Word: transcendentalist
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Robert Bronson, "the last great New England transcendentalist," is the ghost that got away. The author of Captain Hook's Gang, Sunday Mornings with Zarathustra and other poems, Bronson is something like a son of Ahab in corduroy pants. So long as he was in and out of psychiatric wards, so long as "his true sense of sight was anger," Bronson remained a darling of the Boston literati. But then-in 1953, to be exact -Bronson transcended: He found the One, the Oversoul, the Truth, the Great Zero that Emerson and all the earlier transcendentalists only dreamed of discovering...
Rutgers English Professor Frederick T. McGill has given the pedagogical lie to hippiedom's worshipful identification with 19th century Transcendentalist Henry David Thoreau. Thoreau was no "true hippie," said the prof, because his rejection of society was really a matter of "giving up what he desired least in order to leave time and a little money for the essentials." And these essentials, McGill added, did not include blowing his cerebrum. "Thoreau said morning air was his chief intoxicant," lectured McGill. "He undoubtedly would have rejected artificial stimulants and the use of mind-expanding drugs...
Charles Ives--Yale man, insurance salesman, transcendentalist, composer--surely one of the most unusual figures in the history of music. Danbury Conn. was his musical matrix. In the solid German academic tradition, he was steeped in Handel, Bach, and Beethoven, as well as in the Puritan and Victorian hymns, minstrel tunes, and "sentimental drawing-room ballads" of late nineteenth-century America. Yet Ives was a composer far ahead of his time, employing radical devices such as polytonality, metrical modulation and tone clusters long before they appeared in the European musical spotlight...
...illustrious ancestor was a woman, Transcendentalist Margaret Fuller, the literary friend of Emerson and discoverer of Thoreau, whose strong-minded individualism presaged Bucky...
...inadequacy. He laments his failure to do research, bewails his faulty memory, confesses that, although he has been writing it for 30 years, he can neither define literary criticism nor guess its aims. Yet Tate confidently jabs his critical stiletto into a wide range of men and institutions, from Transcendentalist Ralph Waldo Emerson ("the light-bearer who could see nothing but light, and was fearfully blind") to criticism itself (it "is in at least one respect like a mule: it cannot reproduce itself, though, like a mule, it is capable of trying...