Word: ashes
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Dates: during 1940-1949
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Most volcanoes, loud and pushing, build their cinder cones openly of fiery ash and lava. But a few volcanoes work under cover. Their molten lava never reaches the surface, but quietly pushes up the earth's rock layers as water from a burst pipe raises a blister in an asphalt pavement. Last week scientists were studying a report by Professor Hidezo Tanakadate, geographer at Tokyo's Hosei University, on the only undercover volcano whose birth and growth have been observed by scientific...
Bray, George August, Jr. of 706 Ash Street, Winnetka; New Trier High, Winnetka. Calhamer, Allan Brian of 518 North Spring Street, La Grange; Lyons Township High. Emerson, Kenneth of 806 West Main Street, Urbans: Urbana High. Finch, Frank Hershel, Jr. of 504 West Michigan Avenue, Urbana: University High, Urbana...
...Eliot has had a vision, as is well known, of 'the cactus land,' of a parched, desertic world-not of a dark so much as of an ash-grey age-in which the springs of life dried. In painting Mr. Eliot it has been my endeavor to convey . . . some vestige of all that. So you will see in his mask, drained of too hearty blood, a gazing strain, a patient contraction, the body slightly tilted (in the immaculate armor of sartorial convention) in resigned anticipation of the worst...
...soon finds out, when the Goddess herself appears in the form of an unscrupulous female named Erica-a "triple-faced, ash-blonde bitch" with whom Poet Venn-Thomas had had a gruesome love affair in the Late Christian Epoch. What Erica does to overcivilized New Crete is something awful. She plants some 20th Century cigarettes in the closet of a cute little nymph named Sapphire; she fouls up the witches, hexes the horses, mortifies the magicians. By the time she's through, New Crete is on the verge of collapse-at which point Poet Venn-Thomas sensibly decides...
...Michael & the Zoot-Suits. Ash Wednesday Eve I drove through the most devastated streets of Munich, through rubble lanes barely wide enough for a car to pass, to a factory standing in darkness. We climbed a rickety outside stairs to a second-floor door that opened into a garish six-room apartment, slyly constructed by the factory owner in violation of housing laws. Our monocled host greeted us with tipsy cheeriness as his guests oohed and aahed over his gay shirt pasted with cutouts of Esquire girls. Inside the rooms were assembled, in monstrous taste, old tapestries, carved Italian statues...