Word: mad
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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...absolutely do not want a confrontation between the Soviet Union and the United States. Anyone who requests this must be mad...
...they will find, reports TIME Correspondent Jesse Birnbaum, is an overgrown village that likes to think of itself as Germany's secret capital, a city of museums (25) and music (three symphony orchestras, a 48-week opera season), with memories of Richard Strauss and Wagner, Bavaria's mad King Ludwig II-and Adolf Hitler. Vignettes from Birnbaum's recent visit there...
...Manchester University, he was thrown out of composition class. "They thought I was no good," he recalls. When he persisted in the new-music salons of London, audiences came to the same conclusion: they shouted "Rubbish!" at the première of his brooding, dissonant Eight Songs for a Mad King in 1969, and walked out when his intricate and ironic orchestral work Worldes Blis was unveiled in Royal Albert Hall a few months later. After Davies had labored for more than a decade on his opera Taverner, it was rejected by the Royal Opera at Covent Garden not once...
...writer has communicated loneliness and despair more graphically than did Leduc. Her astonishing confessional quality, what Simone de Beauvoir called her "unflinching sincerity, as though there were no one listening", made her autobiographies. Le Batarde and Mad in Pursuit, at once fascinating and embarassing, forcing the reader into the stance of a literary voyeur, unable to put down the sordid but compelling story of her psychotic, unrequited passion for Genet, of her lesbianism, and her complete despair. No human being has ever been more lonely than Violette Leduc...
Owls and Mice. But survival for Bogus is a haphazard undertaking at best. An unsuccessful attempt at infidelity becomes a mad, nude chase across the Iowa countryside that leaves Bogus with bleeding feet, if not a bleeding heart. Homeward bound, he falls off a bicycle in front of a barber shop and sardonically observes: "Several sheeted men raised their shaved skulls above the backs of their barber chairs, watching me writhe on the sidewalk as if they were owls-and me, a club-footed mouse...