Hummert soaps, the dialogue was simplistic, identifying each speaker and subject fully in each utterance: “Before I open this door, Mr. Keen, let me tell you something. No one in this house right now had anything to do with the murder of young Donald Travers, my niece’s husband. “That remains to be proven, Miss Martha.” “My niece Jane Travers should never have sent you here.” “Jane Travers only wanted to help you prove your innocence, Miss Martha.” As such, it appealed to a lowest common denominator, and enjoyed a run of 17 years.

The Four-Star Playhouse was developed for NBC, partly to help counter the CBS talent raid that had lured Jack Benny, Amos ’n’ Andy, and Edgar Bergen away from the older network. The NBC response was predictable: a barrage of new shows with big-name Hollywood talent. It didn’t work: by then there were so many similar shows on the air that the public didn’t care, and most of the new NBC shows soon vanished.

The parallels to The Lone Ranger continued. The Green Hornet would ride in a sleek modern automobile, the ’30s equivalent of “the great horse Silver.” Like the Ranger, the Hornet would fight for the law but operate outside it and usually be mistaken by police for one of the criminals. And there would be a faithful sidekick: as the Lone Ranger had his Tonto (brave and stoic, man of a different race, with a simple name of two syllables, ending in o), Britt Reid’s Filipino valet, Kato, would be “the only living man to know him as the Green Hornet.” Kato was a master chemist who created the gas guns and smokescreens that became part of the Green Hornet’s arsenal. He was an expert in the secrets of Oriental combat, and he was blessed with keen intelligence. A college graduate, he could cook, care for a house, and drive with the skills of a racecar professional. The car too had a name: Black Beauty. It whirred distinctively as Reid and Kato went into action in the abandoned-looking building that was reached “through a secret panel in Britt Reid’s bedroom … along a narrow passage built within the wall itself … down narrow, creaking steps that led around a corner” to the structure “on a little-used dead-end side street.

The Hallmark Hall of Fame has become the grandfather of all prestige shows, a dignified though increasingly expensive promotion for the slogan that was a standard even in 1948: Remember—a Hallmark Card, when you care enough to send the very best.

Nightbeat was a superior series that focused as much on people as predicament. Frank Lovejoy, a distinctive radio voice, played the role of a reporter who cared about the human interest angle, and about the people who suffered through life’s hard knocks. In a Jan. 13, 1950, audition program, the character was named “Lucky” Stone: he prowled Chicago after sundown, looking for a story “that grabs your heart and shakes it until it hollers uncle.” He could be found “peering into blank alleys, wandering through the bright neon, listening to the sounds of the city at night … the whisper of footsteps, the shattering roar of an el-train, the sob of an ambulance siren.” He stumbled across “the wino dreaming of a muscatel paradise in cold dark doorways … painted little dames defying the world with their brassy laughter … the homeless, the hopeless.” Stone didn’t try to outsmart the police, said Radio Life; nor did he have a sidekick. Killings were minimized, but the suspense was tense and delicious. There were crime stories, tender stories, tales of the common man in trouble, races against time. Then, having wrapped it up for another night, Stone sat at his desk, pounded out his story, and briskly called, “Copy boy!

But there were few petty squabbles and no apparent jealousies. On one occasion Richard Williams drew a huge cheer from the audience when he interrupted Kelly to insist that Ruth Duskin be awarded his points—Ruth had spoken first and Kelly had not heard her. These qualities were judged as carefully in the screening process as were the barometers of intelligence. “We won’t take a cocky kid,” said producer John Lewellen in 1948. Also eliminated were the kids of cocky parents: many were excused because the parents were so “pushy, predatory, and disruptive” that they were certain to cause trouble.

Just Plain Bill was one of the biggest (and first) successes of daytime radio, enjoying a run of more than two decades. It exploited a favored theme of producers Frank and Anne Hummert: life in a small town. The precise location of Hartville was not revealed, but it was always thought to be somewhere in the Midwest. The serial was unusual in at least two aspects: the protagonist was male, and the musical bridges were played on guitar and harmonica, giving it a sound quite unlike the organ-drenched serials around it. Bill Davidson was one of the first great philosophers of serial drama. He was the male counterpart of Ma Perkins, predating that staunch old mother of the air by almost a year. He ran a barbershop, but what Bill did best was meddle in the lives of his friends, all for their own good. He got involved under protest, arguing in that marvelously caring voice that “this is really none of my affair” while the announcer returned to put it in perspective: How can Bill, drawn into the middle of this romantic triangle, straighten out the lives of his friends?

By 1932 he was a vaudeville headliner. He was on Broadway as part of Earl Carroll’s Vanities when newspaper columnist Ed Sullivan invited him to appear on a radio interview and gossip show. At the time he had no great interest in the new medium, but he went on Sullivan’s quarter-hour show March 19, 1932, as a favor. His first words on the air were these: “Ladies and gentlemen, this is Jack Benny talking. There will be a slight pause while you say, ‘Who cares?’ I am here tonight as a scenario writer. There is quite a lot of money in writing scenarios for the pictures. Well, there would be if I could sell one. That seems to be my only trouble right now, but I’m going back to pictures in about ten weeks. I’m going to be in a new film with Greta Garbo. They sent me the story last week. When the picture opens, I’m found dead in the bathroom.…