Word: acclaimed
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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...Kitzbühel and France's Mégéve. Last week, as he returned from his triumphant tour to his native La Clusaz (pop. 1,200, including about 100 Périllats) in the French Alps, the whole town turned out to greet and acclaim the grinning, bull-necked man who is beyond dispute the king of the world's slopes...
...Quivering with vitality," cried the Herald-Tribune, "and full of humor!" As a form of encouragement, such acclaim made sense: Call Me By My Right-fid Name offers enough good things to promise better ones. Moreover, during Broadway's flabbiest theater season in years and a week when one play closed after opening night and another should have. Call Me might less be tested for gold than treated as manna...
...despite such acclaim, Jackie remained vaguely, restively dissatisfied. "I really did enjoy the parties and dances," she now recalls. "But Newport-when I was about 19, I knew I didn't want the rest of my life to be there. I didn't want to marry any of the young men I grew up with-not because of them but because of their life. I didn't know what I wanted. I was still floundering." Her friends sensed her feelings. "She had the reputation of being very frigid," says Jonathan Isham. "She was rather aloof and reserved...
...bestseller, and the critical ovation was still going on. A few reviewers detected the strong influence of Melville and Dos Passos in Mailer's massive novel, and many Comstocks of the lending libraries were offended by its festering descriptions and raw, one-syllable dialogue; but in the general acclaim their voices were drowned out. At 25. Mailer had written the great novel of World War II. It had come closer to the heart and horror of war than the seascapes of Monserrat and Wouk, or the peripheries of Michener and John Home Burns. Even Mailer's disgruntled contemporaries...
...young man's autobiography did not follow the plot. Although Mailer continued to write prodigiously, he never again came close to his first great acclaim. Barbary Shore, his second novel, was a flop. His third, The Deer Park, a study of the tribal sex practices of Hollywood, was a bestseller largely because the word got around that it was dirty (it was), but the critics frowned. By the time his Advertisements for Myself-a threadbare collection of past and future projects, loosely stitched together with some narcissistic autobiographical notes-appeared, late last year, it was all too clear that...