Word: budapest
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...began for three wise old men: in Seoul, South Korean President Syngman Rhee, 83, watched fireworks and a military parade celebrating his birthday; in Manhattan, energetic ex-Senator Herbert Lehman, 80, conceded that "I do have a tendency to get tired if I stay up past 2 a.m."; in Budapest, sad-eyed, flinty Josef Cardinal Mindszenty turned 66, spent a quiet day, his 511th as a refugee in the U.S. legation...
Hopeful of opening direct channels of communication with art movements in the satellite countries, the Whitney Museum had sent some 300 copies of the book overseas addressed to museums and individual artists. From Warsaw and Cracow, Budapest and Szeged, Prague, Zatec and Bucharest came a stream of letters, catalogues, books and even original drawings and engravings from artists who wished to reciprocate the Whitney's gesture. The letters were scrupulously nonpolitical. Nearly all had two points in common: 1) unstinting praise for the book, and 2) surprise that American painting was so good. One Rumanian intellectual, unreported for years...
friends to have disappeared long ago, wrote carefully: "The book renders me a great pleasure, and it fills a real gap in our knowledge of American art." A Budapest painter wrote: "We marvel at the richness of your art, of which we have only vague knowledge." From a librarian in Szeged: "This excellent work has aroused in our reading public a great interest...
Conductors Eugene Ormandy, 58, and Fritz Reiner, 69, are two boys from Budapest, but musically they have never talked the same language. Ormandy's orchestral speech is as rich and gusty as Reiner's is precise and lucid; Ormandy's Philadelphia Orchestra is famed for its massive sweep and sumptuous sound, Reiner's Chicago Symphony for its fine articulation and meticulous attack. Last week the two Hungarians swapped podiums and gave their audiences a fascinating demonstration of how quickly a first-rate conductor can teach a first-rate orchestra to talk his own idiom...
...fringe of Budapest, smoke pours steadily from factory chimneys, and in the city, movie houses disgorge streams of blinking customers (Marty and Trapeze are sellouts). In bars (where only foreigners and party bureaucrats have cash enough to drink regularly) U.S.-make jukeboxes squawk the raucous normalcy of rock 'n' roll. But the iron fist looms through the shoddy substitute for velvet: at a Budapest restaurant, a grey-haired old waiter is seized by security police, vanishes. His crimes: he has a young relative who is studying to be a priest, and he has been observed chatting with foreigners...