Whether it's proving fault, negotiating with insurance companies, or just trying to get your damaged bike's costs covered, the legal complexities can be daunting for the uninitiated.
The Resplendent Radicalism of Lawrence Ferlinghetti thenation.com - get the latest breaking news, showbiz & celebrity photos, sport news & rumours, viral videos and top stories from thenation.com Daily Mail and Mail on Sunday newspapers.
The American poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti, who died on Feb. 22 at age 101, drew on Jewish culture and history for inspiration in celebratory odes and at times of tragedy.
The Yonkers-born Ferlinghetti, whose mother, Clemence Mendes-Monsanto, was of Sephardic Jewish origin, was an avid painter in addition to his accomplishments as writer and editor.
One Ferlinghetti poem cites the Russian Jewish artist Marc Chagall to express cultural exuberance from disobeying maternal advice. Ferlinghetti’s poem, which takes its title from the first line, begins:
“Don’t let that horse/ eat that violin/ cried Chagall’s mother/ But he/ kept right on
painting/And became famous/ And kept on painting/ The Horse With Violin In Mouth/ And when he finally finished it/ he jumped up upon the horse/and rode away/ waving the violin…”
AMY GOODMAN: Fifty years ago this week, Viking Press published Jack Kerouac’s novel
On the Road. The book was an immediate hit and remains one of the key works of the Beat Generation.
On the Road was a fictionalized account of Kerouac’s travels across the country in the late 1940s. He originally wrote the book over a three-week stretch in the early 1950s. Kerouac typed it on a scroll, single-spaced with no margins or paragraph breaks.
JACK KEROUAC: So Dean and I raced on to the East Coast. At one point we drove a 1947 Cadillac limousine across the state of Nebraska 110 miles an hour, beating hot-shot passenger trains and steel-wheel freights in one nervous, shuddering snap up of the gas. We told stories and zoomed East. There were hobos by the tracks, wino bottles, the moon shining on wood fires. There were white-faced cows out in the plains, dim as nuns. There was dawn, Iowa, Mississippi River at Davenport, Chicago by nightfall. “Ho, man,” said Dean to me as we stood in