Word: colouring
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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...cemetery and eat off the tombstones." At San Jose State College, they were the rage of the Phi Kappa house, and eventually they graduated to a local college hangout, where they were paid off in peanuts and beer. Their twisted versions of folk classics ("Black is the colour of my love's true hair") neatly spoofed the ethnic folkniks, and within a few years the brothers were smothered with TV offers. On Johnny Carson's Tonight Show, Tom met Bette Davis, launched into a disjointed discourse in praise of her acting, then suddenly exclaimed with a sly leer...
Victory brought an outpouring of happier copy. "Capture the excitement of our victories," said one ad, "on Kodak colour film." Read another: "The Tiran Straits are open! And the export of C.D. Edible Oil resumed." A brewery ad pictured Israeli Actor Mike Burstein in uniform pouring a glass of "Beer -a drink to victory...
...book-stall or to enter any book-shop is to witness a terrific scene of Internecine warfare between the Innumerable latest volumes, almost all of them violently vying with one another for one's attention, fiercely striving to outdo the rest in crudity of design and of colour. It is rather like visiting the parrot-house in the Zoological Gardens, save that there one can at least stop one's ears with one's fingers, whereas here one merely wants to shut one's eyes." Sir Max Beerbohm, The Observer...
...does Gandar spare his readers a reckoning of the full cost of integration: "It means the dismantling of colour bars in every sphere. It means the likelihood of having a Black family as one's neighbours, a Black man as one's boss. Unthinkable? No doubt. But then, the history of multiracial communities is essentially the story of the reluctant accepting the unthinkable. The case for integration does not rest on the unreal assumption that everyone will live happily ever after. It rests on the plain fact that there is no practical alternative...
...stood. Actually, he was a little (5 ft. 4 in.) bantam of a man. But he walked Pont-Aven's streets with a nautical swagger, his great jut of a nose tilted in the air, looking like an evangelist pirate captain. He spouted maxims: "A line is colour, since it can only be born from the contour of spaces," or "The ugly can be beautiful, the pretty, never." To his wife, who was supporting the five children at her family's home in Copenhagen, he sent periodic sermons defining his new position ("The difference between...