Word: emerson
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Died. Patrick Kavanagh, 62, Irish poet; of pneumonia; in Dublin. Better known for his acid tongue than for his lyric poetry, Kavanagh found modern poetry "pretentious," Emerson "a sugary humbug," Yeats "You can have him." Yet Ireland knew him as one of its strongest talents for such works as "The Great Hunger...
...office draws. New York Giant Runner Tucker Frederickson was out with torn ligaments in his right knee. Having just recovered from a similar injury to his left knee, he was so gloomy that he was threatening to quit football. A wrecked knee cartilage has also sidelined New York Jets Emerson Boozer and Matt Snell; a dislocated shoulder stopped Baltimore Colt End Raymond Berry; broken bones have benched Giant Tackle Jim Moran and Clem Daniels, top rusher of the A.F.L.-leading Oakland Raiders. Kansas City Linebacker E. J. Holub, a veteran of seven previous knee operations faces surgery again-this time...
Publishing excerpts from a forthcoming book, Six Seconds in Dallas, the Post can hardly contain its excitement. Calling Author Josiah Thompson, 32, a philosophy teacher at Haverford College, a "warm and engaging idealist with a mind like a ripsaw," Editor Bill Emerson Jr. enthusiastically writes that the book "demolishes" the Warren Commission Report. An equally emotional editorial declares that the details amassed by Thompson "cry out for the truth to be told and for the murderers to be punished...
...office of America is to liberate," said Emerson, "to abolish kingcraft, priestcraft, caste, monopoly, to pull down the gallows, to burn up the bloody statute-book, to take in the immigrant, to open the doors of the sea and the fields of the earth." No nation has ever undertaken a similar task, and it is hardly surprising that the American path has often been strewn with monumental confusions as well as good intentions. Wilsonian idealism did not make the world safe for democracy in World War I; it wound up driving disillusioned Americans into an isolationism that probably helped pave...
...wind, Dylan called it, some outside transcentental force which operated on him. He posed as Emerson, struggling self-consciously with an aesthetic. All songs led back t some primeval sea of thought and art. "I have built an rebuilt/ upon what is waitin/for the sand on the beaches/carves many castles." But he was wrong. Looking outwards, he spun inwards, so far, far inside. He brought it all back home to himself, back into the smoke rings of his mind. The wind? The sea? Call it the unconscious. "I'm ready for to fade into my own parade." A pipeline laid...