Wallace

Informationen zum Autor A native South Carolinian, Marshall Frady has been a journalist for more than 25 years, writing principally on political figures and racial and social tensions in the American culture, first as a correspondent for Newsweek , then for Life , Harper's, Esquire , The New York Review of Books , The Sunday Times (London), The Atlantic Monthly , and most recently The New Yorker . In the 1980s, he was chief writer and correspondent for ABC News Closeup and a correspondent for Nightline . He is the author of the acclaimed biographies Wallace and Billy Graham: A Parable of American Righteousness. Klappentext "A sensitive! informed and funny feat of high journalism that is a classic of the kind."-The New York Times Book Review Wallace is a classic portrait of one of the century's most fiery and controversial political figures. Initially conceived as a novel! Marshall Frady's biography of George Wallace retains the narrative force and descriptive powers of fiction. Elizabeth Hardwick noted on Wallace's first publication in 1968! "There is a palpable Faulknerian mood to the reporting!" and The New Republic observed! "Frady has established new standards in political biography." This is a wonderfully crafted depiction of a seminal figure whose influence altered the course of national politics. On a cold, rain-flicked night in 1967 a rickety twin-engine Convair 240 began a blind and uncertain descent through low clouds, abruptly breaking out over the scattered watery lights of Concord, New Hampshire. It came in headlong, less by instruments and calculation than with a precipitous lurching optimism. A damp huddle of greeters was waiting in the dark, and they waggled dime-store Confederate flags when he emerged from the planea stumpy little man with heavy black eyebrows and bright black darting eyes and a puglike bulb of a nose who looked as if he might have stepped out of an eighteenth-century London street scene by Hogarth. Wrapped in a black raincoat, he bobbed spryly down the steps as flashbulbs stammered in the rain. Someone held an umbrella over his head while he said a few words to the newsmen. Asked if he were offended because no local officials were there to welcome him, he answered jauntily, Nawhis voice rising just a bitNaw, 'cause it's the workin' folks all over this country who're gettin' fed up and are gonna turn this country around, and a whole heap of politicians are gonna get run over when they do. With that, he was bundled into a car at the head of the waiting cavalcade, and, with a swift surge, everyonehe, his entourage, the reporters, his local supportersvanished into the night. One had the peculiar fleeting impression that a squad of commandos or guerrillas, irregulars at any rate, had just landed in the dark and was now loose in the New England countryside. At a press conference that evening in a crammed smoke-hazed motel room on the outskirts of Concord, he seemedpeering over a thicket of microphones that came up almost to his chin, perspiring and a little haggard in the harsh glare of television lightsan improbable apparition. His baggy dark suit was buttoned tightly over his paunch, with a tab-collar shirt hugging the bulky knot of an inexpensive tie. His breast pocket was bulging with plastic-tip White Owl cigars and scraps of paper on which were scribbled random notes, addresses, telephone numbers. He looked somewhat like a traveling novelty salesman. But what this chunky little man was occupied with, what had brought him out of the night from distant Alabama all the way to this New Hampshire motel room, was the election of the next President of the United Statesan event now only a year away. He carefully affected, out of deference to this unfamiliar assembly, a subdued and amiable manner, with much congenial winking, and his grammar and enunciation...

Autorentext
A native South Carolinian, Marshall Frady has been a journalist for more than 25 years, writing principally on political figures and racial and social tensions in the American culture, first as a correspondent for Newsweek, then for Life, Harper's, Esquire, The New York Review of Books, The Sunday Times (London), The Atlantic Monthly, and most recently The New Yorker. In the 1980s, he was chief writer and correspondent for ABC News Closeup and a correspondent for Nightline. He is the author of the acclaimed biographies Wallace and Billy Graham: A Parable of American Righteousness.

Klappentext
"A sensitive, informed and funny feat of high journalism that is a classic of the kind."-The New York Times Book Review

Wallace is a classic portrait of one of the century's most fiery and controversial political figures. Initially conceived as a novel, Marshall Frady's biography of George Wallace retains the narrative force and descriptive powers of fiction. Elizabeth Hardwick noted on Wallace's first publication in 1968, "There is a palpable Faulknerian mood to the reporting," and The New Republic observed, "Frady has established new standards in political biography." This is a wonderfully crafted depiction of a seminal figure whose influence altered the course of national politics.

Leseprobe
On a cold, rain-flicked night in 1967 a rickety twin-engine Convair 240 began a blind and uncertain descent through low clouds, abruptly breaking out over the scattered watery lights of Concord, New Hampshire. It came in headlong, less by instruments and calculation than with a precipitous lurching optimism.
 
A damp huddle of greeters was waiting in the dark, and they waggled dime-store Confederate flags when he emerged from the plane—a stumpy little man with heavy black eyebrows and bright black darting eyes and a puglike bulb of a nose who looked as if he might have stepped out of an eighteenth-century London street scene by Hogarth. Wrapped in a black raincoat, he bobbed spryly down the steps as flashbulbs stammered in the rain. Someone held an umbrella over his head while he said a few words to the newsmen. Asked if he were offended because no local officials were there to welcome him, he answered jauntily, “Naw”—his voice rising just a bit—“Naw, ’cause it’s the workin’ folks all over this country who’re gettin’ fed up and are gonna turn this country around, and a whole heap of politicians are gonna get run over when they do.” With that, he was bundled into a car at the head of the waiting cavalcade, and, with a swift surge, everyone—he, his entourage, the reporters, his local supporters—vanished into the night. One had the peculiar fleeting impression that a squad of commandos or guerrillas, irregulars at any rate, had just landed in the dark and was now loose in the New England countryside.
 
At a press conference that evening in a crammed smoke-hazed motel room on the outskirts of Concord, he seemed—peering over a thicket of microphones that came up almost to his chin, perspiring and a little haggard in the harsh glare of television lights—an improbable apparition. His baggy dark suit was buttoned tightly over his paunch, with a tab-collar shirt hugging the bulky knot of an inexpensive tie. His breast pocket was bulging with plastic-tip White Owl cigars and scraps of paper on which were scribbled random notes, addresses, telephone numbers. He looked somewhat like a traveling novelty salesman. But what this chunky little man was occupied with, what had brought him out of the night from distant Alabama all the way to this New Hampshire motel room, was the election of the next President of the United States—an event now only a year away. He carefully affected, out of deference to this unfamiliar assembly, a …

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