Names make news. Last week these names made this news:

Browsing through the Library of Congress, which houses the original drafts of Brigadier General Charles A. Lindbergh's Pulitzer prizewinning bestseller, The Spirit of St. Louis, a, Scripps-Howard reporter discovered one reason why Lindbergh turned out to be so fine an autobiographer. His wife, Anne Morrow Lindbergh, is as able a literary coach as she is a poetaster and travelogist (North to the Orient). Among Lindbergh's hand-written manuscripts, on which he labored through 14 years of war and peace, are many deft bits of guidance, jotted down in Anne's fine script. Advised Anne: "Recognize your style--then keep it. Your own style is what you speak. Imagine you are speaking to me--not writing at all." Later, when Lindbergh was battling through the thunderheads of prose composition, he was perplexed by the problem of how to present the meticulous log of his 1927 flight without boring the reader with such vital but prosaic details as fuel consumption and compass headings. Again, Anne had a helpful idea: "Don't let the log readings tie you down. Put them in--let them punctuate the story. They give . . . a subconscious sense of time--a beating undertone . . . Leave them there--stark on a page." In his hour-by-hour chapter leads, building up the statistical suspense, Airman Lindbergh did just that.

Flying in the face of dietary fads, reducing pills and skim-milk regimens, stirringly stacked (5 ft. 4 in., no Ibs.) Actress Janet (A Girl Can Tell) Blair, who feels 17, looks 25 and is 32, handed out an astonishing prescription for chubby ladies who starve themselves in vain. Advised she: "Try overeating. That's how I stay slim. By eating as much as the average man, a woman gets the energy she needs to burn up her fat. Heavens! You're too weak to do it on a starvation diet. Shovel down big helpings, and you can develop a hollow leg for food. When I'm not hungry at all, I often gobble three hot dogs just to keep my stomach busy." The Blair diet's only taboo: hard liquor.

Princeton University's graduating class of '54, in the annual poll to determine future superlatives, waggishly voted as "least likely to succeed," the school's history-drenched Nassau Hall, gave No. 2 place to Thomas E. Dewey Jr., 21, son of New York's governor.

At her home in Versailles, French Air Force Nurse Genevieve de Galard Terraube, 29, the heroic "Angel of Dienbienphu," was photographed and asked by newsmen whether she will visit the U.S. Genevieve was all for the idea, but her hopes so far are pinned on "a letter telling me that a group of Congressmen were hoping to invite me as an official guest of the U.S." Word drifted around Genoa that Egypt's deposed King Farouk, whose loutish antics have endeared him no more to Italians than to the Egyptians he liberated by departing, had not exactly been blackballed for membership in the elite local yacht club. The club's 12-man council merely dropped him a registered note, asking him to pretend that he had not applied to join in the first place.

In its brave new quest for realism in movies, Hollywood got set to turn out just about the realest screen biography it has ever produced. Starring in The Bob Mathias Story, about the Olympic and world decathlon champion: 23-year-old Mathias himself, as the athletic genius who, in stolen moments off the track and field, woos and wins a girl, who will be played by his bride Melba, 22.

Britain's butterfly-light (100 Ibs.) Ballerina Alicia Marlcova, who was recently barred from dancing in Liverpool's Philharmonic Hall because "she might damage the delicate machinery under the stage," arrived in Liverpool and pirouetted on more solid boards. Scene of her performance: Liverpool's boxing stadium.

In Troy, N.Y., members of Russell Sage College's Class of '49 made amends to the world's spryest primitive painter, Grandma Moses, 93. Grandma had got an honorary Doctor of Humane Letters degree from the girls' school in 1949. Her cap and gown were lent to her for the occasion, and recently Grandma complained in TIME (Dec. 28): "They didn't let me keep the cap." After reading TIME'S story, the Sage girls got busy and arranged for Grandma to come to their fifth reunion, where she was pictured admiring her appearance topped off by a mortar board that, this time, she could keep.

Wrapped in a toga, Thespian Raymond Duncan, brother of the late Dancer Isadora Duncan and now a noisy bundle of energy as Paris' No. 1 actionalist (i.e., "one who does things rather than talking about them"), stalked majestically into Los Angeles and disclosed that he has attained an age (79) where he firmly believes Americans both do and talk too much about their "obsession with sex." And he knows who has debauched them, too. Americans are all hopped up mostly because they are "sexualized over the rotten beliefs of Sigmund Freud."

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