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...miss: Pompeianism suited many a Fifties liberal, with his passive sense of impending catastrophe and his culturally induced impotence in the face of Joe McCarthy and Curtis LeMay. (Q. What did you do in the Great War, Daddy? A. I sat down in an orderly manner, baby, ate some larks' tongues and waited for the ash.) The Pompeian mode produced only one noteworthy American variant that survives into the 1970s: George Segal, whose latest plastered figures currently populate the Sidney Janis Gallery with a ghostly white company...
There are other minor irritants-the authors' use of footnotes, for example. While the text is dotted with notes telling what the authors were do?? during all the excitement (Luskin ate Dean For??? abandoned lunch in University Hall: Neustad made speeches). there are no notes to explain where or when various celebrities made comment ??? attributed to them in the book (e.g. "President Pusey commented later, "The students there reacted like trained white rats. Bops. Clubs. Bust. Boom...
...there it is, brimful of lies and prevarication. Yes, before Castro, "Cuba was exporting cattle." Naturally, if big U. S.-owned ranches are raising livestock with all the modern techniques, then "Cuba" goes listed as "exporting cattle." But not because there was a true surplus. Few Cubans ate that beef-it all went to the profitable export trade. Senores Magarolas, also, neglect to mention the fact that Cuba was importing rice, eggs, vegetable oils, tomatoes, potatoes, beans-plus cornflakes and Coke. Cuba's sugar plantations had among the lowest yield in the world; there were no technological innovations since...
...just before Kwik Snak closed, I ate my final meal and thought happy thoughts. I still had enough left for another bathroom stop and a Record American An obvious strategy now was to stay near the center of the line; trips to outpost stations are not advisable late at night...
...ate breakfast with Singer, his wife, Rabbi Gold from Hillel House, and a friend who was cager to meet Singer, I realized why the author seemed so familiar. I.B. Singer looks like anybody's grandfather. His white, parchment-like skin stretched tightly over the bones of his skull contrasts sharply with his somber black suit. His head is smooth and round: only a few stray wisps of hair above the temples soften the sharp contours of his face. An clongated depression down the back of his skull reminds one of an infant's delicately shaped head. Singer radiates a childlike...