Word: alphabetizes
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...vaguely beneficent presence of the CO, Brigham Scott, and by the more or less sinister though shadowy figure of Varnell Richardson, Julius Dortch, and bad old Luther Leinuel Green. We've figured their messman pay, their court-martial fines, their SKMC, AOD, S and FSD, and many other alphabetical sins and virtues. (Who ever said the New Deal started the alphabet on its way to fame? We think the Navy rates the distinction!). We've bitten off many a pencil point over Kirby's flight pay and Hancock's advance pay and Cadaret's promotion pay. We know them...
...approximate repetition of the course that was offered this fall, the class will be designed for those who already know the continental alphabet. Each program will open with fifteen minutes of sending at a five-words-a-minute rate, while during the remainder of the time the speed will be gradually accelerated. The class is under the direction of Robert J. L. Waugh...
...Lilith, the eternal floozy; their son Henry (Montgomery Clift) is Cain, the eternal Dead-End kid. Their story is the eternal struggle between good & evil, the eternal seesaw of progressing and falling back. Mr. Antrobus comes home excitedly from the office, having invented the wheel and fixed up the alphabet-but the Ice Age has arrived. Next he swaggers fatuously about Atlantic City, backslapping his lodge brothers and falling for a bathing beauty-but the Flood has arrived. Finally he comes home, exhausted, from war-where Henry has been a little Hitler and Sabina a dusty camp follower-to another...
...suggested this to him had always been trustworthy on the subject of courses before. No human being could possibly pronounce the required sounds without a bad case of cleft palate, much less make sense of the designs Russians scribbled on paper and tried to pass off as an alphabet. Now a slim fellow over in another corner, with a thin, nervous voice, was speaking very fast--punctuating his talk with short, indrawn laughs. Then everyone laughed again. This time Pag smiled weakly, closed his notebook, and shuffled his feet impatiently as he heard the muffled tones of the hour bell...
...lived in an age when the word "reality" had lost its public moorings and meanings. Passionately sensitive to private intimations of reality, and to the problems of communication in a time which had no public alphabet, she once wrote: "One word is sufficient. But if one cannot find it?" She could not find it. But she rubbed innumerable words and insight against each other, achieved a luminous friction between lyric and narrative art. Her feminine intuition was strangely modulated by an obsession with time, and struck its profoundest resonances from the sounding board of death...