The Misanthrope’s Corner

AS the culture war heats up and the attacks on Hollywood decadence mount in anticipation of the 1996 election, I find myself remembering the Hollywood that started me off on the road to cultural polish.

The memories are especially poignant at this time of year. On October 7, 1959, I was devastated by a newspaper headline: “Mario Lanza Dies in Rome.” My first crush, the man who had aroused my romantic and musical passions in such exquisite tandem that I could not tell one from the other, was dead at 38.

About the Author

Florence King

Florence King was a contributing editor of National Review.

AS the culture war heats up and the attacks on Hollywood decadence mount in anticipation of the 1996 election, I find myself remembering the Hollywood that started me off on the road to cultural polish.

The memories are especially poignant at this time of year. On October 7, 1959, I was devastated by a newspaper headline: “Mario Lanza Dies in Rome.” My first crush, the man who had aroused my romantic and musical passions in such exquisite tandem that I could not tell one from the other, was dead at 38.