Word: sexe
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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...reporter, magazine writer, coal miner, genealogist, and historian. Any of the latter-day literati who have skipped through the wispy medieval odyssey of a pawnbroker called Jurgen, and chuckled over all the phallic imagery, can appreciate Cabell as representative of an era--the era of gin-flasks, flappers, and sex in the back seat of Mr. Ford's Monstrosity...
Cabell came closer to the era than Fitzgerald, for his symbolism grew out of America's new awareness of sex. His audience ranked him with Poe, Whitman, and Twain. He was an institution, property of campus esoterics; and a legend--a mysterious collector of medieval lore, a scholar in "forbidden topics," a familiar in strange compacts with the devil--and, wrote Carl Van Doren, a rumored participator in "misdemeanors not so spiritual...
...Avenue, in a Brooks Brothers and button-down salaam to the Little Woman and her big roller pin, committed the ultimate betrayal of privacy every TV evening: the advertising grab-bag of under-arm deodorants, living bras, toilet tissue, toe-nail paint, perfume, mouthwash, and the Potato Sack look. Sex was the province of the Ladies Home Journal. Dr. Spock replaced the Bible. Bohemia in pink panties was more organized nymphomania than Art. Greenwich Village was overrun with mop-headed, turtle-necked, tweed-wrapped, smudge-faced, and beer-reeking femmes fatale, with Wallace Stevens under one arm and Well...
This first novel portrays the summer season at what might be called Loose Ends, Long Island, where there is plenty of sun, sea, sand, sex and susceptibility. Through the dazzle of hot days and perfervid nights moves Sally Pierce, a golden-glowing, nubile 19-year-old whose life is complicated by the fact that her divorced mother has remarried. Stepfather Andrew Wells is the sort of pipe-smoking, tweedy adult to make a Radciiffe girl's heart do nip-ups. To complete the idyl, there are two other men: Chris, a callow college graduate; and Chadburn, a hesitant illustrator...
...forgive a satire magazine for failing to be funny, or original, or mature. Or even forgive the Freudian make-up and the New Haven mailing address. But the greatest sin which satire can commit is being dull. And Monocle is better than sex for insomnia...