Word: sappho
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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...many cases, including Maugham's own, that is an exaggeration. Indeed the talented homosexual's role as an outsider, far from disqualifying him from commenting on life, may often sharpen his insight and esthetic sensibility. From Sappho to Colette to Oscar Wilde and James Baldwin, homosexual authors have memorably celebrated love?and not always in homosexual terms. For example, W. H. Auden's Lullaby?"Lay your sleeping head, my love/Human on my faithless arm"?must rank as one of the 20th century's most exquisite love lyrics...
...attaching bags of paint to canvases, then blasting them with her .22-cal. rifle. Now that the quick-draw days are over, she has popped back into fashion with hairy sculptures tattooed with more images, inscriptions and plain gunk than any statue in the park. Her Sappho, lounging beneath a tree fruited with a skull, slouches like an Eve who has waited in vain for Adam a thousand years. Or France's Arman, 37. He accumulates things like a surplus-parts dealer and freezes them in polyester. His transparent collages in Manhattan's Museum of Modern...
Hamburg has been patient with Durrell. His first play, Sappho (TIME, Sept. 8, 1961), opened there and ran for all of twelve performances. But Hamburg's theater-minded populace just could not believe that the author of vitally dramatic novels could write twice like a wooden Indian. So Durrell's second play, Act is, was staged there too. It lasted 26 performances...
...find out where Jackie Kennedy and the Onassis yacht Christina were. No one could say. Only the White House was able to keep tabs with a special microwave hookup. Culture-conscious Jackie was charting her own Odyssey, over to Lesbos for a look at the island where the poet Sappho was supposed to have thrown herself into the sea. Then on to Crete for a session with Sister Lee Radziwill, clambering around labyrinthian Minoan ruins. The last stop was at Delphi, where, intent on the guide's words, she stumbled into a pothole. The First Lady quickly scrambled...
...Homer and the Sappho are routine, and the randy-romantic Villon ploddingly pedestrian ("Oh where is last year's snow?"). The quiet golden glow of Leopardi's L'infinito, one of the supreme sonnets in all literature, is messily extinguished; the wild-strawberry innocence of Hebel's Sic Transit acquires a chemical tang of quick-frozen fruitiness; and the fine dandiacal glitter of the Baudelaires is spotted with phraseological mudballs-"this obscene beast," for instance, is scarcely a felicitous rendition of "ce monstre délicat...