Walter J. Weir, 39, is a handsome six-footer who flopped as a vaudevillian, switched to advertising and built up a $1,500,000 business. At a Publishers' Ad-club dinner in Manhattan, he rose to register a protest about the ads "connected with the business of embalming authors' brains between stiff covers." To Weir, the ads for what another adman called "breast sellers" look no different from "bra advertising ... It is difficult, at times, to tell . . . whether a book is about land-development or bust-development, about seafaring or suckling ... In my opinion, book advertising trades too much upon the sensational—when...
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