Word: acidic
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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...winter around us with all its vital austerity, I asked her to my room again and again. But again and again, Snyde stayed around. Snyde--blond, from Beacon Hill, via Concord Reformatory--I hated him. He stayed around, picking his nose, reading old Crime book reviews and playing those acid esoteric Mozart quartets when I wanted Fantasy in Flyland and Ravel to work upon her soul...
Rounding out two days of testimony, Chairman McClellan zeroed in on a reported plan by Teamster Shafer to jump a Southwestern driver, etch the word rat in acid on his forehead. Scowled angry John McClellan: "Don't you agree with me that anyone who would give such orders as that is a rat himself?" Slick-looking Teamster Shafer blushed, swallowed, declined to answer on ground that the answer might incriminate...
...executioners-friendly, ordinary, matter-of-fact men who look as though they had never dispatched anything more vital than a letter-proceed calmly with their preparations, and the camera dispassionately watches every lethal detail. Gravely they draw on their rubber gloves. Delicately they decant the sulfuric acid. Tidily they bundle the little white eggs of cyanide into a sack of gauze. Politely they unroll the carpet from the cell door to the gas chamber. And so it goes, on and on and on, for almost 40 minutes-right to the bitter...
Guinness, of course, is a howl; the wheezing, hawking, spitting image of a merry old soak. He sports a fortnight's grizzle, along with "eyes like a pair of half-sucked acid drops," and he has developed a horrendously comic walk. Yet he never lets the spectator forget that Jimson is a man of parts-though he never quite manages to convince anybody that the old rapscallion is really a genius. The stupefyingly loud and uninteresting pictures he paints (actually the work of Britain's 30-year-old John Bratby) are partly responsible for the failure, but Guinness...
...earlier acid-witty examination of the species. The Straight and Narrow Path (TIME, July 30, 1956), Novelist Tracy rapped the cassocked shanks of Ireland's parish priests. In her two current books, she has broadened her field of ire to include Ireland's impoverished gentry and the grey-mottled middle class, immersed in its misty yearnings for the days of Old Sinn Fein...