Word: sadnesses
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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...Lord's on My Side (Jimmy Wakely; Decca). Against some strong competition, this number may rank as the year's most repulsive record. The hero, admitted sad sack, liar and cheat, comes out all right because, by golly, the Lord is on his side. He is prompted in his wobbly confessional by a sanctimonious, echoing female, and goaded by a whining girls' trio in a sickly waltz...
...after the "Great Disappointment," a Millerite named Hiram Edson of western New York was seized by a conviction that explained the whole sad mistake. What was meant by Daniel 8:14, he decided, was Christ's entrance into the second chamber of his sanctuary (in 1843-44) to examine the lives of all mortals living and dead, and to dispense the atonement he had paid for with his blood. This "investigative judgment," said Edson, was going on now; when it was completed, the great day of the Second Coming would dawn...
Redon's predilection for portraying the strange creatures of his imagination-looming one-eyed Cyclopes, curiously grinning spiders, claustrophobic images of terror half-seen in the corner of a mirror, and sad, lost fools-testify to his view that in art "everything is done through docile submission to the 'unconscious.' " Redon found a meager market for his nightmares, eked out a living illustrating books, including Edgar Allan Poe's "The Raven," and peddling his prints to dealers...
There are lots of poems, fat ones and skinny. I like Kenneth Koch's best. His are fat. He writes like a great bull, not afraid of going anywhere or being anything. The nicest poem is The Young Park. "Hands picked/On her blossoms./The young park was sad." In the park things become animals, and animals people, and the young park becomes a person, Young Park. Even the automobile club gets mislocated in the zoo. All because the poet becomes the park, and believes in it. "At night, when everything is yellow and green,/You too can come alive/If...
...listens, he periodically leans back in his chair, takes off his steel-rimmed glasses, polishing them with a handkerchief in deft circular strokes. It is an uncommonly sad face that is revealed, but the visitor notices the eyes, cool and piercing, the strong, shovel-like chin, and there is an impression of sincerity and power. At midnight Gomulka drops his pencil, closes the manila folder on an unfinished speech, a lone late-staying assistant throws a dark overcoat over Gomulka's thin shoulders, and he clumps out to his ZIS limousine, pausing a moment to look across the streets...