Word: proletarianized
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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...hell are Sinclair Lewis, William Faulkner and Ernest Hemingway, anyway? Merely Nobel Prizewinners who have written sentimental slop . . . And Steinbeck-pooh ! A lowly proletarian who drips grief over his characters. Then there's James Gould Cozzens, awarded the Pulitzer Prize, whose quoted utterances reflect flashes of his own many-faceted snooty character. Sex. "What's a woman for?" "The thing you have to know is yourself; you are people." And so, his stable of characters, I suspect, is a hash-up of his own personality...
...East Germany this summer, appeared a new traveling partner, sallow, stoop-shouldered, scowling. Unlike the previous sidekick, Bulganin, who looked like an amiable riverboat gambler living it up, this saturnine little man seemed to shrink from the speechmaking and the public panoply, the peculiar rites and duties of the proletarian potentates who parade about holding durbars in subject states like 19th century monarchs, while talking over their shoulders to the press like 20th century pols. Yet the world noted, as it was meant to, that wherever the Russians went in East Berlin, Deputy Premier Anastas Mikoyan was at Khrushchev...
Malenkov was running a power station at the end of the line in remote Kazakhstan. But the adroit Mr. Mikoyan was vacationing in proletarian luxury in his native Armenia last week...
Dean Moriarty. a real gone kid in whom Sal sees traces of a "W. C. Fields saintliness," is the only authentic proletarian in a basically timorous band of bourgeois rebels. Dean steals cars where the others are scarcely capable of filching a loaf of bread from an untended grocery. He takes women and abandons them, wrecks Cadillacs for the hell of it. deserts his friends. He talks a blue streak in a syntax-free jumble of metaphysics, hipster jargon, quotations from comic strips and animal gruntings. Describing the skills of a hot saxophonist. Dean cries: "Here...
...slovenly writer who managed a slight falsification of life in order to move the reader. Faulkner falsified life for dramatic effect. It's sentimentality disguised by the corncob. I can't read ten pages of Steinbeck without throwing up. I couldn't read the proletarian crap that came out in the '30s; again you had sentimentalism-the poor oppressed workers...