Word: memento
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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William Randolph Hearst is dead-as dead as yesterday's tabloid. But his name, like a faded headline, is a yellowing memento of the Yellow Age of U.S. journalism, when the potentate of the penny press sometimes seemed to wield more power than the President, when live bullets flew and dead bodies fell in circulation wars, and a newspaper was often the last place anybody looked for news...
Grave Ghost. The baron returns, some years later, to leave one last raffish memento. But with his death of a heart at tack, melodrama begins smothering the life of Author Denti di Pirajno's novel. At novel's end, Ippolita is not only the sole mistress, but also the greatest monster of the House of Raugeo...
...memento-strewn Manhattan apartment, Claire Ruth, widow of baseball's Sultan of Swat, pondered the growing possibility that the Babe's 1927 record of 60 homers in a single season may be beaten this year by Yankee Sluggers Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris. Said she: "I know they say records are made to be broken, but deep down in my heart I hope it doesn't happen." Even if Mantle or Maris should succeed, however, Mrs. Ruth saw consolations: "At least it will be a Yankee who did it. And everyone will remember Babe as the first...
Among the offerings which might (with some in accuracy) be termed entirely serious, John C. Holden's Memento Mori is the most substantial. Despite a not entirely satisfactory central metaphor ("My life's a sheet of paber filled with holes./People, punched away by antic death...") and some few rough spots, Memento Mori, which won the Hatch Prize this year, is a fine piece. Mr. Holden succeeds in encasing a particularly unwieldly sentiment in a tight and carefully plotted structure. The skillful shifting of the rhyme scheme, and its complete abandonment at one point, reinforce the progression of Mr. Holden...
Rare is the man who has gone home from a Chicago convention without some choice memento locked in his suitcase of memories. For one middle-aged Texas oilman recently, it was the long, goose-pimpled wait for a rendezvous with a $50 floozy in a plum-colored parlor; for a life-insurance salesman from New Jersey, it was a harmless evening in an elegant and naughty North-Side Key Club; for a mackinawed Dakota farmer back in 1906, it was a dinner at the old Saratoga Hotel, where after ordering a fancy city dish called oysters on the half shell...