Word: pilgrimate
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...chose not to wear his ancestry as a social decoration but to accept it as a present doom and to argue with the Pilgrim Fathers as if they were living men. His poems call the Puritan spirit of New England to sharp account and make his ancestral portraits step from their frames and answer to Lowell. Thus his dialogue becomes an argument about his own nature, in terms of the Calvinist obsessions with sin, damnation, God and Satan. Lowell does not possess his ancestors; they possess...
...death was indeed the "End of a Pilgrimage," since it ended the road of a man possessing a deep-seated faith, an unassuming countenance, and a pilgrim's progress earned through unselfish devotion to a cause-an idealistic mission that, having bettered mankind by weekly preachings for more than 40 years, will continue to do so as long as "journalism," the word he made great, continues to exist...
...centerfold Playmate was set by the maestro himself. He chose a rather average though well-endowed girl named Charlene Drain who worked in his subscription department. She said the department needed an Addressograph machine. Sure, said Hef, provided she would pose in the nude. She agreed, became "Janet Pilgrim" and appeared in the July 1955 issue. The circulation department got its machine, and "Janet" became, for a while, head of Playboy's readers' service department. She has since married and left for Texas, though she is still listed on the masthead...
...literature that emerges from prison is as various as Mein Kampf and Pilgrim's Progress. But the authors usually share a common conviction. More often than not they are men who regard themselves as unjustly condemned. In that company, Jailbird Jean Genet is a rarity; he has no complaint against society at large, nor does he whine that he took a bum rap. His latest book, Miracle of the Rose, is neither by an outsider looking in nor an insider look-ing out. Imprisoned for theft, Genet belonged behind bars-not only legally but spiritually. He writes...
...Jack, the aging jalopy jockey from Lowell, Mass., swings to a beat of his own. The pad-dwelling poets are looking elsewhere for a laureate. Kerouac, 44, has let them down. He is a true pilgrim, and his objective is not the future but the past. The latest fragment of his nonstop autobiography records, of all things, a search for noble Kerouac ancestors in ancient Armorica (Brittany) just as if he were some crude millionaire of the Gilded Age shopping at Heralds College for something fancy in the way of ancestors. That Kerouac has simple faith became evident long...