K. LeMoyne Billings—
“My father died during my second year at Choate—and at Princeton, Jack joined me in one of the cheapest rooms. It was so old and the walls were deteriorating behind the wallpaper. The bathroom was in the cellar, and we had to walk seventy-five steps up to get to our bedroom, but he never complained, not ever. And in 1937, we went to Europe together. We went and explored every museum, every church. I went over with very little money because my father wasn’t alive. This was another side of Jack’s character: he was perfectly happy to live at places for forty cents a night, and we ate frightful food—we just had some terrific times together—but that was something about him I admired, because he never cared, he never tried to make you feel as though he were better than you, and it’d hurt his feelings if you thought he was. I think that’s part of the reason he never carried cash around with him… It didn’t make him feel good.”
Wes Anderson, “Castello Cavalcanti”, for Prada.
Our brave young men are dying in the swamps of Southeast Asia. Which of them might have written a poem? Which of them might have cured cancer? Which of them might have played in a World Series or given us the gift of laughter from the stage or helped build a bridge or a university? Which of them would have taught a child to read? It is our responsibility to let these men live….It is indecent if they die because of the empty vanity of their country.
A group of people gather round and watch a snake charmer at work in India, 1923.
Photograph by Hans Hildenbrand, National Geographic