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

Winging into Rome from Tel Aviv, New York's junketing Democratic Governor W. Averell Harriman was greeted at the airport by U.S. Ambassador to Italy Clare Boothe Luce. Asked later by newsmen to comment on the Geneva Conference, onetime Ambassador to Russia Harriman gave an old hand's appraisal: "The same old patter comes out of the Victrola ... a certain familiar ring . . . Bulganin's reply [to President Eisenhower's inquiry about international Communism] was exactly the same as the reply I got in Russia 29 years ago . . . We must keep up our guard ... But I am delighted that the Big Four are talking. It will bring home to the Kremlin leadership the unity of the free countries."

Britain's gruff, Manhattan-born Sculptor Sir Jacob Epstein, 74, returned to his native island for a brief visit, sallied through an outdoor show of the Sculptors Guild with all the verve of a bull in a statuary shop. Suspiciously eying some nondescript, nonobjective works, Sir Jacob reissued one of his favorite dicta: "I don't like abstract art of any kind, by any artist. Imaginative realism is what I like, not photographic realism." Then he gazed skeptically at a welded bronze piece, managed to choke out a noncommittal "Novel." But it reminded him of the "stovepipes" turned out by Britain's Reginald Butler, who "has no conception of form." He then invited his entourage of sculptors to debate or just plain chat with him. When all kept respectfully silent, Epstein happily began tossing his horns. One of his gratuitous victims: famed Dutch Abstractionist Piet Mondrian, whose linoleum-like linearities have floored museum walls for two decades. Said Sir Jacob flatly: "A faker!" A museum director murmured a shocked "Oh, no!" Epstein snapped: "An open mind is an empty mind." At last, carrying a bronze medal struck in his honor, Honorary Guildsman Epstein departed, telling his troubled admirers: "You know, I'm beginning to be popular in England."

With Geneva and wilting weather copping the headlines, Tennessee's unwilted Democratic Senator Estes Kefauver inspiredly produced a composite of attributes for the perfect, unbeatable politician (who turned out to be 2/15 Republican, 13/15 Democratic. The Keef's Republicans: Dwight Eisenhower for his smile, Maine's Senator Margaret Chase Smith for her gracious charm. The Democrats: Adlai Stevenson for his wit, Missouri's Senator Stuart Symington for good looks, Georgia's Senator Walter George for his voice, Oregon's Senator Wayne Morse for mental agility, Georgia's Senator Richard Russell for fairness, Washington's Senator Henry Jackson for enduring youth, Illinois' Senator Paul Douglas for scholarly character, Alabama's Senator Lister Hill for hard work, Texas' Speaker of the House Sam Rayburn for planning ability, Alabama's Representative Frank Boykin for handshaking, Coca-Cola's James J. Farley for his memory for names, Independence's Harry Truman for the common touch, Mrs. Richard Neuberger (wife of Oregon's junior Senator) for her campaign ability. Notable modest omission: Tennessee's Presidential Candidate Estes Kefauver for his White House fixation.

Europe's keenest royal music-lover, Belgium's Queen Mother Elisabeth, made a pilgrimage to the south of France, showed up in Prades at the home of renowned, self-exiled Spanish Cellist Pablo Casals, devoutly sawed away on a violin through a round of Beethoven trios with Casals and a pianist.

For special editions to be printed by France's state press, 16 of France's top intellectuals, e.g., Franc,ois Mauriac, Andre Maurois, Jacques Jaujard, agreed on the twelve greatest non-French works of fiction, penned between 1850 and 1950.

Tied in first place: Charles Dickens' Great Expectations, Leo Tolstoy's War and Peace. Runners-up: Thomas Hardy's Tess of the d'Urbervilles, Feodor Dostoevsky's The Brothers Karamazov, Nathaniel Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter, Knut Hamsun's Hunger, Franz Kafka's Metamorphosis, Jens Peter Jacobsen's Niels Lyhne, Katherine Mansfield's Garden Party, Ernest Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms, Anton Chekhov's Short Stories, Rudyard Kipling's Kim.

Armed with a tape recorder, a BBC busybody accosted Jungian psychiatry's High Priest Carl Jung (TIME, Feb. 14) at a Swiss Alpine resort, on the eve of the Swiss sage's 80th birthday. Asked the interviewer, with calculating naivete: "What . . . first made you take up psychology as your life work?" Jung's answer: "When I was a child, I always noticed that I didn't understand people . . . For instance, once an aunt of mine took me to a museum [to see] all those stuffed animals. Then the bell rang and we had to hurry for the exit, [crossing through] a gallery of antique sculptures ... My aunt said, 'You horrible boy, shut your eyes, don't look at these things! Come along!'... I thought, 'Now why did she say such a thing?' And then I discovered that [those wonderful figures] were naked. And that was why my aunt could not stand it."

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