Word: dubliners
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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...British Ministry of Labor has returned the disfavor. Under the circumstances, the only way English jazz lovers could hear live American jazz at home was to visit U.S. military bases. The drought was so severe that some fans set up special flying excursions to such unlikely jazz centers as Dublin and Brussels. But last week the curtain was lifted in Britain. Stan Kenton's 20-piece band played a concert in London's Albert Hall, where jampacked fans hungrily took in such Kenton specialties as Theme of Four Valves and 23° N= 82° W* Critical evaluation...
...into being when notions regarding the womb, the trauma, the unconscious were casting something like a dream-spell upon rational thinkers. Like Ulysses in this respect. Remembrance reads like a never-ending dream. But just as Ulysses manages also to portray the life and times of Joyce's Dublin, so Remembrance seems to many the greatest portrayal ever made of Proust's turn-of-the-century France...
Written in 1942, when O'Casey was nearing 60, and loosely concerned with the Dublin transport workers' strike of 1913, Red Roses bears all the marks of his later, less realistic writing. The themes are the expected ones, but the orchestration is more mystical and ornate, the form more vagrant and diffuse. Though pivoting on a strike and an O'Casey-like young idealist (Kevin McCarthy) who is killed in it, the events, far from displaying any clear dramatic line, are never really dramatized at all. Garrulous minor characters outshine those involved in action, Dublin overshadows individual...
Sometimes this is rewarding. Hymned, the workers' cause has less stridency than when harangued. And when O'Casey's outcast street figures raise their voices in a dream of fair Dublin, there is a sudden sense of a city's voice upraised. But things seem oftener picturesque than intense, and windy rather than Aeolian. The finest moments have the comic smack and grizzle of Juno. A trio of codgers snort and wrangle gloriously, and go right on snorting and wrangling while they crouch on the floor to avoid what may crash through the windows. When...
Swift died at 77 in agony (at the onset of his final illness five men were needed to hold him in his bed). The inscription on his tomb in Dublin's St. Patrick's says that "the body of Jonathan Swift . . . is buried here, where fierce indignation [saeva indignatio] can lacerate his heart no more." To this great and terrible man, Biographer Murry says, death was "not the opening of a gate but the closing of a wound...