I am aware, of course, that San Francisco’s reputation is based largely upon reminiscence. Much of its glamour belongs to a past upon which the native is only too prone to dwell. The old, gay, hedonistic town that captured the imaginations of so many poets, artists, and lovers of life, the city of cheap yet superb living and pleasant, easy-going grace—that laissez-faire city over which middle-aged Californian exiles in New York speakeasies and penthouses still shed sentimental tears and wax lyrical—has passed or is passing. I have contributed my share of sorrow at its passing and of indignation at…