THE FIRST WORD the average traveler sees on arrival at the lovely, historic anti slightly down-at-the heels city of Saint John. New Brunswick, is the word Irving, towering ten feet high on a private hangar at the edge of the airport. The next word he sees is also the word Irving, announcing the first-chance gas station less than a hundred yards along the main road to the city.By Ralph Allen25 min
THIS IS A REPORT on Miss Kate Reid, thirty-three, now of Broadway, than whom probably no Canadian actress has ever had more people rooting for her. She is that kind of actress and that kind of person. The rooters, in a profession not always noted for generosity to another’s talent, include just about everyone who knows her.By BARBARA MOON17 min
FOR THE RATHER SPECIAL PURPOSES of daily newspaper editors, a fictional eighteenth-century prostitute named Fanny Hill has played in recent months the role that Christine Keeler, the real twentieth - century prostitute, played last summer.By Robert Fulford16 min
LLOYD PERCIVAL is a short, fifty-year-old man whose close-cropped hair isn't as ginger as when he was "Red" Percival, the best cricketer and second best lightweight boxer in Canada. But he could reasonably pass for ten years younger now that he has shed the thirty-seven pounds he deliberately put on to find out what it feels like to he a fat slob.By ERIC HUTTON15 min
SINCE JEAN DRAPEAU, the mayor of Montreal, is the kind of figure who embitters some people so much that they call him an “enemy of democracy,” let me say at the outset of this first-person report that I admire him. I have shared his confidence and sometimes advised him.By LESLIE ROBERTS15 min
I GREW UP ON FARNHAM and Woodlawn Avenues in central Toronto but now I can’t find much on either of them that speaks of my childhood, and I won’t be thirty till July. Those streets, in my memory at least, were largely populated by hairy men in singlets, by widows of an unholy age, and by packs of shouting dogs who were always “at large."
PERHAPS IT’S APPROPRIATE, in some hideously local way, that the only Toronto poet in the city of Toronto is mostly ignored by Torontonians. Raymond Souster’s books sell few copies, the magazines in which his poems appear are read by few people, and only the odd newspaper reviewer bothers to notice that he exists.By ROBERT FULFORD6 min
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