Word: admittedly
(lookup in dictionary)
(lookup stats)
Dates: during 1990-1999
Sort By: most recent first
(reverse)
Somewhat comically, in our political culture of grievance, almost no one is willing to admit that times actually are pretty good. Polls show the citizenry fairly gloomy about general economic prospects even while conceding that their own prospects are O.K. Republicans are reduced to grumbling that modest, steady growth is not good enough and that Alan Greenspan and the Federal Reserve Board, rather than Clinton, deserve the credit in any event. (There's an inherent contradiction here: If the Fed sets the rate of growth, how can Clinton be blamed that it's not faster?) Clinton, meanwhile, has the happier...
...though I'm not Superman. Indulge in the fantasy of meeting the person who plays Superman. Sometimes they didn't even make a distinction. I could show up in blue jeans, and I'd still be Superman to them. And it was heartrending. But I would always have to admit to that secret sigh of relief as you close the door and go back to your own life. On the way out, I would say, 'Oh, thank God.' And now I'm on the other side of the door. And I have to stay in the room...
That may make them Dole's friends, but it does not make them his intimates. Even his closest associates admit that they don't feel close; they are at times aware of being pushed away. If you bear Dole's scars, says a Republican Senator who has watched him for 25 years, "you don't let anybody know. You carry a pen. You always wear the dark blue suit and white shirt. You do all these things that say, 'I'm normal. I'm the same as everyone else.' The effect of that hurt is it says...
...Salzburg Festival, not far from one of the Alpine lakes where Mahler composed the sprawling, five-movement work a century ago. Predictably, some critics did dismiss the event forthwith. "A multimillionaire's cold flirt," complained one; "no trace of Viennese charm," groused another. Austrians have long been loath to admit that anyone other than themselves can properly perform the Austro-German classics, and few would care to admit to an American's mastery...
...sees what he believes to be a triumph of his therapeutic skills: Gene is no longer a passive wimp but rather a rising computer whiz with a wife, a son and--somewhat to the shrink's discomfort--a beautiful mistress. After their last session, Neruda notes, "I have to admit a surge of vanity: I was proud of what I had wrought." A bit later he hears from his former patient, "You cured me. I'm not a neurotic anymore. It's just that I can't bear the normal misery of life." The message is read to the doctor...