Word: hounds
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...year-old composer Mike Stoller peered from the deck of a rescue ship as it entered New York harbor to see his lyricist partner Jerry Leiber, also 22, lounging on the pier, holding an Italian silk suit--in case Mike needed dry clothes. "We have a hit!" Leiber cried. "Hound Dog...recorded by some kid named Elvis...
...local paper he worried about people "who try to create an empire and run for higher office." The day Booker moved into the motor home, a four-page anonymous screed was sent to hundreds of city leaders, stating that "Booker himself hates Newark...He is a mere publicity-stunt hound dog who is against everything and for nothing." Over the past three years, Booker's opponents have anonymously accused him of being white, gay, a tool of the Ku Klux Klan and a lover of Jews who lives in a mansion...
...Lion King, Aladdin, The Little Mermaid, maybe The Rescuers, as your basic canon of Disney masterpieces (though I do find it strange that Disney labels every movie it releases on video, a "Disney Masterpiece" - doesn't that dilute the force of the term? Why is The Fox and the Hound a Disney Masterpiece? Whatever.) So, looking at those, you'll realize a common feature - the best Disney movies all have _female_ villains. Everyone remembers Cruela de Vil, the Wicked Queen in Snow White, Ursula the Sea Witch, Maleficent, Madame Medusa - but who remembers the fat guy in Pocohontas, the evil...
What these two isolated facts have to do with each other is made resplendently luminous in Walcott's Tiepolo's Hound (Farrar, Straus & Giroux; 164 pages; $30), a long narrative poem with a number of stories on its mind. One is what Walcott modestly calls his "inexact and blurred biography" of the painter Pissarro, a Sephardic Jew whose ancestors were driven out of Portugal, who chose to practice his art in Europe rather than the raw island paradise of his birth. A parallel account involves Walcott: his boyhood fascination with the reproductions of European masterpieces he found in books...
Tiepolo's Hound, in other words, is not a novel disguised as verse, with straightforward plot lines and a handy denouement. Its mood is ruminative rather than expository. Its progress is circular, a slow eddy of recurring images and motifs. At the center lie questions about culture and history and race and art that are not answered--no single answers could satisfy such questions--but set in rhythmical equilibrium...