year-old like a 24- or 34-year-old (thenblurring of kiddycult). He gives Mauricena copy of Celine’s Journey to thenEnd of the Night to read, then followsnthat up with the galley proofs of HenrynMiller’s Tropic of Cancer. Perhaps Inhave a low gag level, but a novel aboutnMiller’s anatomy, which seems to havenmore in common with the Alaskan Pipelinenthan with conventional humannphysiology, is in my estimation nauseating,nhardly the thing that I would havena 14-year-old take in hand. An octavonvolume of the Marquis de Sade is justnas exemplary. Not only does his fathernhave Maurice read the book, but he hasnhim design the cover. Keep in mindnthat this is no young Evelyn Waughnpracticing with pen and ink; beforenGirodias makes the revelation about thisncommission, there is no indication thatnhe is an artist.nOf age 15 he says, “I was fast turningnmyself into an introverted sex maniac,”nand justifies it with the observation,n”But what can one do, considering thatnone cannot take a mistress at the agenof eight.”” At this point, there is stillntwo-thirds of the book left to go. Itnseems that Girodias has taken FranknHarris’s My Life and Loves, an enormousnvolume of hyperbolic trash andnnonsense, as his model. When Girodiasnisn’t dealing with his sexual fantasies,nhe’s babbling about a fanatic Easterninfluencednreligious cult in which henbecomes a “knight.” This group benlieved that a reincarnation of JuliusnCaesar would emerge from a castlennear Prague and politically unite Europe,nexcept for England and the SovietnUnion, which, I suppose, were producingnthe wrong kind of vibes. World WarnII upset the cult’s plans. It didn’t matternmuch to Maurice, however; he onlynwanted to debauch one of the youngnmaidens in the group.nVJirodias is propornography and anticensorship.nHe is the type of personnwho defends porno by insisting that itnis capital-A Art. But in The Frog Princenhe stands self-condemned. That is.nthroughout the autobiography sex—or,nmore accurately, rutting—is the primarynconcern. When Girodias finallyngets a woman of no repute where henwants her, he realizes that he reallyndoesn’t know what to do with her, evennthough he describes himself as a “professornof erotic technology” at age 15.nHis solution.^ He calls to mind scenesnfrom Lady Chatterley’s Lover, ThenMemoirs of Fanny Hill, The Tropic ofnCapricorn and Frank Harris’s book, andnperforms accordingly. I have no doubtnthat Girodias would be the first to enternthe dock in defense of these and lessesteemednbooks as capital-A Art, yetnhe himself treats them as nothing morenthan sex manuals.nWith chronological (not psychologicalnor moral) adults like Girodias runningnaround loose, no wonder so manynchildren of our day are becomingnwarped, condemned to spend their childhoodndays in a childhood they can nevernhave, in an adult world not of theirnmaking.nAs I write, various segments of thenmedia aren’t doing so well. Carol Burnettnhas won a $1.6-million judgmentnnnat the expense of the National Enquirer.nNow the Enquirer faces Ed McMahonn(f2.5 million), Rory Calhoun ($10 million),nPaul Lynde (flO million) andnShirley Jones and Marty Ingels ($20nmillion). The Enquirer will have tonpush a lot of papers at supermarkets,nit seems. Los Angeles Dodger StevenGarvey and his wife are awaiting a Junendate when they will take Post-Newsweekn’s Lnside Sports to court, an $11.2millionnsuit. Stephen Hess, a BrookingsnInstitution senior fellow and formernNixon White House aide, has just renleased The Washington Reporters, anbook that reportedly lays bare the relativenfree hand that the Washington pressncorps has in making stories. Meanwhile,nthe broadcast journalists are busy makingnup excuses to cover their lapsesnin handling the Reagan assassinationnattempt. And the Washington Post hasnbeen caught red-handed in hustling anPulitzer Prize for a fabrication.nIt is extremely fortuitous for all concerned—readersnand viewers as well asnreporters and editors—that John Mosendale’s The Men Who Invented Broadwaynhas been published. Today’s journalists—evennthose under carefullyncoifed creations—often seem like anpretty shabby lot at bottom, but they arenpristine compared to many of theirncounterparts of the past 100 years.nNews—hard news, that is, facts—is innshort supply these days, having beennreplaced by the pseudostories creatednby TV journalism’s insatiable need fornstunning shots and the print media’snturn to more feature stories as a meansnto maintain readership against the onslaughtnof video display. As unbelievablenas it sounds, today’s newsmenn(Note: women are implied in that term;nnewspeople is a word that I can’tnbring myself to use as it smacks toonmuch of the local evening news broadcastsnpresented in every major city I’venbeen in) are probably doing a better jobnthan their ancestors.nBefore proceeding, I must point outntwo things. First, although Mosedale’snbook is touted as a biography of Damonnm^m^mmmt^nJttly/Attgttst 1981n