Word: colins
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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...voice, or even a chorus of voices, would be enough. Rather than take on any untried creative artists, the young prefer to read what the New Critics have to say about the artists of yesterday. Mailer and Jones have had their brief fling, such as it was. Colin Wilson never achieved any vogue at all. There is no cult of the "beat generation," and the San Francisco literary renaissance has scarcely begun to penetrate the ivy. "Maybe," wrote Princeton's Carlos Baker recently, "this is the Age of Consolidation . . . [Students] are too busy reading and thinking about older thinkers...
...Luckily, Colin Gordon seems less serious about his role as her crisp BBC-announcer finance; with a formidably stiff upper lip, a brandished umbrella, and a violent nasal accent he successfully spoofs exactly the roles he usually plays. Terry-Thomas, as a genial philanderer, briefly does much the same thing...
Facing the varsity will probably be Eli Ray Carlsen, who has been decidedly instrumental in running the Elis roughshod through the EIBL. Carlsen, together with Yale's excellent catcher, Colin Gracey, will be real trouble for the varsity, and Gracey is likely to thwart the old stand-by strategy of "bunting your way through a ball game...
...hard to study as it is easy to incur. Its relatively new thread is often hard to single out from the longer-established strands of traditional New England Anglophilism, or impotent Cambridge bohemianism, or merely the shabby genteel. Are that tweed cap and turtleneck sweater and that pair of Colin Wilson glasses long standing affectations, with family sanction, or have they been induced by a fortnight in London? Does that hawk-shouldered young lady with the unattached hair and dangling earrings long to be at Mary Vorse's place instead of the Mandrake? Or is she dressing funny to emulate...
...quiet type when he is not playing literary lion for the public, stringy Author Colin (The Outsider) Wilson, 25, was about to sup one evening with his true love, mousy Joy Stewart, 25, in his bohemian quarters in London's West End. Without warning, the door of the book-glutted flat was suddenly flung open and in burst Joy's enraged father. "Aha, Wilson! The game is up!" roared Accountant John Stewart, 58, brandishing a horsewhip. Beside Father Stewart stood his wife, bearing a sturdy umbrella, plus Joy's younger sister and brother. Confronting the steamed...