Word: stilling
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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MILE HIGH, by Richard Condon. The author's mania for mania is still evident. But this flawed novel about a man who invented, and then profited from Prohibition eventually settles into unpalatable allegory...
...hasn't got things quite right. A lot has changed here at Harvard since that momentous autumn when Mr. Pusey, doing his damnest to sound like a second-rate Fitzgerald narrator, first suffered unnoticed through a freshman bull session. And although the Freshman Yard, with its predominantly WASP administration, still smacks of a snobbishly genteel Harvard, the incoming freshman can rest assured that his first struggle with the Union's compost-like tapioca will not be interrupted by quick repartee at Katherine Mansfield's expense. In fact, clever, fragmented sentences as well as comfortably postprandial discussions are both pretty rare...
...mentioned Jonathon Kozol (whose Death at an Early Age was just appearing in the Atlantic ) and Jed mentioned Peter Schragg and both of us felt vaguely impressed with the other, although, most of all, we were each gratified with ourselves. (Since all this time the shower was still struggling to warm itself, I guess Nathan would quite rightly have considered ours a "pre-deluvian" confrontation...
...Still, the thing about freshmen roommates is that you don't really hate yours until you're a sophomore and by then it's too late. During freshman year, said roommate is indispensable. At best, he will share his mother's chocolate chip cookies with you (although by the time they arrive from Milwaukee they're sure to be broken). At worst, he will be petulantly difficult whenever you want to sleep a girl in overnight: Say, uh, would you mind very much if Jan and I used the room tonight? Didn't the two of you use it last...
...pursued with a passion. Every weekend, Dartmouth boys, rubbers firmly in hand, hitch out of Hanover, while Yalies go off to visit their pill-swilling neighbors. Meanwhile, Wellesley girls, in tweed skirts and cloth coats, arrive in Harvard Square by the busload. Only Harvard men manage to sit relatively still. Of course, freshmen do tend to panic. For them, Radcliffe is out-at least until second semester, by which time most upperclassmen have warily dropped their all-too-serious Cliffies. Still, for most, Radcliffe must exist only as an ideal, a symbol of the Maidenhead Impermeable that one pursues through...