Word: admited
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Dates: during 1980-1989
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...Adolf Hitler's lights, there was much to avenge. The Vienna Academy of Fine Arts twice refused to admit the apprentice painter. Very well, then, he would become an architect. But he was unqualified for further study. These rejections were aggravated by the death of Hitler's beloved mother Klara. The young man with no vices -- he neither drank nor smoked nor pursued women -- drifted in the city, living in flophouses, supporting himself by illustrating street scenes and postcards...
...right, of course, about the third alternative, and a very sensible one it is--working out some system of fooling the grader, although I think I should prefer the word "impressing." We admit to being impressionable, but not to being hyper-credulous simps. His first two tactics for system beating, his Vague Gerneralities and Artful Equivocations, seem to presume the latter, and are only going to convince Crimson-reading graders (there are a few and we tell our friends) that the time has come to tighten the screws just a bit more...
...laudable, but its source was a surprise. There, arguing for the nomination of a black attorney to the Federal Government's top civil rights position, sat South Carolina Republican Strom Thurmond, who had once declared, "There's not enough troops in the Army to break down segregation and admit the Negro into our homes, our eating places, our swimming pools and our theaters." His current rationale: "It seems to me that we ought to give this black man a chance. Years ago, minorities didn't have a chance...
...midst of glitz he remained an agreeable, unpretentious man. But much of the late fiction was unbearably wooden, and much of the late life was marred by Shaw's insatiable womanizing. In the end, conviviality deteriorated to an often befuddled alcoholism that was more distressing than Shnayerson cares to admit...
...such modest goals sound like crazed radicalism? Because, a male observer is forced to admit, men and male-dominated institutions are exceedingly timid about revolution. Perhaps, however, Hochschild's prickly, irritating, distressingly reasonable book can help us to see the next step. The call used to be for soft-center males, studs who could cry. That was silly. Men don't cry. They brood, and mutter, and sulk, sometimes for hours on end, while on TV the Red Sox are slowly dying. That's fine, the author is saying, but not while there are children to be bathed, dinner...