Word: hangings
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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Charles R. Nesson, assistant professor of Law, said last night Bok's call for a special faculty meeting should "make clear to students that there will be no hang-ups because of bureaucracy...
PORTNOY'S priest, if not his god, is Dr. Spielvogel. Portnoy himself blunders about, half conscious of the Oedipal and castration complexes that rule his life. In fact, self-consciousness becomes his hang-up. At one point he pauses over a particular problem to ask, "now, why is that? is there an essay somewhere I can read on that? is it of import? or shall I go on?" Portnoy, with his daydreams and his failures, is actually much closer to that other Joycean hero, Leopold Bloom. The more Portnoy dredges up his past, the more it cripples him. He never...
...Alone among U.S. cities, New York has clung to wartime controls, which even today set artificially low ceilings, averaging $22.50 a room, on two-thirds of the city's 2,100,000 rental apartments. Like all price controls, rent ceilings have inflated demands and shriveled supply. Older couples hang on to bargain-rent apartments, which are often larger than they need, after their children have grown up and left home. Private builders, contending that they cannot build cheaply enough to compete with the controlled apartments, have practically stopped putting up middle-income housing...
...Down Comic. Although sex, psychoanalysis and Jewishness form the content of the novel, they are not its subject. The book is about absurdity-the absurdity of a man who knows all about the ethnic, sociological and Freudian hang-ups, yet is still racked by guilt because his ethical impulses conflict with the surge of his animal desires. In Alexander Portnoy's own words, he is "torn by desires that are repugnant to my conscience, and a conscience repugnant to my desires...
...metaphoric potential is splendid. Spiders are often deadly-and creative as well, spinning out of their own innards the structures of their salvation. Their lives, which sometimes hang by a thread, are delicately crosswebbed, like our own. The author tactfully does not press such parallels to extremes. Yet she is clearly an accomplished spider herself, capable of weaving metaphysical webs in fiction and enmeshing a whole gallery of ogres, Freudian and otherwise. Like the wily trapdoor spider, which retires to digest its kill behind a neat disklike door attached to its nest, Iris Murdoch is seldom visible, or visibly partisan...