Word: boye
(lookup in dictionary)
(lookup stats)
Dates: during 1950-1959
Sort By: most recent first
(reverse)
...that maybe he had been framed by dope peddlers. I told the dean to bring in the police." The trail was easy. In less than a week John was traced to a hotel room in Oklahoma City. What did the bright, good-looking boy have to say for himself? Said John: "I robbed a bank...
...furnished Mexican-style palace in suburban Dallas. Standing in the huge, 15ft-high room choked to the ceiling with some 20.000 volumes-which ranged from rare editions of Copernicus and Francis Bacon to the best sin gle private collection of works about the Southwest-Mr. De assumed a country-boy pose, pshawed that he bought the books for the pretty red bindings, never read a thing. Tough, stubborn, quizzical, Mr. De delighted in pulling such switches; he could sound in turn like a reactionary, a radical, an ignoramus or a bohemian. As an unpredictable intellectual, he singlehandedly derricked the foundering...
...Search of Self. Hopper's search for self has been long, arduous and undeviating. It began in the town of Nyack, N.Y.. up the Hudson River from Manhattan. There he was a bookish, gawky, well-bred boy-the son of a scholarly and unbusinesslike merchant-who built his own sailboat at the age of twelve. Five years later he enrolled in Robert Henri's art school on Manhattan's 57th Street. Henri was the presiding genius of an American art movement sneeringly dubbed the "Ash Can School." Instead of the vapid, idealistic studio pictures then...
...with the mellowing of later years, we had to give credit where due. So we admitted that the old boy certainly did enjoy himself--that is, if he did exist. And if he doesn't, well, drinking, eating, carousing, and even beards aren't as repugnant as once they seemed. So we now conclude that if Santa doesn't exist, what he stands for is worth believing in. And if he doesn't really exist, we'd like to volunteer our services...
Fletcher, who seems to have been the 'Poon's only sword during our generation, has a nicely constructed little tale about tattered Tweek, boy of the streets, who achieves SUCCESS by spitting his chwing gum in the path of rich J. Pomeroy's spinning Cadillac wheel. But let the reader find for himself why! Mr. Biddle's reflections, while gay in spirit, read like a census of Mount Auburn Cemetery, and seem grossly out of place. But at least they are interesting and even pleasant...