Names make news. Last week these names made this news:
Oscar-winning Cinemactress Olivia de Havilland, 37, who once observed that a good husband should be "as placid as a millpond in July," posed for photographers in Hollywood with her new fiance, Paris Magazine Writer Pierre Galante, 42, whom she plans to marry soon after her divorce from Novelist Marcus (Delilah) Goodrich becomes final next week.
Seventy-eight years old and still ministering to the natives of French Equatorial Africa, Dr. Albert Schweitzer, medical missionary-philosopher-musician, was looking to the future. In a letter of thanks (for a supply of pills) to H. B. Burns, president of the U.S. Vitamin Corp., Schweitzer wrote: "I should like to accomplish some long-undertaken and far-progressed works ... in the realm of philosophy, history, religion and music ... At the same time, I have to keep myself in as good shape as possible for as long a time as possible for my hospital's sake ... It needs me for a while yet."
Of reports that he might become president of the University of Maryland, Harry Truman said, "There is no truth in it," added with finality, "I don't expect to be a college president." Of talk that she would run for Congresswoman from Missouri in 1954, Margaret Truman was "not going to as far as I know. I do hope I can take part in the campaign, but not as a candidate."
The French postal strike (see FOREIGN NEWS), which set communications in France back to the 17th century, was too much for the Aga Khan, who had come to Aix-les-Bains for a peaceful fortnight. He left town in a huff (actually, in a green Rolls Royce with red leather upholstery) and headed for the 20th century in Lausanne. Switzerland, followed by his chauffeur, maid and luggage in a second car. "The Aga Khan," it was explained, "receives and sends many letters and needs to make frequent phone calls abroad."
Home to a tumultuous welcome in Papakura, New Zealand, Sir Edmund Hillary, co-conqueror of Mt. Everest, made all sorts of news. He announced plans to marry a New Zealand music student in September; obliged photographers by flopping his 6 ft. 3 in. into a symbolic white victory chair built on skis which admirers presented to him; and he told how he first heard of his knighthood. "We were strolling down a mountain pass about halfway to Katmandu," he said. "We had long beards and looked extremely disreputable—in fact, like I do in Papakura. A Sherpa came along with letters, and there was one . . . addressed to 'Sir Edmund Hillary, K.B.E.' You have heard how your whole life is supposed to pass before your eyes at these times. Well, I could see myself walking down Broadway, Papakura, in my tattered overalls and the seat out of my pants, and I thought, 'That is gone forever. I will have to buy a new pair of overalls now.' "