Word: boredly
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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...boycott began to affect downtown shops, bars, restaurants, theaters and even (for Catalonians, a big sacrifice) soccer games, Barcelona became like a dead city. There were whispers of a general strike. Clandestine pamphlets appeared, citing "the incapacity of some authorities" and demanding their dismissal. The boycott bore the mark of some planning, but by whom? An informed guess was that disaffected young Falangists were its base organizers...
...Scotch, Bogart had won wide respect by managing, on screen or off, to be perversely ingratiating Humphrey Bogart. With Bogie's ashes in an urn was placed a tiny gold whistle, a memento of his first meeting 13 years ago with his widow, Cinemactress Lauren Bacall. The whistle bore an inscription borrowed from the dialogue of their first film together, To Have and Have Not: "If you need anything, just whistle...
...Away from his music, he sometimes seemed like a child. He liked to watch children's programs or boxing on television, and he could shake with laughter watching an unsuspecting guest try to cut meat with a folding knife. The stories that clustered about him bore testimony to the fact that he was (in the words of a friend) at once naive and crafty, simple and complex, gracious and spiteful. When a rehearsal failed to meet his standards, he was capable of kicking over the music stand and storming offstage to rip scores from his studio bookshelves and upset...
...Three. Wall Street looked into Kreuger's hypnotic, ice-blue eyes and found that it could not resist this charmer. The staid and honorable banking firm of Lee, Higginson & Co. begged to be his broker and soon bore him a bouncing new corporation, International Match. Kreuger promptly convinced the directors, among them Percy Rockefeller, nephew of John D., that the millions raised from this and subsequent flotations should be deposited by him with a European subsidiary, to "avoid taxes." Kreuger, in turn, would mail back the dividends, some of them as handsome...
Last Saturday night I had a girl in my room. The first few hours were all right. We talked about Daumier; what a grisly month January is; the trouble with Wellesley girls (they're always talking about marriage); why Europe is becoming a bore; what it is with Soc Rel; marriage; the temperature; and John Foster Dulles. At about 10:30 I sensed that she was growing listless. I got up and put on some Stravinsky. But it was no use. She was definitely beginning to lose interest. I looked at my watch...