Word: patterning
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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FACED with these probably insoluable problems, Rudolph must sometimes wonder why he came to Cambridge from Baltimore some six years ago. Since then, he's tinkered endlessly with various traffic patterns in a Canute-like struggle against the cars. One such experiment was his new Harvard Square traffic pattern which began last summer. Under pressure from the Council, Rudolph axed half of this new pattern, but kept the rest, mostly the one-way traffic on Mass. Ave. and Mt. Auburn...
...Traffic Director insists that even the abbreviated pattern has helped traffic flows around Harvard, but critics feel that cars, even if they move faster for awhile, still get caught in the same old bottleneck in Harvard Square. Complaining letters flow in the Cambridge Chronicle. Even poets take their crack at Rudolph. In April, a poem by a senior citizen and longtime Cantabrigian" appeared in the Chronicle. In this poem Paul Revere, on a second ride, got lost in the Traffic Director's latest pattern. Rudolph was moved to respond in kind, and an exchange of poems began in the paper...
...Harvard Square pattern stirred up more than letters and poems. For a while, it looked as though the Council might ask the City Manager to fire Rudolph. That, and holding up appropriations, are the only weapons which the Council has against the Traffic Director, who is actually under the sole control of the City Manager. But the crisis has apparently passed, and Rudolph still...
...likes her little comforts. "To my stupefaction," she writes, "there was hot water, plenty of it. . . At the Continental in Saigon, there was only cold water." Amid "other luxuries I found at the Thong Nhat Hotel were sheets of toilet paper laid out on a box in a fan-pattern." Since she was served "little cups of tea" almost everywhere she went, she wondered why she got tea at the War Crimes Museum but beer at the War Crimes Commission. "Perhaps I should have asked, but the Vietnamese are sensitive...
Over the Shoulders. At times, Mishima's single-pattern plot seems to glide in slow, repetitive cycles, freezing faces in glaring expressions like kabuki actors: frenzied passion, cross-eyed frustration. Still, what keeps the novel from being another existentialist dead end is the presence of the author. It is finally not the hang-ups of his characters but the questions Mishima asks about them that fascinate-including the ultimate, curiously Japanese question that his novel tests for itself: Can obsession with death, pushed to an extreme, result in some absolute awareness of life...