Word: colde
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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...that sum has been raised-despite sizable contributions from such chains as A. & P., Safeway and Giant Food, as well as promises of 850 loaves of bread a day from the baking industry and 1,500 half-pints of milk from local dairies. Discouraged by the turmoil, an abnormal cold snap and a driving rain that turned much of the camp site into a bog, more than 50 of the initial 500 settlers asked to be sent back South...
...Soviet Union has been much overplayed." Were the "military maneuvers" of the Russian army in Poland over? "Why don't you ask the Poles?" Cernik insisted that Czechoslovakia would never alter its ties to Russia, but added: "We think we can contribute to the dismantling of the cold war." Cernik and Sik made plain that investments by the capitalist world would henceforth be welcome, announced that small, family-scale free enterprise would again be permitted in Czechoslovakia. Eventually, Sik said, he hoped to make the Czechoslovak koruna a convertible currency, and even to enroll his country in the International...
...result, her impressions offer neither hard news nor political insight but some sharp feminine glimpses of enemy territory-and of Mary McCarthy herself. She likes her little comforts. "To my stupefaction," she writes, "there was hot water, plenty of it. . . At the Continental in Saigon, there was only cold water." Amid "other luxuries I found at the Thong Nhat Hotel were sheets of toilet paper laid out on a box in a fan-pattern." Since she was served "little cups of tea" almost everywhere she went, she wondered why she got tea at the War Crimes Museum but beer...
...secured with a padlock, the key to which is inside the box. His recent show at Manhattan's Castelli Gallery began with 15-to 50-ft.-long hanks of handsome industrial felt, sliced into strips and dangled weirdly from the walls. In later weeks, the gallery showed cold-rolled steel and aluminum mesh bolted together with immense authority-into impossibly useless, pointless, outsized shapes...
This is Vladimir Nabokov's second novel, written and published in Russian in 1928, when he was a 28-year-old émigré living in Berlin. It was recently roughed into English by Nabokov's son Dmitri, then tightened and buffed to a cold brilliance by the author. "Of all my novels," says Nabokov, "this bright brute is the gayest. Expatriation, destitution, nostalgia had no effect on its elaborate and rapturous composition...