Word: knowed
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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...agents. When he was fired from his El Tiempo job last January, the FBI helped him set up his "New York Press Service," a photo agency dedicated to photographing people in the movement. "The next time your organization schedules a demonstration," Salzberg's solicitation letter read, "let us know in advance. We'll cover it like a blanket and deliver a cost-free sample of our work to your office. No obligation to purchase, naturally...
...Congratulations. Says Salzberg: "It wasn't just a front. We sold pictures, and the boys who worked for me didn't even know about the FBI. It was just that I was a functionary and the FBI sort of coaxed me-got me involved in publications I didn't know about or suggested I ought to cover this or that demonstration." For his "services," Salzberg (code name: "Winston") received $6,700, all in cash, plus another $2,300 for expenses, delivered in high cloak-and-dagger style in parking lots, parks, street corners and zoos. He protests...
PLAGUED by a tradition which seems remote from their own experience. the new poets have struggled to create a style which they could know as their own; drawn, like all the rest of us, into a bias of activity. theirs is essentially a poetry of polities, but not of propaganda. Bly himself has managed to remain a sensitive images and at the same time to carry on his unceasing opposition to the War. Publishing his own periodical. The Sixties (now The Seventies ). has allowed him a vigorous forum for his own aesthetics, which his national prominence has made it impossible...
...FRIEND and I were taking off last summer on a car trip to California, his father repeated his earlier warnings against picking up hitchhikers. "They can be dangerous, you know," he said. And last Sunday, after I had informed my mother that I had hitched the day before from Harvard to Bard College in New York, she warned against accepting rides from strangers. "They can be dangerous, you know." she said...
Taking danger in my stride. I left Cambridge for Bard late Saturday afternoon. A co-hitcher named Adam joined me on the entrance ramp to the Mass. Turnpike. He asked me the score of the just ended Harvard-Princeton football game, and I told him I didn't know. Adam was hip, though; he hastily added, "Not that I give a shit...