Here are some pieces I have written about those who have died - but live on.


"All this talk had got Rupert quite excited so we lay on the
sofa, and got into some rather peculiar positions with R
howling, 'I wanna seduce you, I wanna seduce you!' At that
interesting moment the sirens blew off. I jumped up to check
the black-out, pulling my blouse on and looking for my
shoes. 'Gosh,' I said, 'I must go, Mummy thought I'd be back
by ten.' Rupert didn't answer, he was lying on the bed face
downwards, making strange groaning noises. As I was walking
home, heard bombs in the distance and saw flares."

It was not until her mid-sixties that Joan Wyndham's past
caught up with her and she attracted considerable attention,
in 1985, with her wartime diaries. With sidelights upon such
people as Henry Moore and J. C. Squire, she chronicled a
campaign to shed her virginity that was as assiduously
documented as anything across the Channel - so much so that,
at times, this engagingly giddy record of bohemian Chelsea
can make Spike Milligan's account of those times appear as
sober as Montgomery's.

She was born in 1921, a birth galvanised by her mother's
shock at seeing her husband, Dick, fall from a horse. He
belonged to that branch of the Wyndham family which had been
ejected from Petworth in the 19th century and set up home at
Clouds in Wiltshire.

With an ancestry readily traceable back to the Norman
Conquest, the family had by now gained so openly racy a tone
that, as Joan recalled, the family tree did not shy from
including those branches denoting lovers of varying ardour.

Her father, Richard, generally known as Dick, survived the
First World War in the King's Royal Rifle Corps and was
awarded the MC, after which, suffering from shock, he was
appointed aide-de-camp to Lord French, Viceroy of Ireland,
who had taken up with a mistress of Romanian origins, Wendy
Bennett. She already had a daughter, Iris, for whom she was
eager to find that place in English society which had proved
unavailable to herself.

Iris duly gained the prize of marriage to Dick Wyndham in
1920. On asking her mother, "I'm sorry to bother you like
this but I must have your advice. What do I have to do to
please a man?", she had been told "Remember to always use
lots of scent and never let him see you brush your teeth".

Thus equipped, at scarcely 20, after a life of dancing in
which arithmetic had played little part, Iris was in charge
of a large household - and that after a painful wedding
night which obliged her to visit a doctor, whose
ministrations left her frigid. Life at Clouds was pellmell,
with Dick taking up painting, and, along the way, becoming
one of those whose subsidy of Wyndham Lewis was rewarded by
derision in his novel The Apes of God.

With a certain inevitability amid turbulent 1920s life, the
marriage faltered, and collapsed when Dick was espied behind
the Christmas tree in the middle of the night with Irene,
Marchioness of Queensbury.

The prolonged preamble to divorce only increased Iris's
distress, but, as chance had it, she found emotional
sanctuary with the artist Sidonie ("Sid") Houselander, who
had been painting Joan's nursery: Sid was best known for her
tempestuous affair with the spy Sidney Reilly, a love so
ardent that she had given up Catholicism for the duration.

Obliged to leave Clouds, Iris and Joan lived in Wendover,
which only increased a craving for the city. This brought
them a house off the Fulham Road. They were visited by Sid,
who duly moved in.

Aged 10, Joan was sent to the Convent of the Holy Child in
St Leonard's where the nuns were friendly, humorous and
broad-minded - unlike the bullying schoolmates. "I can't
blame them, when I remember how I looked - long greasy
plaits, goggles and a brace on my front teeth. I also had a
funny way of talking, with my head bent to one side. But,
worst of all, I was brainy and a swot. In fact, I was the
most unpopular girl in the school, apart from Betty
Rees-Mogg, known as the Greasy Wog." In time, she found a
group of her own, their innocently knowing view of the world
fortified by Joan's holiday perusal of Sid's copy of Freud.

As she said at the time, "It's all very well being cracked
on other girls", but she developed a keen taste for men
after seeing John Gielgud play Hamlet. Great was her joy
when a friend's aunt arranged a back-stage meeting with the
Prince of Denmark. He confided in them: "You can't imagine
what torment the letters I get about my knees give me. I try
so hard to stand with my knees straight but it's so much
easier to have them bent!" Such glamour was enough to give
Joan a craving for the stage. Leaving school, she went for a
RADA test and, on passing it, wrote: "I raced down to the
King's Road and had my hair set for five shillings at a
cheap little shop by a Scotsman who was wearing lots of
rings and insisted on breathing heavily down my neck. After
that went to see the Marx Brothers for the first time in
Duck Soup. They are complete geniuses, especially the dumb

Despite looming war, it was a high, happy time of
Shakespeare and cheap restaurants, of Alec Guinness as
Hamlet ("he was terribly thin and wasted-away-looking, a
queer face, a lovely smile and ears like a young bat")
while, at the Theatrical Garden Party, there was Coward "in
a grey topper with a carnation in his buttonhole. He was
auctioning ladies' underclothes and had just succeeded in
selling a most immodest pair of panties which he'd
autographed for Godfrey Winn".

By the time war came, she had taken up art, with a studio
atop a house in Redcliffe Road while studying at nearby
Manresa Road, where Henry Moore "is sweet and brown with
magnetic blazing blue eyes . . . when he comes into a room
it's like a spark being struck . . . I do hope I'm not going
to get a crush on him". Meanwhile, still a virgin, there was
nonetheless "a terrible love-bite on my cheek, so I got a
pin and made a few scratches across it, and told Mummy a cat
had scratched me, but I don't think she believed me. Later
we listened to a very stirring speech by Churchill about
'blood, toil, sweat and tears'."

Many were those intent upon conquering her. One exclaimed in
his frustration, "the trouble is you're not like a proper
virgin, all coy and embarrassed and ignorant. You may look
innocent enough but every now and then you talk like an old
French whore!"

Come the event, "It was bloody painful and I clutched on to
him and groaned, and just as I was thinking I can't stand
this any more, it stopped". Her spirits were irrepressible,
even with a bomb. "In fact it's not surprising number 34 was
hit; if any three things called for a bomb on them they were
Leonard's painting, Prudey's novel and Rupert's poems!"

All this, when published in Love Lessons (1985), brought
acclaim as a record of the human spirit amid war's
adversities, as did its sequel Love is Blue(1987), adapted
from letters to her mother in which WAAF life brings often
comic man trouble - and an encounter with a drunken Dylan
Thomas, whom she fends off, finding that he has little
desire to talk about poetry. Rather more satisfactory was
the brother of her best friend Veronica - Sir Hugh Fraser.
He was stationed in a nearby castle and theirs was a great
passion: she would have married him had he asked. There was
also an affair with a Norwegian: "You couldn't say no to a
pilot - he could have been dead the next day".

After the war she became involved with Lucian Freud, and
when that proved all too much, took herself off to the Isles
of Scilly. There arrest for vagrancy brought her a certain
fixity of purpose, sufficient in time to take up with a
scholar, Maurice Rowdon, whom she married.

During their life in Oxford they had a daughter, and then
his teaching work took them to Baghdad, from where she
returned early to the flat they had let to a Russian couple.
The woman, it turned out, had gone, and, with a certain
inevitability, the tenant, Alexander Shivarg, one night
opened a bottle of vodka, which led him to sing Russian
songs; so, at the ironing board, began a passionate affair
which was immediately apparent to Joan's husband on his

With divorce and marriage to Shivarg in 1952, her life
resumed its inherent bohemian aspect. With the birth of
their daughter, Alexander began other liaisons, at which
Joan did not balk, but instead took lovers of her own, a
situation which bolstered the marriage, whose course was to
include her opening what is sometimes said to be the first
espresso bar in England, catering at the Royal Court Theatre
and at various pop festivals in the 1960s.

Whatever turns her life continued to take, partly described
in Anything Once (1992), at the heart of it was a marriage
which endured to the end. Despite cancer and then strokes,
she was able in 2004 to describe her early years in Dawn
Chorus. Testament to a true bohemian spirit in which comedy
and humanity surmount the inevitable muddle and heartache,
her four hootingly funny volumes can only inspire a
devil-may-care attitude - however briefly - in anybody who
picks them up.

She is survived by her husband and two daughters.

Joan Wyndham, writer, was born on October 11, 1921. She died
on April 8, 2007, aged 85


His numbers, cats and brilliant drawings changed American art
As an account of the essence of the art of Steinberg, who has died aged 84, this can hardly be bettered. It remains an indication of how much more there was to him than that fine, much-reproduced 1976 view of the world from New York's 9th Avenue - with the Hudson as large as the Pacific, and China merely a blip.


There is no pat way of summing-up Steinberg. Diversely rooted, his work anticipated much of what was to come in American art, such as the pop movement, and stands above it all. He was described by Robert Hughes as having 'erected standards of precision and graphic intelligence that had not been imagined in American illustration before him.'


Success came to him; it was never a career plan. He was born in the small Romanian town of Ramnicul-Sarat. The family soon moved to Bucharest, where his father, Moritz, was a printer, bookbinder and manufacturer of cardboard boxes. Saul was always close to his sister, the artist Lica Roman. Brought up on Romanian, French and Yiddish, Steinberg had the run of his father's workshop, and developed a love of letters as physical objects - something which remained a central part of his work.


'Four is an interesting number because it is a shape that would arouse the curiosity of a cat,' he wrote. 'Most numbers are either open or closed. Number 8, for instance, is closed; a cat has no business to look inside. A cat likes to peer into something that is half open - a little bit open - a mystery. Number 3 is obvious; number 1 is nothing; 5 perhaps is more intriguing, but 4 certainly is perfectly designed and engineered for a cat to look inside and find out what is going on.

'So here I combined an illusion of reality with an abstraction. The abstraction, number 4, became a reality, and the cat became an abstraction because it combined itself with this number. It rendered the whole thing plausible and, from a drawing point of view, perfectly workable.'

Meanwhile, the child Steinberg had got 'high on elementary things, like the luminosity of the day and the smell of everything - mud, earth, humidity, the delicious smells of cellars and mould, grocers' shops.' He remarked that 'the continuous line of my drawing dates from childhood and is probably a way of writing from my illiterate days.'


His education was at the tough, crowded Liceul Matei Basarab, where the main subject was Latin, and he developed a passion for books. He went to Bucharest University to study philosophy and letters in 1932, then to Milan and the faculty of architecture at the Politecnio. He paid his way by supplying cartoons for the satirical magazine Bertoldo, and took pleasure in calculating that one day's lunch was paid for by the cat he had drawn that morning.

Steinberg graduated in 1940, but knew that he could not be an architect because it meant dealing day-to-day with people in a way that did not come naturally to someone of his remorselessly observant temperament. It had also become apparent that he would have to leave a country allied with the Nazis. On first arriving in Lisbon - en route to America - he was sent back. The second attempt got him to Ellis Island, but again he was sent packing, to the Dominican Republic. He sat it out a year while strings were pulled at the New Yorker to have him admitted to America.

Steinberg seized upon all that the US had to offer. He travelled the country, building a mental store of images to fuel work in the studio. He also married Hedda Sterne in 1942; they separated amicably in the mid-1960s and did not divorce. There remains some confusion as to how he was recruited by the intelligence department of the US navy.


Meanwhile, in New York, he had been taken on by the dealer Betty Parsons (who would boost the careers of Rothko and Pollock), and also became a more regular contributor to the New Yorker, where his early work was more in the conventional cartoon mode, with something of George Price's domestic mayhem.


He returned to Manhattan, via Africa and Italy, in 1945 and published his first book, All In Line. It shows a distinct progress from witty cartoons to something distinctly Steinbergian - encapsulated by the drawing of a man who is himself adding the finishing-touch to his chin, ink-bottle nearby. To some it might seem a doodle, but the clock which, in four drawings, eats itself as the minute-hand advances through the hour, presages much. Also in the volume are the beginnings of his almost-Beckettian sense of man alone in a world that, for all its trappings, is meaningless. Like Beckett, Steinberg is a great comedian. In The Art Of Living the uniform of a doorman outside a funeral parlour not only sports epaulettes but wings.


After the second world war he covered the Nuremberg trials for the New Yorker and then lived in Paris. Over the next few years he travelled in Mexico, California, Italy, South America, France, and across the battlefields of the American civil war. He also chronicled a Milwaukee Braves tour in 1954. 'It is impossible to understand America without a thorough knowledge of baseball,' he said - so much so that he was once seen in his New York apartment with a baseball glove on one hand watching a match on television.


Steinberg might have been called an orderly anarchist, alive to words and parody. He could turn his hand to anything; he also developed the use of found objects as material, and bad art was something he collected and transformed. Years ahead of Yoko Ono he hit on the bag as a way of being photographed anonymously.


He also designed opera sets, and travelled among the hillbilly people and places of the American South. Few, if any, American artists have taken so much of the continent as their province, and fuelled it with a view of the entire world: he was soon in Spain, and several winters were spent in Africa. He went with Saul Bellow up the Nile: 'surrounded by hundreds of crocodiles - both of us terrified at the idea of disaster and comical obituaries.'


As a Nasa artist at Cape Canaveral, it was thought that he would be inspired by the Apollo missions but, being Steinberg, he was more attracted by the life of nearby honky-tonks. He lasted two days among the astronauts, just as he had managed one day in Hollywood, when his hand was hired for close-ups in An American In Paris. More orthodox was his commission to work at the Smithsonian Institute for four months, an experience which made him feel more of an immigrant than ever. Inevitably, he stayed in the house of a gorilla expert.


This whimsical side was part of his attraction. It also gave force to what is undoubtedly a savage, despairing view of the US, as becomes clear from the pages of a later collection, The Discovery Of America, peopled by blowsy characters amid tawdry settings.


Steinberg, in a manner both canny and sentimental, was reluctant to part with his work, preferring to sell reproduction rights. It is high time that there was another full-scale retrospective in England of an artist whom George Price called 'a wow from the beginning'.


Saul Steinberg, artist, born June 15, 1914; died May 12, 1999



Mention the name of the interviewer and broadcaster Studs Terkel, who spent most of his life in Chicago, and it invariably brings to mind an inveterate chronicler of blue-collar, hardscrabble America – such books of oral history as Race, Division Street, Working and Hard Times. In fact that quintessential American owed this turn in his career, at the age of 55, to the English actress Eleanor Bron – while Dame Ivy Compton-Burnett proved as sage an inspiration to him as his friends Big Bill Broonzy and Mahalia Jackson.


Terkel, the last of three brothers, was born in 1912 in a diversely populated Bronx, where his parents Samuel and Anna had arrived from the Polish/Russian border at the beginnng of the century. A tailor and seamstress, each highly skilled, they were always at loggerheads, she a volatile and abusive character, he beset by the poor health which left him all the morevulnerable to her vituperation. Terkel – named Louis – shared a room with his bedridden father, but shut much of this from his memory, as he did teenage grief at his father's death, preferring to recall the jazz and drama encouraged by his older brothers.

By this time, with business thin, the family had been transplanted to Chicago, where Samuel's well-off brother-in-law installed Anna as manager at one of his rooming hotels, the Wells-Grand, whose lease she later took. If this hardly fulfilled her dream of what a new life in America meant, she worked assiduously, even blow-torching bugs from bedsprings. The place brought Terkel in contact with its diverse residents, including a hooker who plied her trade at premises elsewhere, and such was the character of Chicago that one classmate's uncle was found "floating down the drainage canal. And no water wings. It was a strange place for him to have gone swimming. The waters were polluted even then".

At McLaren High School he relished debates and poetry, along with Paine, Voltaire and Upton Sinclair – and found a particular penchant for Roget's Thesaurus, which he enjoined upon people ever after.

Although he had not been especially aware of the Crash, its effect began to be felt at the hotel, whose denizens now lingered over card games in the lobby before quietly vanishing. Prospects did not look good for anything that might follow his stint at the city's University, to which he walked each day, lingering en route at the "gallimaufry" shops for jazz records. Subsequent studies at Law School were desultory, by which time this prospective attorney was known as Studs. Mindful of his poor health, he wanted a more macho persona, and had adopted Studs, hero of James T. Farrell's Young Lonigan (1932): by the time its sequels chronicled decline and suicide, Terkel was unshakably Studs.


By 1934 he had a minor civil service post, but with the New Deal he joined the Federal Emergency Rehabilitation Administration to determine the nature of unemployment in large cities while himself hankering after some other job. He did not know exactly what, but he had once appeared, in a fedora, on the cover of American Detective. This taste for acting and being "caught up in the radiance of commitment" led to his joining a theatre group: at a time of civil dispute, he was stopped on the street but allowed to go on his way after explaining that he was due at a play-reading, not specifying that this was Clifford Odets' Waiting For Lefty. These dramatic forays led to appearances in radio soaps, when he was always cast as the villain. "In all instances, I was disappeared," he said. Such decisions were explained to him by the producer: "heroes had pear-shaped tones; mine were apricot-shaped".


Hopes of Red Cross work during the Second World War were foiled by his health, and he spent a year with the Army as a radio newscaster (nominally healthier than him, both his brothers inherited the gene which brought their father's early death). Back in Chicago, Terkel was occupied with some more radio work, journalism, and much public speaking: this avowed agnostic could have made a fine preacher, said Mahalia Jackson, whose singing he brought to public attention (never claiming credit for this) on a record show called Wax Museum.


A hard worker, he found that things happened. Particular renown came with Studs' Place, a television programme set in a restaurant where good talk was the main item on the menu. It was struck off the menu in 1953, however, in the McCarthy era, when Terkel's activities were studied. "I'd guess that half the organisations listed by Harry Truman's attorney general as subversive profited to the tune of a buck or two by my windiness," he said. Such had been the success of Stud's Place that visitors thought it existed, asking taxis to take them there.


Times now became hard, a little eased by Ida's taking up teaching, and he disconcerted FBI agents by joshing with them when they turned up. Perforce, he read all the more. This was to sustain the long-running radio show which began to air five days a week a few years later on the city's WMFT station. It became a regular halt for any visiting author. They could reckon on a host who, loathing the "bite" mentality, had closely read their book, its pages heavily underlined, and the conversation – questions unscripted – would form part of a programme which flowed unjarringly from classical to jazz and folk music.

With his cigar, hat and red muffler, he became a familiar city figure, known in every restaurant. Undoubtedly a showman, he was not a megalomaniac: far from villainous, that apricot voice eschewed the cheap shots of confrontation, and drew out his guests, who realised that listeners would not be content with PR banalities. Terkel made no secret that, although agnostic, he well-nigh idolised such people as James Cameron, Jacques Tati, Nelson Algren, Big Bill Broonzy and Bertrand Russell. Of Broonzy he once said, "no matter how humiliating the circumstances, he never allows himself to be humiliated", while in Wales, where he lived, Russell told Terkel, "an individual can do a very great deal simply by expressing an opinion. The powerlessness of the individual is a pretence, an alibi for doing nothing, a form of cowardice, almost".


Such spirits guided Terkel, who none the less found it impossible to say "I love you" to his wife: a consequence, perhaps, of that fraught childhood which could have found a place in the novels of Ivy Compton-Burnett. Curiously overlooked by her biographer Hilary Spurling is one of her most memorable conversations. As Terkel said on meeting the novelist at her South Kensington flat, "hers is not an accusatory tone. It never is. She simply wants to know. Her curiosity encompasses more than life. It's something else she seeks." It was a spirit he shared, and she summed up her work to him: "I think actual life supplies characters much less than art. Life is too flat for that. You must make a clever person cleverer, a stupid person more stupid, and an amusing person more amusing ... Life is merely the mounting block. Don't you think so?"


That is a philosophy which could be considerably elaborated, and Terkel was spurred to do so by Eleanor Bron. When touring America with the revue The Establishment in the early Sixties, she appeared on his show. They got on well, and she later suggested to the publisher Andre Schiffrin, whom she had known at Cambridge, that Terkel should produce a volume of oral history along the lines of a recent success which his firm Pantheon had enjoyed with Jan Myrdal's Portrait of a Chinese Village. Schiffrin was attracted by the idea, and so, in his fifties, Terkel began the works for which he is most widely known (his only other book had been in 1957, for children about jazz).


Sometimes thought simply a matter of putting a microphone in front of a voluble subject, transcription duly shovelled up, oral history in fact requires a shaping spirit as much as any art or trade (a comparison of Boswell's Journals and his Life of Johnson shows that). Terkel reckoned that 60 pages of transcript would yield eight when printed, his final versions tested by being read aloud to his wife. The first volume was Division Street: America (1967), about the cracks and gulfs in the country's society, his aim being – in a phrase from Lillian Hellmann's Watch on the Rhine – "to shake them out of their magnolias".


In working on these books, he traversed America many times, and was as in tune with the contemporary demotic as the New Yorker writer Joseph Mitchell. His books include Hard Times (1970), Working: People Talk about What They Do All Day and How They Feel About What They Do (1974), American Dreams: Lost and Found (1980), The Good War (1984), The Great Divide (1988), Race (1992), Coming of Age (1995), and The Spectator: Talk About Movies and Plays with the People Who Make Them (1999).


The otherwise obscure Lucy Jefferson points out in Division Street: America that, "there's such a thing as feeling tone: either you have it or you don't, you know, it's either horrible or it's friendly. If you ain't got it, baby, you've had it." Dame Ivy it isn't, but it is as pertinent.

Seemingly hefty, the many pages of all these books are highly readable, every paragraph material for a novel: the million-selling Working even prompted a 1978 Broadway musical by Stephen Schwartz and others (a waitress sings of her labours, "It's an Art"), while Arthur Miller used Hard Times for his play The American Clock. Terkel, who regarded himself as a prospector, got to the essence of American preoccupations, and, in letting people speak, drew out more than they realised.


Along the way, among the blue-collar crowd, up pops Joan Crawford, whom he tells he has recently visited a South Africa beset by apartheid, to which she unblushingly replies, "you know, the costumes we wear, Adrian's, they're South African", while Ted Turner reveals, "I've always been a kind of romantic. I feel myself as maybe a modern-day Rhett Butler ... everybody should see themselves as a dashing figure ... I would like to have lived a whole bunch of lives."


One of the most remarkable items is that by CP Ellis, who became business manager of the International Union of Operating Engineers after an early life in the Ku Klux Klan, his attraction to which, and subsequent revulsion from, are chronicled in a way that is affecting. "Deep down inside, we want to be part of this great society," he said – while Arnold Schwarzenegger said of his early years, "everybody gave up competing against me. That's what I call a winner. I own apartment buildings, office buildings, and raw land. That's my love, real estate."


William Benton, who bought Muzak for a song in the Depression and was a millionaire by 36, said, "I have a tin ear. That's why my ear was so good for radio." In The Good War, a stockbroker uncorks his recollections. "It's a terrible thing to say, but it was the most exciting span of time that I ever spent. The most romantic. If you're lucky enough not to get killed or maimed, and you go through it, it's much like a hospital experience. You never remember the pain, you remember the ass of the nurse who came in and bent over you."


A defining moment in contemporary history for him was the 1965 Freedom Movement's march from Selma to Montgomery. Open a Terkel book and one reads on, such is the way he shows, as Russell said, how individual efforts make a difference. When Working appeared, the writer and historian Nat Hentoff recalled, some schoolchildren in Pennsylvania were not allowed to read it after some parents objected to its being a course book; Terkel spoke there, and the book was reinstated. The pupils wrote to him: "you have widened our horizons and you have given us the ability to see what America is truly about".


Although he chronicled all these lives, and was given to talking to himself when nobody else was around, he avoided saying any more than necessary about himself – such as his fame making his son Paul drop any writing hopes of his own, becoming an accountant and changing his name in an attempt to forge a separate identity. But Terkel relished life, and he initially deflected Gore Vidal's 1970 suggestion that he produce a volume on death. No sooner did he begin it – Will The Circle Be Unbroken? (2001) – than his wife died, at Christmas in 1999.

Despite deafness he worked on, certain that his doctor's "ebullience, his spirit of bonhomie, and his skills have been key factors in my living far beyond my traditionally allotted span". A contrast with a fireman in the book, who recalls that "a friend of mine committed suicide by Blockbuster. His wife and his son died. He kept renting videos all day and all night and just drinking liquor, scotch. They found him with the VCR running."


Terkel caught that great American way with words, and, after the subject of death, he turned to Hope Dies Last (2003), which was subtitled, with an echo of Russell's remark, "Making a Difference in an Indifferent World". Inspired by Thomas Paine, it chronicles a new spirit: "Today, from unexpected sources, comes a growing challenge to the official word... It may not be the stuff that makes a TV soundbite, but it's the stuff of neighbourhood. It's the stuff set off by those who stepped forth and made the word 'activist' a common noun in our vocabulary; a new vocation."


Terkel had the spirit to be a part of every era he lived through. Despite doubts about technology, he turned the tape-recorder to brilliant effect. "A decade that could throw up a phenomenon like the Beatles, that was really something, wasn't it?" he said. His favourite song by them was "Hello, Goodbye" – indeed, he was very much of the view "you say goodbye, and I say hello". As he glossed it, "don't ask me why, it just gets to me somehow, it expresses – well, I don't know what: if I did, maybe it wouldn't be as meaningful for me, would it? It expresses the inexpressible."

Louis "Studs" Terkel, oral historian, writer, broadcaster, actor: born New York 16 May 1912; married Ida Goldberg 1939 (died 1999, one son); died Chicago 31 October 2008.