Word: agee
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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...route, some of the characters perish by fire, water and air?fleeting reminders of a return to elemental states. Age comes finally. Time reasserts itself. As the artifice is revealed, one almost expects to hear the snap of Prospero's wand. For this is Nabokov's autumnal fairy tale. Though not his finest book, it is certainly his most brilliant attempt yet to ransack the images and thoughts of his own past and shape them into a glittering now of the imagination...
...writers (see box p. 82), the informal list of his jocular pet hates includes such things as: progressive education; "serious" writers; confessions in the Dostoevskian manner; book reviewers, most of whom, Nabokov contends, "move their lips when reading"; people who say "excuse me" when they belch. Clearly, in an age practiced in the smooth piety of mock humility and slackly trained to believe that sincerity is an excuse for nearly everything, the public Nabokov must appear as some kind of cultural curmudgeon...
...half smiled,' " quotes Vladimir condescendingly. "Really." Between Tolstoy and Nabokov it is clear that Vera would choose Nabokov, and the dedication she brings to him is total. Recently Nabokov heard that John Crowe Ransom, whose poetry he greatly admires, was rewriting many of his old poems at the age of 80 and dismantling their classic beauty. Vladimir turned to Vera and said quietly, "Never let me do that...
When the Chevrolet Corvair was introduced in 1959, its fresh engineering was hailed as the forerunner of a new age of innovation in Detroit. The compact auto, designed to stop the imported car invasion, featured an air-cooled rear engine made largely of aluminum. It was the creation of Chevy General Manager Edward N. Cole, now president of General Motors. But the Corvair's plain Jane appearance did not seduce as many buyers as G.M. had expected. Restyled with bucket seats and a four-on-the-floor shift, the car gained popularity as something of an American sports...
Perhaps from disdain, perhaps from a remove of age and philosophy, Jancso never ties his story or his sympathies to any main character. To him, all the high cheekbones and fierce mustaches, all the tired, tragic faces are one. The viewer must be content (or disturbed) with a vision trained on people but not on persons. Though Jancso is sometimes eclectic, he borrows only from the best, from the wintry compositions of Ingmar Bergman or from Goya's acid Disasters of War. At his most original, the director resembles neither film maker nor painter. In his own deep-dimensioned...