It Is Necessary to be Personal<br >Once upon a time， when 1 was a hopeless sq~tare about sucrose<br >(C~H~O~)， I triggered an unforgettable encounter between Gloria<br >Swanson and a sugar cube.<br > I had been summoned to a hmchtime press conference in the<br >Fifth Avenue office of a New York attorney. Things were well along<br >when I tiptoed in. Miss Swanson， more alert and thoughtful than<br >anyone in the room， removed her purse from the chair at her side<br >and made room for me. I had never seen her offscreen before. I w~.s<br >not expecting to see her there. I was not ready for her at all.<br > A caterer s coolie arrived with the picnic--pastrami on rye， sa-<br >lami on pampemickel， cardboard jugs of coffee， a tray of mono-<br >grammed sugar cubes. My colleagues from several New York daily<br >newspapers kept on wrangling as the rations were scattered<br >around. I unwrapped my sandwich， sprung the lid off of my coffee<br >lug， picked up a sugar cube. I was unpeeling it when I heard her<br >commanding whisper:<br > "That stuff is poison，" she hissed. "I won t have it in my house，<br >let alone my body."<br > I drew back from the precipice and looked at her. Those im-<br >mense blue eyes widened， her signature tombstone teeth gleamed<br >in that bite beyond the smile. She was Carrie Nation confronting<br >demon rum， William Jermings Bryan beholding the Cross of Gold，<br >Moses with a pork chop on his plate. Like a child caught with one<br >mitt in the cookie jar， I dropped the sugar cube， I noticed the space<br >in front of Miss Swanson was bare of clutter. She wasn t having any<br >of our picnic. She had brought her own-a piece of tree-ripened，<br >unspray~$d something. She offered me some. I had never tasted any-<br >thing better in my life. I told her so.<br >