Word: butte
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George snapped a carrot-stick in two. "We are the generation of tranquilizers and mushroom clouds, grunion hunters and men's magazines. We are born, we go to college, and then what? In the age of surrealistic art, in the butt-end semantics of Joyce and the discordant lilt of Stravinsky we are somehow yet conservative. We stand marking time, unimpressed, hands skin-deep in mental hip pockets...
...theme, that vengeance is God's business, not man's. The book's best tale is the title story about Gimpel. who has seven names in all: 'Imbecile, donkey, flax-head, dope, glump, ninny and fool. The last name stuck." Gimpel the Fool is the butt of all cruel, mindless jokesters. He will believe anything: that the dead have arisen, that the Czar is visiting Frampol, even that his wife is faithful. In the first place, he believes because, after all, anything is possible. In the second place, he believes because if he does not, everyone...
...vaudeville joke In addition to being the butt of tired jokes, Newark (pop. 465.600) used to be a sprawling municipal Skid Row choking in its own web of rail lines, express high ways and traffic-snarled streets. The sun, rising above Manhattan's skyscrapers ten miles away, glinted off broken bottles in the ring of slums pressing in on Newark's business district. A daily flood of commuters poured in-doubling the population-then poured back into the suburbs. At night those who remained in the city saw the streets grow sullen and creepy...
...being royally had and is only saved by his bird-brained wife (Phyllis Love)-the plot is a staple of artificial comedy and farce. But here the tricks and artifices are applied, with considerable loss in credibility, to something serious and real. Moreover, as anything but a purely comic butt, the professor seems just a little too wet behind the ears and behind the times...
...porch steps, began pushing people off. A Missouri Pacific switchman named C. E. Blake, for days one of the most vocal of the agitators around Central High ("I advocate violence"), grabbed for a rifle, pulled a paratrooper to the ground with him. Another trooper reversed his rifle, smashed its butt against Blake's head. Blake, blood streaming from a shallow scalp wound, scuttled away, shouting to newsmen and photographers as he went: "Who knows the name of that lowlife s.o.b. who hit me?" A top sergeant ordered his men: "Keep those bayonets high-right at the base...