Word: ironical
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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...Ireland and in and out of institutions for the rest of his life. In 1936, after returning to Ireland, Clarke wrote a poem called "Six Sanichles," and here we can see, in the rejection of his earlier life, the renewal of his craft: TO JAMES STEPHENS Now that the iron shoe hangs by the nail Once more and nobody has cared a damn. Stick to the last of the leprechaun--I, too, Have meddled with the anvil of our trade... THE TALES OF IRELAND The thousand tales of Ireland sink. I leave Unfinished what I had begun nor count...
Yale's Steve Sherrill, the Elis' fifth-rated player, carded an incredible 67 (including a 30 on the back nine, a course record) on the final 18 holes to shock everybody within five-iron distance of Hanover. Sherrill captured individual honors by one stroke over Dartmouth's Jerry Daly...
...before, Lam Son Square had echoed with the sound of carbines, M-16s and rooftop machine guns. Now the square was quiet, the pavement under our feet baked to cooking temperature by the morning sun. I glanced at my watch: it was 10:42. People peered through iron gates that had been pulled shut because of the 24-hour curfew. Their eyes were easy to read. "You're leaving us," they said...
That very evening the iron gates of Independence Palace were thrown open, and black limousines began rolling up the long driveway, carrying South Viet Nam's 159 Deputies, 60 Senators, its judiciary and top generals. All had been summoned on just two hours' notice. The helicopter of Premier Nguyen Ba Can fluttered overhead and set down on the palace grounds. Under unbearable pressure, having utterly lost his credibility as South Viet Nam's leader, Thieu announced that he was stepping down...
There is no iron to this Iron Age fable. The grimness is fake, the fascination with virginity is a naughty bore, and the monstrous figure of Shardik is cheapened by watery supernaturalism. It is one thing for Kelderek and his primitive fellow tribesmen-a few skeptics to the contrary -to believe the bear is a god, quite another for author and reader to pretend to believe it. This pretense is what Adams insists on, and it smacks of Pan worship, that Victorian silliness in which refined city dwellers pretended that they glimpsed the wicked, goat-footed god as they strolled...