Word: poetics
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...their minds. This "free association," Freud soon discovered, was not free at all. For his patients, at first reluctantly mumbling trivialities, gradually wandered back into the past, on to forgotten paths, stumbling painfully over hidden, moss-covered memories, dabbling in streams of old affection. Through sharp observation and almost poetic analysis, Freud was able to interpret the mass of material his patients dredged up, and explain the origin of their symptoms...
...weeks later Lindbergh was in Mexico, received with Latin enthusiasm by people who cheered him but did not want to paw him. At the U. S. Embassy, far from the maddened mob, he met earnest, poetic, adventurous Anne Morrow. With earnest, adventurous (but not poetic) Charles Lindbergh she had much in common. After their wedding at Englewood his war with the press grew more bitter. Newshawks and cameramen hounded them on their honeymoon. A few weeks later in a mass interview, a reporter asked Lindbergh whether his wife was pregnant yet. He whitened with anger...
...Chicago's lively Art Institute, juvenile howls go up at little Miss Jewett's dainty vocabulary ("delightful, fascinating, exquisite"), her poetic prose: "In our ears the hurricane roars and silence knows us not. Out of confusion do we come and into confusion do we go. . . . Thus speaks the modern-he who has lost faith in the good, the beautiful, the true." But dissent remained private until, fortnight ago, Critic Jewett dismissed the paintings in the Art Institute's annual student show as of 'comic valentine persuasion...
...make a batch of records. One number, which she had been singing at a new downtown hotspot called Café Society, she particularly wanted on wax. Called Strange Fruit, it had been written by a libertarian New York public school teacher named Lewis Allan and its lyric was a poetic description of a lynching's terrible finale. Billie liked its dirgelike blues melody, was not so much interested in the song's social content. But Vocalion was. The record was never made...
Jean Giono, 44, is a burly, self-educated French-Italian hillbilly, whom critics have called "one of the giants of modern French letters." He lives in a remote mountain village of the Basses-Alpes, writes unusual novels about hamhanded, muscularly poetic peasants against bright-colored, heroic landscapes. He eschews the literary world, refuses to visit Paris,* and has become almost a legendary figure in France. Two years ago U. S. readers were introduced to Giono with The Song of the World, agreed that Giono packs a powerful pastoral punch...