Word: born
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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Levenson was born in Boston in 1920. After a stint at Boston Latin, he entered Harvard in 1937, majoring in European history. The war sent him to Japanese language school, and eventually to Japan itself, but when he returned to Harvard in 1946 Levenson turned to China, the country that held his concern for the rest of his life, earning a Ph.D. in 1949. Looking back on this choice, Levenson said in 1968, "In Chinese history there were big open spaces and the promise of a road that went the long way home...The interest in China is an interest...
Every man has an emotional commitment to history and an intellectual commitment to value and tries to make these commitments coincide...Chinese had loved their civilization not only because they were born into it but because they thought it good. In the nineteenth century, however, history and value were torn apart in many Chinese minds...
WHICH BRINGS ME to a long overdue obituary for Sid Vicious. Sid Vicious had the extraordinary good fortune of the very, very few who are born into an artistic movement that mirrors their inner sensibility, whose untrammeled self-expression jibes exactly, as if predestined, with the zeitgeist. He was the quintessential punk, with his chalk-white, emaciated body, his spiked hair and suicide-scars and drunken, fun-loving leer. When he danced the pogo, it became the rage; when he pieced together his clothes with safety pins, that device became the emblem of an entire subculture. He realized that...
Louise Brown, history's first "test-tube baby," could not have been born in the U.S. Since August 1975 the Federal Government has banned new grants for research on in-vitro fertilization (IVF), and without the money experimentation has virtually ceased. The ban was ordered because of deep moral qualms about scientific tampering with human reproduction. Besides that, IVF involves the moral status of the human embryo, a matter linked to the religiously anguishing abortion debate...
...forest, punctuated by the silhouette of a horse (the creature's profile cut like a weather vane, as though by shears) or the bright red caesura of a barn, one sees the equivalent of perfect natural pitch in singers: an instinctive truth of tone, the mark of a born painter. At her best, she makes nearly every American "primitive" who has appeared since her death look postcardy; her own nostalgia, however tempered by cuteness now and then, has not lost its ability to work on us. - Robert Hughes