Word: addresses
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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...Martin Luther King, for one, feels strongly that "the civil rights movement must not be afraid to address itself to the problem of war. For it is marvelous to talk about integration, but we've got to have a world in which to be integrated. It's marvelous to talk about drinking milk at an integrated lunch counter, but what will that milk mean if it has strontium 90 in it? I'm not going to sit silently by the wayside and see war being escalated in our world and never rise up to say a word...
CORE'S James Farmer is just as explicit. Delivering the opening address at his organization's 21st national convention in Durham, N.C., recently, Farmer said: "It is impossible for the Government to maintain a decisive war against poverty and bigotry in the U.S. while it is pouring billions down the drain in war against people in Viet Nam. The billion dollars available to fight poverty is puny compared with the need and insignificant compared with the resources expended in wars...
...through the widest range of revolutionary activity experienced by any living Red leader. En route, he shed identities like snakeskins, metamorphosing from cabin boy to pastry cook, from poet to guerrilla leader, from Parisian photo retoucher to pseudo-Buddhist monk. His name-changes alone would fill an address book (some 20 have been pinned down, ranging from Nguyen "the Victorious" to "Old Chap" Wang). But beneath the chimeric legend lies a purposeful, pragmatic Communist whose aim is the conquest of all Southeast Asia...
...employee who goes to the police station to be registered fills out a form giving his permanent address, age, next of kin, and other details, and is photographed and fingerprinted. For a charge of two dollars he is issued an identification card bearing his photograph. An-other photograph and a set of fingerprints is kept on file with the town...
Gradually, as the howling machines disappeared into the hills, a hypnotic hush came over Clermont-Ferrand. In the pits, the loudest sound was the ticking of stop watches as mechanics and managers paced nervously to and fro. Even the public-address announcer stopped his chatter. The grandstand crowd sat in silence-eyes riveted on a spot 400 ft. below, where the winding asphalt track curled like a thin, black snake between two green hills. There, any second now, the leading car would appear. The noise came first: the rising nasal whine of a V-8 engine echoing off the hills...