Word: 70s
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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...after eleven long years, the zeal to build a brave new India is cooling. The national leadership, from Nehru down to the lowliest babu, seems more tired than inspired. The ruling Congress Party politicos, in their 60s and 70s, seem reluctant to make way for younger men. Corruption, cynicism and maladministration have dulled the nation's spirit. India still produces more babies than it does food to feed them. (Its population increases at the rate of about 5,000,000 a year, nullifying all gains in agricultural productivity.) Money that could help prop the economy goes into the military...
...spent an apprenticeship as secretary in a Fifth Avenue beauty shop. Today she grosses an estimated $15 million yearly, owns a topflight racing stable (Maine Chance). The carefully preserved beauty queens are the best ads for their own products: Rubinstein is in her 80s, Arden in her 70s-and their exact ages are as jealously guarded as their cosmetic secrets. Says an aide: "We never talk to Miss Arden about the passage of time...
Hoblitzell made a big name for himself in high school as a trackman and golfer. (He still plays in the mid-70s.) After West Virginia University ('34), he turned to the insurance and real-estate business in Parkersburg, his home town, is now a banker in Ravenswood and a leading light in educational affairs (onetime president, state School Board Association; member, White House Conference on Education). A bundle of energy in politics, he won his biggest political fame when he helped Underwood into office, his biggest reward when he was made boss of West Virginia's thriving G.O.P...
...would go offstage and return in her tattered asylum gown and bring the house down in tears of indignation. Eventually Harriet was reunited with her daughter Margaret, who, after a brief stint on the Ziegfeld stage, led a useful life as an editor and teacher, and now, in her 70s, is co-author of this book...
Seated in his wheelchair, his brush bound to his hand between two fingers, the painter worked intently on his canvas, his grey-green eyes squinting at the luxuriant landscape. "Merde," he murmured, "but it's beautiful!" He was Auguste Renoir, already in his late 70s and crippled by rheumatism, but lively in his opinions (shown a Picasso painting, he shouted: "Take that filth away!") and unabashedly glorying in his work. Showing a nude he had just completed, he confessed that his model was the baker's wife, exclaimed: "She had a bottom-oh, forgive...