Word: relic
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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...pitch of last week's praise for Coward was a measure of what he himself calls "the Noel Coward renaissance." He has lived long enough to see himself transformed from a faded relic of some impossibly sophisticated yesterday into a minor classic. After World War II, a new generation viewed him-along with P. G. Wodehouse-as the last, slightly ridiculous vestige of the frivolous '20s. Country houses, stiff upper lips, cocktails-and-laughter-but-oh-what-comes-after and all that. Many of his plays flopped in the '40s and '50s and his fortunes sagged...
...personality profile ("Your tendency to over intellectualize," the machine informed me, for example, "may make you lose sight of concrete goals,") came unpleasantly close. Its forecast, though not immediately verifiable, seemed plausible. I could rationalize it all away, but I don't. Astrology used to be a medieval relic, a creation of the imagination comparable to the visions of Blake, Shelley, and Yeats. In its own, non-scientific, metaphorical way, it was beautiful and intriguing. Today, packaged and chrome-plated, gushed'over by teenyboppers and prattled about in dimestore books, astrology has become a chapter heading in volumes...
Neither revelry nor formal ceremonies will mark the canal's 100th anniversary. The silence along its banks will be broken only by the whine of bullets and the scream of attacking jets. Closed since the outbreak of the 1967 Arab-Israeli war, Suez today is a useless relic of what was once one of the world's busiest waterways that handled an average of 57 ships a day in 1966. Dug in on opposite banks, the Arabs and Israelis sometimes slip across the canal to launch raids. The canal thus even fails to fulfill its sole remaining function...
...looks of Little Bay, one thing was clear. Christo was there. The craggy Australian inlet nine miles from downtown Sydney lay beneath 1,000,000 sq. ft. of clingy, opaque, icky, sticky polypropylene plastic, looking like some improbable flotsam that had drifted in on a high tide, the last relic of a disposal civilization. The Aussies were taking it all in stride. Last weekend, some 2,500 of them happily trooped out to Little Bay and plunked down the modest 20? admission to see what this artist named Christo had wrought...
Perhaps God decided to pay them back. Their peerless outfielders Tom Agee and Ron Swoboda (a relic of the days of the hapless Mets) began making supernatural catches. Bonn Clendenon, who at the start of the season was a seller of Scripto pens, hit three home runs. Infielder Al Weis, a man who had never harmed anyone in his life, tied the last game with a home run. And when the Mets could not hit, they found other, more devious ways of arriving at first base. Not even the umpire, for instance, knew that Batter Cleon Jones had been...