Word: bleakness
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Dates: during 1920-1929
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...cold and dismal in New Haven late Saturday night. The railroad station loomed bleak and cavernous, offering small comfort to the band of weary and discouraged Harvard supporters, which blew on its fingers and looked longingly up the track toward Boston. The Crimson had failed to flash in triumph, and here was a group who had suffered thereby, and who had to attend Monday morning classes in the Yard. But to do this meant something that was very much missing from the faithful at that moment...
...When we were flying over the polar regions in the Norge, I had this fact of progress deeply impressed upon me. I had but to regard the bleak wastes of snow and ice below me to visualize the unfortunate explorers of the past. Brave men had wasted their lives in crawling toward the Pole over the ice and snow and frozen drifts of this Arctic area which we were flying over in comfort at ten times their best speed! When I considered these explorers with their dogs and sleds and years of wasted effort, I felt almost guilty because...
...never cared for Boston. He was born in Harvard, Neb., lives now in New Hope, Pa., has studied under Chase and Henri, is a member of the National Academy. His picture "Mountebanks and Thieves" depicts U. S. slum life with its gay devil-may-care foreground, and the gaunt bleak tenements, brooding, relentless in the background...
...fight over a little leather ball. They will expect great things. A single mistake may decide the game. One error may mean defeat. But what of it, our friend across the water asks. There is yet some joy in life. What remains of life does not at once look bleak and dreary to an English 'varsity man if he happens to drop a ball. Nor does he feel eternally disgraced if, by mischance, he falls during a sprint or crumples up in a shell...
...champions differs like their races. The stranger, who comes of a people hot, delicate and windy, has schooled his natural haste into precision. His eye is cool; his strokes are like insults uttered in a careful voice. But the man of legend is a Jack of a different silk. Bleak in person and in countenance, sprung of a thin and righteous line of thee-and-thouers, he has sharpened caution into vehemence: every bravery of his stride is his, every fine conceit of skill and insolence. For a while his thundering ways prevailed, and the crowd cheered; then the soft...