Word: long-lost
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...show, small-game shooting, a glider flight. A slated highlight of Zahir's trip: a tiger hunt, for which his striped target, previously located and fattened on goats and buffalo meat, unwarily awaited the King's bullet. Alighting at Palam Airport, Cabot Lodge was greeted as a long-lost friend by his oldtime U.N. wrangling foe, V. K. Krishna Menon, now India's Defense Minister. Asked by a cameraman to keep talking with Menon, Lodge quipped: "Oh, we won't have any trouble about that!" Cane in one hand, Menon plucked jovially at the garlands around...
...Cool, Cool Bards. Kenneth Rexroth has started an unshaven love affair between verse and jazz, and it is proliferating like a weird crop of mushrooms throughout San Francisco jazz joints. Mushiest of the mushrooms is a poem entitled Thou Shalt Not Kill, a lengthy dirge for hordes of long-lost poets who somehow strayed from their vocation. In it, among other things, Rexroth asks dolefully: "How many stopped writing at 30? How many went to work for TIME?" By latest count there are 46 writers on TIME, most of them over 30, and most of them are poets, at least...
...longtime jazz buff, Rexroth got together with Saxophonist Bruce Lippincott and worked out a sketchy jazz accompaniment for his new poem, Thou Shalt Not Kill, a lengthy dirge for long-lost friends, mostly poets: "What happened to Robinson who used to stagger down Eighth Street, dizzy with solitary gin? ... Where is Leonard who thought he was a locomotive? . . . What became of Jim Oppenheim? . . . Where is Sol Funaroff? What happened to Potamkin? . . . One sat up all night talking to H. L. Mencken and drowned himself in the morning." Then the Rexroth verse turns to a super Bohemian and aman...
...element of pursuit is strong in all of Greene's work. Here, James' mother refuses to tell all in the belief that it is best to let sleeping dogs lie. So James pursues his long-lost uncle and the old widow of a discharged gardener, who have relevant information. But it is really his own past that James is pursuing...
...Dust & Fireflies. Dick Russell's roots lie deeply and inextricably in the long-lost dream of the Old South. He was born in Winder (rhymes with binder), 46 miles northeast of Atlanta, the son of a struggling county courthouse lawyer. He was brought up with six brothers and six sisters amid a smoky Georgia haze of swollen, mud-yellow streams and blowing red dust, of pine-cone fires and fireflies and summer thunder, of white new-blown cotton and wild peach blossoms and slow mules dragging their lazy load. The family was poor-"If we wanted a drink...