Word: feverently
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Stanford innoculated me against Harvard's disease that spring. But as happens with innoculations, I developed a fever that left me incapacitated. It's not that I wanted to suffer, but I craved Harvard. I had unknowingly been tainted by the elitist attitude that nothing could compare to Harvard. I was itching for those all-night discussions with my cynical friends, and I missed the vitality of Cambridge. To me, Stanford smacked of anti-intellectualism. I wanted...
Generally, however, a day with the games is an anxious, sweaty thing-like the fever dream of a dull-witted materialist. As an experience, it is far less resonant than watching those former targets of cheap-shot cultural critics, the soap operas. At least the soaps deal with a few emotions other than greed. The quiz shows, one cannot help concluding, are just one more thing from which the American woman deserves to be liberated...
This compulsion to buy surges through the crowd of Beatle people, like the frenzy that excites bargain hunters in Filene's basement. But here, price is no object. Disease, fever, obsession. Yes, it's all that, the fans agree. But don't you understand? If it's connected with The Beatles, it's important. Mike DeJoseph, who has travelled to Europe in search of Beatle records, is adamant: "I have to collect everything connected with them. I won't croak until I have everything. That's why I was sent to this earth...
...Harvard Pops Orchestra is playing a free concert Sunday at the Hatch Shell in the Charles River Esplanade. They aren't the Boston Symphony, but the Harvard Pops are still nothing to sneeze at--unless you have hay fever and are allergic to outdoors concerts--and are worth a look...
...decade was never quite so drab or stagnant as its detractors would have it. In the grayness of the day came the epochal desegregation decision; through the fever of the Kefauver hearings the acute viewer could perceive a glimpse of the Mafia mind. Amid the treacle of Your Hit Parade, a few vinegary notes could be heard from the vulgarian disc jockeys, Alan Freed and Dick Clark. They were the early life signs of rock, a message that the Broadway melody was finished. In the art galleries, Jackson Pollock outraged onlookers with his whorls and spillages. On stage Elvis gyrated...