Word: skins
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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...only that, my legs are short (as is the rest of me), my eyes are clear only on smogless days and my skin is dormant, not exuberant...
Because a single shot through the highly pressurized skin of a jetliner could cause a plane to explode in flight, pilots are under orders to let skyjackers have their way. In 61 hijackings so far this year, pilots have dutifully delivered the skyjackers to their desired destinations. Last week a Chilean pilot decided to revise the rules...
...Overbeek escaped to Germany. He worked, drank, survived bombardment, whored and eventually landed a surreal job carrying reports from an industrialist's factory, which did metallurgical research, to the German Air Ministry. When the war ended, he set off, walking, for Holland. At the border, he molted another skin, persuading British officials that he was really Jakov Chaklan, born in Palestine. With a new identity card, he journeyed to Marseille and smuggled himself aboard a ship loaded with refugees bound for Israel...
...essay called "The Dead World and the Live World." written for The Sixties. Bly complained about the refusal of our literature to "shed its skin." to talk about what wasn't "exclusively human.": "One can predict first of all that such a nation will bomb foreign populations very easily, since it has no sense of anything real beyond its own ego." To this insight Bly has brought the evidence of poets in translation, publishing in small editions the work of Spanish. German, and Scandinavian writers who were receiving little or no attention in this country. It is from poets like...
...fact it will be the constant in our lives-the taste of dampness like stale cigarette smoke in the morning, the dead leaves in the Common like soggy Wheaties underfoot, the chill that seeps under doors, permeating our clothes, our sheets, our skin. But the sound, most of all, will pervade existence; it will be the insistent insidious counterpoint to clammy kisses and perspiring embraces, to lectures and marches and meals, until we find ourselves praying for a cataclysm, an orgasmic deluge to end the monotonous drizzle...