Word: pens
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...charismatic figure with a following that rivals film fan groups. His purpose, it tells us, is to discover "how far poetry can be pushed and still remain poetry." Henri has succeeded in pushing it no farther than the tip of his pen. He has little subtlety, less of the wholly honest examination of a private universe that is expected of the serious poet. He facilely manipulates external symbols and cliched concepts, a presentation masquerading as a penetration...
Taken on its own terms Tonight at Noon may be entertaining, like reading a bus poster. But on the whole it is pedestrian and pretentious. The book does not deserve a nasty pen. It deserves a shiny pie plate...
Nora was looking over lines. Tim was drawing out the night's shots with a felt-tip pen (He tries to draw out every shot in advance, and usually the actual takes look amazingly close to his scribbled sketches.) Phoebe sat quietly, smoking a cigarette. Tommy had driven into town to get some supplies: a deck of cards (which he ultimately forgot), a bottle of bourbon, pizza, and, for Nora, a pear. Eric fiddled with equipment for a bit, but mostly just stood, staring at the fire...
...measured words were those of onetime Greek Diplomat Georgos S. Seferiades, 69, who under the pen name George Seferis won the 1963 Nobel Prize for literature for his lyrical poetry and his "deep feeling for the Hellenic world of culture." Seferiades has lived in seclusion in Athens since retiring as ambassador to London in 1962. For the past two years he has published nothing in Greece as a political protest against the military regime running the country...
Died. Traven Torsvan, 79, known by his pen name, "B. Traven," reclusive author of The Treasure of the Sierra Madre and some 15 other novels; of a kidney disease; in Mexico City. Traven shrouded his life in such secrecy that no one could even be sure where he was born (among the theories: Chicago, San Francisco, Germany). "Of an artist or writer, one should never ask an autobiography," he once said, "because he is bound to lie. If a writer, who he is and what he is, cannot be recognized by his work, either his books are worthless...