Here are some paragraphs from obituaries of the well-known and the not-so-well-known:

Hyman G. Rickover: WASHINGTON (AP)—Adm. Hyman G. Rickover, the salty engineer who refused to go by the book and goaded the Navy into the nuclear era, died today. He was 86. ... Rickover was a tiny, tidy man who was as demanding of himself as he was of others, suffering neither fools nor superiors—indeed, he often pronounced them one and the same.

Bill Stern, a radio and television sports announcer: While some radio and television critics and sportswriters contended that Mr. Stern's stories were sometimes taller than the highest infield fly, millions of listeners looked forward to his Sports Newsreel commentaries and anecdotes.

Martin Gershen, a journeyman reporter: An intense, tenacious man, he made his search for news a personal quest and treated any withholding of information as a personal affront. As a result, his life and the news often ran together.

Frank Sinatra: Above everything, there was The Voice. Say what you will about the style and swagger, the women, money, fame, power, mob ties, the tastes and habits that long ago fell out of favor. There was, and always will be, the light baritone, seasoned by age, flavored by whiskey and cigarettes, romantic, vulnerable, tough and completely original. It was the source of all of Frank Sinatra's power and greatness.

Marguerite Higgins, Pulitzer Prize reporter: Marguerite Higgins got stories other reporters didn't get. ... Miss Higgins won her job at The Herald Tribune in a characteristic way. ... She heard that Mrs. Chiang Kai-Shek was a patient at the Columbia-Presbyterian Hospital and had refused to grant interviews. Miss Higgins got to Mrs. Chiang's room, got her story—and her job.

The widow of a politician: She avoided the spotlight that focused on her husband through his long political career, but among teachers in local schools she was well-known as a tireless and cheerful volunteer who could be counted on to dry the tears of a newcomer to the first grade and to hand out graham crackers and milk at recess.

A wealthy retired business executive, who lived on an estate: He knew the butcher, the baker and the news dealer, and it was significant that he died in a moving picture theater surrounded by a fireman, a policeman and the head usherette.

Duke Ellington, composer and musician: "Duke, he went all over the world after that, but nobody ever loved him better than we did," said an old-time tap dancer who goes by the name of Kid Chocolate.

Homer Bigart, much-honored reporter: His articles remained taut, witty and astringently understated, even when created under deadline pressure and the appalling working conditions imposed by war and famine; even when they concerned mundane events that lesser reporters regarded as routine, Mr. Bigart knew that what counted was not the place but the poetry and that a reporter could create memorable prose from even the most unremarkable happening.

Richard F. Shepard, New York Times reporter: Although he had been undergoing radiation therapy and other treatment for cancer, Mr. Shepard died of a heart attack while eating a bowl of chicken soup, said his wife, Gertrude, known as Trudy. A few days earlier he had said wryly that he didn't want to be one of those people who died on a tennis court—he had never played tennis in his life—but would prefer to go over a good meal.

Paul Santangelo, Norristown, Pa., politician: The funeral drew about 100 people, which struck many as not enough of a turnout for a man said to have devoted his life to helping his constituents in every aspect of life—getting them jobs, helping them vote, performing political favors. "I guess when you live that long (94), many people are already gone," said Borough Manager Anthony Biondi, a longtime family friend.

Jerry Garcia, lead guitarist, Grateful Dead: His gentle voice and gleaming, chiming guitar lines embodied the psychedelic optimism of the Grateful Dead for three decades.

Eileen Shanahan: Invited to a luncheon by the Department of Commerce, she found that the men who worked her beat were not there and that all the other reporters at the lunch were women. "Is this a ladies luncheon?" Told it was, she said, "Then, in that case I can't stay. I hope you'll tell the secretary my reason for leaving. I consider it insulting to lump all women together in a separate class."

Milton Bracker, a reporter for The New York Times: A restless, high-strung, energetic man whose unceasing productivity carried his work into just about every editorial corner of the Times, Mr. Bracker had a compulsion to write and his typewriter raced to appease his appetite for words.

John McCormally, editor and publisher of The Hawk Eye, Burlington, Iowa: McCormally was born Oct 8, 1922, in Chapman, Kan. His parents, Patrick H. and Anna Nicholson McCormally, were farmers who were broken by the Great Depression. He was 13 in 1936 when he watched his family's friends and neighbors bid on his father's last team of mules. He watched his father cry over his lost independence. The experience helped shape McCormally's belief in fighting for the underdog, a characteristic he would carry throughout his life.

Ralph Abernathy, one of the co-founders of the civil rights movement: The flower-laden coffin was taken away on a wagon drawn by mules. Mr. Abernathy, who died Tuesday, had once requested the arrangements. He also asked, as an epitaph, two words: "I tried."

Andrew Guanche, an infant who died after a hurricane struck Miami: Baby Andrew was 9 days old when he died. He slipped away, not in a home surrounded by toys and pets, but in the coldness and loneliness of a Red Cross shelter, in a donated crib that suffocated him. (AP)

LONDON (AP) -- Princess Diana, beautiful, famous and wealthy, won the admiration of millions but found simple happiness elusive. A year after her supposedly fairy tale marriage to Prince Charles ended in divorce, 36-year-old Diana seemed finally to have found, in Dodi Fayed, a kind of uncomplicated joy.

Stanley Walker: A famed editor in New York when seven daily newspapers competed for the reader, saw several fine reporters die too young of ailments associated with long hours, lots of cigarettes and too much drink. His epitaph for them, more in anger than sorrow:

When a good newspaperman dies, a lot of people are sorry, and some of them remember him for several days.