Word: stoicly
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Susan Lenox (Her Fall and Rise) (Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer). In searching for a story which would suitably exhibit the stoic fascinations of Greta Garbo, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer stumbled upon an extraordinary novel. Susan Lenox: Her Fall and Rise is the work of David Graham Phillips who wrote best-sellers 25 years ago, when best-sellers were even more likely to be trash than they are now. But Susan Lenox, though it contains cliches which make Theodore Dreiser seem epigrammatic, is no trash. Its story of hardships, financial and amorous, in the career of a woman who becomes a celebrated actress...
...yesterday: the old beery Gods of Examinations that were so glorious until Mencken and the literary smart set made sauerkraut out of them. In that mind's eye of his that has enfolded so much nebulosity, the Vagabond at rest watches with the sad sublimity of a Greek stoic the passing of Harvard into tabloid education, the riveting of its density to gilded monuments of steel and brick. In the dim light that gleams through the halos of its many Saints, he watches Bluebooks and blaming youth ruffie the innocuous desuetude of Memorial Hall. In both...
...flames mount. Baluk, his stoic face agonized, lays by his tom-tom and draws his robe over his head in the inferno. But then the sentinels' signal fires flare. Baluk is dragged off the pyre still alive to lead the tribe against the milling, trampling, stampeding, incredible game herd. Dagwan is sent away for "the slow death" (starvation) while the tribe feasts and laughs and toboggans. The silent enemy, Hunger, snarls his defeat from the lowering arctic storm-scud...
...WITHERED ROOT-Rhys Davies-Holt ($2.50). "You Welsh! A race of mystical poets who have gone awry in some way." But this judgment by a cynical agnostic had no dampening effect on Reuben's religious fervor. Born of a stoic collier and a bibacious mother who starved the boy for affection, he was a child of curious, conflicting emotion. Gleefully he chopped up frogs and roasted mice alive; demurely he followed his father to church, and gradually religion won out-he was hypnotized, obsessed. Evenings, he pored over the Bible, sweated to convert his friend the agnostic. And evenings...
...thought. In his verse† he states more succinctly, more bitterly the angry, scornful, rebellion with which he regarded the dismal riddle of existence. The terse wrinkled lines of his poetry are like those of his small face in their expression of quiet pessimism, of a thoughtful, stoic sorrow. His "Epitaph on a Pessimist'' is a flippant quatrain: I'm Smith of Stoke, aged sixty-odd, I've lived without a dame From youth-time on; and would to God My dad had done the same...