and Katherine Howe
Anderson Cooper had a close shave. Spurning the conventional aspirations of his birth class—a life of rentier leisure, if possible; of Wall Street money hustling if not—he pursued a career in broadcast journalism. Had he followed the old WASP ways of stocks and bonds and the Social Register, he might even now be one more aging preppy reliving his golden days in New Haven over martinis at the Racquet Club bar.
Fortunately, Anderson smelled a rat. It took the form of Brooke Astor. In the early 80s, the last WASP duchess had not yet been reduced to the dyed, painted, and overly jeweled figure of a cruel dotage. Even so, what Cooper saw of Brooke in her dowager’s prime was enough to make him think twice “about what kind of person I wanted to be”—and didn’t want to be.
