In This Issue
Explore the July 1976 print edition below. Or to discover more writing from the pages of The Atlantic, browse the full archive.
Nice guys may finish last, but a sweet-talking candidate for President finished first in a key Democratic presidential primary this spring, knocking most of the original contenders out of the race. The Atlantic's Washington editor followed Jimmy Carter's march through Pennsylvania, and witnessed a new kind of love story, as well as portents of trouble.
He was the prince of excess among the expatriate Americans in Paris in the 1920s. A Boston Brahmin, proprietor of the Black Sun Press, handsome and high-rolling nephew of J. P. Morgan, friend of Hart Crane, e. e. cummings, and Archibald MacLeish, author of a book of poems for his wife and another for his mistress; and, some thought, a madman. That was Harry Crosby. On December 10, 1929, he shot his lover and then himself in a studio in New York’s Hotel des Artistes. Author and critic Wolff records perhaps the strangest of the Lost Generation legends.
At social gatherings where four-letter words make not a ripple, a boldly tattooed forearm is still likely to evoke shudders and images of waterfront dives, motorcycle gangs, and prison mess halls.
The misery and privation of the mountain towns of Appalachia became a campaign issue in 1960, when JFK passed through West Virginia. After a spurt of direct federal aid for the region, the nation’s attention faded. The energy crisis has swung the spotlight back to Appalachia, where coal lies both shallow and deep, where the fight about whether to stripmine or deep-mine rages, and where the people who live and work the land feel a fierce need to control their own destinies.
The fault, dear reader, is not in the stars, but in ourselves. Or is it? Shakespeare couldn’t make up his mind about astrology, writes the author (a Gemini), and neither can some scientists, so who is she to close the door on it?