A chubby and phenomenally lifelike corpse lay in state last week at the Croatian capital of Zagreb. Throughout the entire province, peasants burned mourning candles under black shades and church bells tolled at midnight. Among some thousands of pious, grieving folk only the corpse seemed cheerful. A contented smile curved the dead lips, and the face was not "deathly pale" but merely less tanned and florid than usual. As the black-hooded candles danced, and solemn prayers were uttered, cables flashed around the Globe that Death had come to Stefan Raditch.
A volume crammed with paradoxes might conceivably sum up the...
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