Word: banana
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...rilled with undifferentiated nostalgia-for old values, old vitality, old civility. One searches in vain for the raffish Macondo of One Hundred Years of Solitude-modeled on the banana boom town of Aracataca, where the author was born. Macondophiles will at least learn some new bits and pieces about the place. The action starts with a note from Colonel Aureliano Buendia, the great revolutionary warrior who returns in Solitude, and the recluse Rebeca also makes an ectoplasmic appearance...
...passengers include retired lawyers, doctors, realtors, a former speechwriter for Franklin D. Roosevelt, a banana exporter from Brazil, a 42-year-old mother of seven from Quebec, and the couple who operate stall 22 at the Flea Market in Nice. But to the obvious disappointment of many passengers, there is hardly a recognizable celebrity to goggle...
...kept solemn step with the military tattoo as she reviewed the Liberian honor guard. Following the ceremony, she rode at Tolbert's side in an open-car motorcade along the 40-mile highway to Monrovia, the capital. Beneath the welcome banners that punctuated the arch of entwined banana trees, villagers abandoned their huts to greet her with cheers and, of course, miniature American flags. Liberians have a historical tie to the U.S.: their country was settled by freed American slaves...
...reader wonders, as he pages with almost guilty pleasure through this grand, swaying history of the great North Atlantic steamships: can the $15 hardback leviathan survive in an age that buys its books from newsstands, reads them in an hour, and discards them like banana peels? The Sway of the Grand Saloon is huge, solid, stately, absurdly lavish, its noble dust jacket encrusted with gilt. Its whorled endpapers are the work of Niebelungian trolls who never see the sun. Its paper, far from being recycled, might be made by the supplier of Cunard table linen...
...house of his is a damned eyesore. He lives like a pig." Ferree came into his astonishing enterprise by accident. A native of Nebraska, he bought 20 acres near Harlingen in 1946; he has since sold 19 and given away the proceeds. One day he saw several Mexicans pick banana peels up off the street and eat them. Soon afterward, he says, he found a weeping Chicano family that had been cheated of its wages. "The next thing you know," he muses, "I had them on my hands and began scrounging for them. One thing led to another." Ferree lives...