Word: gide
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Cassandra's Scream. Amusingly caustic is Steiner's account of the literary bootleggers who pour new psychoanalytic wine in the old stolen bottles of the Greek myths. Gide, for instance, produced an Oedipus "who arrives at the extraordinary insight that his marriage to Jocasta was evil because it drew him back to his childhood and thus prevented the free development of his personality." White forgoing these lapses of taste, T. S. Eliot merely domesticates the Greek myths till they are as tame as Old Possum's pet cals...
...from the Sewanee Review. Gabriel Marcel, whom I admire very much, has a reprinted and astoundingly short discourse on the technical and the sacred in modern civilization, a selection whose mixture of brevity and pretentiousness reminded me of the one-page Great Thinker articles Vanity Fair used to run--Gide on Art and Mass Myths in twelve one-sentence paragraphs. There is a reminiscence of Bernard Berenson as a sort of a Catholic by John Walker, Director of the National Art Gallery, and two articles by graduate students--one an inadequate discussion of the Syllabus of Errors by Valda Vanek...
Director Godard obviously means that some people are monsters, but quite possibly the question requires an existentialist answer, too. The hero, though such ideas are far beyond his merely physical preoccupations, behaves like a personification of Gide's acte gratuit ("an action motivated by nothing . . . born of itself"), and his story can be seen as an extemporization on the existentialist tenet that life is just one damn thing after another, and death is the thing after that...
...corner of his mother's attic studio turning out nightmarish scenes of dark-skinned, contorted people and wild-eyed, gaping crocodiles and owls. He kept a dead bird hanging above his workbench, and when he was not painting, peddling or going to school, he endlessly read Gide. In time the sad-faced boy in checkered shorts became a familiar sight at the Café; des Deux Magots. From $1, his price slowly rose...
André Gide called him "the first of our great French painters and the most French of our great painters," but France herself has been strangely ambivalent about the 17th century master, Nicolas Poussin. Though his canvases hang in all the best museums, his works have at times been virtually ignored by gallerygoers. And though the experts have subjected Poussin to periodic "rediscoveries," he has sometimes seemed little more than a name to which the textbooks paid their perfunctory respects. This summer Poussin is enjoying his most spectacular "rediscovery" yet, in the form of the biggest one-man show...