Word: sonnet
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Dates: during 1980-1989
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...liveliest pages; there would be no great literary epistles like Pope's to "Dr. Arbuthnot"no epistolary novels like Pamela and Clarissa-a minor loss, but a loss nonetheless, the loss of a form. That is what a letter is, after all: a literary form, like a sonnet. It is not as defined as a sonnet. Still one looks for things to be said in letters that are not said elsewhere, expecting truth most of all. Even falsity in letters divulges a kind of truth-the false wit employed in writing to a clever enemy, the false cheer...
...Time Waits for No One" is the second part of a pair, and showcases Watts' sweatless yet perfect drumming. With ample self-deprecation. Jagger clumsily explores the theme of mortality in what turns into a bastardized Shakespearian sonnet. The final couplet of iambic pentameter is repeated several times too many: "Time waits for no one, No favors has He: /Time waits for No One./ And he won't wait...
Like the subject of Shakespeare's sonnet, Jimmy Carter sits, sometimes for three or four hours at a stretch, in his small private study off the Oval Office, listening to classical music and mulling over Government reports-and his future. He is making few domestic policy decisions in these waning days of his Administration, although last week he did announce plans to veto a $9.1 billion appropriations bill because the measure included a controversial provision, with troubling civil rights implications, that would bar the Justice Department from seeking court-ordered busing to desegregate schools. When enough House members sided...
...campaign might be more fun, and certainly more preposterous, with a ceremonial conversion into verse. What if Americans followed the British example, if they had a laureate to bang out clerihews and odes-a little something to mark a President's ten-point jump in the polls, a sonnet for renomination...
...Although the elements change as swiftly as the shapes of clouds, the weathercaster's three-to-four-minute performance is, in its discipline, as rigid as a sonnet or a haiku. The ritual be gins with the anchorman passing the baton with an oafishly merry transition line like: "Well, buddy, you sure did it to us yesterday, didn't you?" The weatherman casts his eyes downward with a chastened chuckle, accepting responsibility and thereby obscurely associating himself with nature's Higher Authorities...