Word: bicking
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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...preservation of his self-respect, Morris evolved a theory of literary evolution. It wasn't a new one, but it served as a tranquilizer during those long introspective sessions over cold tea at the Bick. The theory went like this: that Harvard was an alien place, staffed with immobile minds, sealed with several centuries of strict tradition, garlanded with unalterable standards, and cast in a peculiarly rigid social structure. In short, the Cambridge strata were well-rutted and different. Morris as one of the eager young men from elsewhere appeared in such a society and became immediately, and noticeably, uncomfortable...
...cross-fire and buried at the Business School. A few are known to whisper of a midnight motorcycle kidnap and a shotgun wedding over two steins at Nick's (that's South of here). But Portia Parsley is now a legend, murmured at midnight over English muffins in the Bick, and remembered sometimes at a Yard punch. She never returned to North Dakota...
Harold sleeps in the Common. He awakes each morning to the sun, a stomach growl, and the stolid stone gaze of Lincoln watching Garden Street--at about seven-thirty. He usually steals a newspaper on the way to the Square (Bernard Goldfine fascinates him), and eats breakfast at the Bick...
...different. Walk along the river some warm evening.... very few people alone, thinking, worrying, wondering. Only the loving couples, a few retired professors on the benches, and a tired dog. See the species pre-media, the impersonal, mark-con-scious eyes and the pale, insipid faces. Peek into the Bick.... the white-sneaker crowd, sipping flat coffee with their flat conversation...
...raincoat must be tired-looking, and to be correct should have grimy rings around the collar and cuffs, and perhaps a torn pocket. The raincoat is to be worn to excess indoors, at Hayes-Bick's, for example, or in lecture, since besides the elements this garment is meant to fend off the hostilities of a mundane world, and by sheer yardage at that. A mutation in the foul-weather line is the army-surplus trenchcoat; while it does not have the buckles and straps and rings of a good Burberry, it is distinctively green and of a suitably rude...