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

Mississippi Squire William Faulkner, who lets neither his 1949 Nobel Prize nor his current Pulitzer Prize (for A Fable) shatter his belief that he is just a simple agrarian with a literary bent, confided to a Manhattan interviewer that he long since missed his true calling. Said he wistfully: "I was born to be a tramp. I was happiest when I had nothing. I had a trench coat then with big pockets. It would carry a pair of socks, a condensed Shakespeare and a bottle of whisky. Then I was happy and I wanted nothing and I had no responsibility."

At a vodka-splashed party in Moscow's Czechoslovakian embassy, the U.S.S.R.'s Communist Party Secretary Nikita S. Khrushchev was asked by a U.S. newsman whether he is the real boss of the Kremlin. On the inside track, Khrushchev grinned, then politely suggested: "Let's have a drink--and ask me another time."

In her first column, the San Diego Union's new Women's Sports Editor Maureen ("Little Mo") Connolly, retired as the world's greatest lady tennistar at a ripe old 21, showed that sports punditry is as easy for her as smashing a tennis ball down an opponent's throat.

Lamented Little Mo in great pontifical style: "[On] the American sport scene today . . . we're reducing sports to a cluster of numbers on a board . . . We . . . are expecting our champions to be stadium automatons, the human equivalent of the balls in a super pinball machine . . . We're watching for the numbers to light up and forgetting the play."

Michigan's gregarious Democratic Governor G. Mennen ("Soapy") Williams went Dutch to help the townfolk of Holland (pop. 15,858) celebrate their 26th annual Tulip Festival. Clogging among admirers on his wooden shoes, Soapy Williams obligingly got down on hands and knees, worked himself into a lather scrubbing the town's main street, later danced through an arch of arms with pretty Dawn Poppen. who will reach voting age in five years.

Oscar-winning Cinemactress Grace (The Country Girl) Kelly, commonly billed as an icy goddess, melted perceptibly in the company of French Actor Jean-Pierre Aumont, a widower since his wife, fiery Cinemactress Maria Montez, died in 1951. Reunited at the Cannes Film Festival after two years apart, Grace and handsome Aumont promptly began to act as if the thing were bigger than both of them. They danced on clouds, held and kissed each other's hands in cozy rendezvous, mooned at each other in public. But had Aumont, who came and thawed, actually conquered Grace? Said he: "She is an adorable and sensational woman any man would be proud and pleased to marry . . . but whether the feelings are reciprocal is up to her."

Burly ex-Coast Guardsman Russell Tongay, 39. was hustled from Miami to the Florida state pen to start a ten-year manslaughter stretch. His unsavory crime: causing the death of his daughter. "Aqua-tot" Kathy Tongay, 5, who died in convulsions soon after Aquapop Tongay made her leap from a 33-ft. diving tower into a Miami Beach pool in 1953.

Chicago Lawyer Adlai Stevenson, in Africa on a big client hunt, turned up at an old curiosity shop in Pretoria, South Africa. With no clients to bag there, Hunter Stevenson fearlessly seized an assegai (a Zulu javelin) and shield, easily held a snarling (stuffed) lion at bay, all the while kept his own counsel about the elephant hunting he plans to do during next year's presidential election. At week's end, Candidate Stevenson returned to continue his safari through U.S. political jungles.

Except for his boxing lessons, Britain's Duke of Cornwall, better known as Prince Charles, 6, has been exposed to formal learning only through the tutoring of a Scottish governess. Last week Queen Elizabeth II and the Duke of Edinburgh decided that their son's upbringing should be less cloistered. The royal parents announced that Charles "has reached the stage when he should take part in more grown-up pursuits with other children . . . A certain amount of [his] instruction will take place outside his home [in] classes . . . museums and other places of interest." The Queen asked a favor of Britain's press: please go light on publicity. The press promised full cooperation.

Resting at his Riviera villa after surviving the "three-day mob scene" which opened his first big one-man art exhibit (100 pictures) in Rome, French Poet-of-All-Sorts Jean Cocteau, 65, recently elevated to Olympian respectability as a member of the hoary French Academy (TIME, March 7), tried to say what his painting is all about. His comments largely left his paintings, whose own lucidity was sometimes debatable, to speak for themselves. Mused Artist Cocteau "Writing, drawing, painting are merely different angles on which I throw the search light of poetry. Poetry is the opposite of vagueness. It is made up of exactitude, and thereby rejoins science in a realm where figures become numbers which are the mathematics of the prophets." Thus clearing up the matter, Cocteau went for a sail on the Mediterranean.

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