Word: crudely
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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...past, the Soviet variety has been so poor in nutrient that many countrymen agree with the farmer who confided to a friend last week: "Chemistry is all right, but what really counts is dung." Then it has to get to the fields, mostly in areas served by crude dirt roads that turn to quagmires in winter. More than 25% of Khrushchev's precious fertilizer is usually wasted in transit. Shipped in boxcars, the coarse Russian mixture sometimes cakes so hard that it has to be broken loose with picks. Piled outside the station, it often lies forgotten through...
Labor in Management. In the ten years since Petrobras started out to make Brazil largely self-sufficient in oil, the company's production of crude oil has grown from 990,000 bbl. to 36.5 million bbl. annually, and its refining output has risen from 907,000 bbl. to 90 million bbl. Yet Brazil still depends on private oilmen, both domestic and foreign, for 65% of its crude oil needs...
...politicians unfailingly quote two slogans. "The oil is ours," is one cry, and the second goes, "Petrobras is untouchable." Petrobras is Brazil's staterun oil company, and the country's biggest single business. It provides jobs for 30,000 people, produces 30% of Brazil's crude-oil needs, grosses almost $350 million a year. But Petrobras is also one of Brazil's sickest companies -hard hit by graft and inefficiency, and honeycombed with far-leftists. Last week, after a jolt of scandals, Petrobras was anything but untouchable...
...disappear into Rio's hillside favelas, Caracas' ranchos, Santiago's callampas, the slums that choke every large Latin American city. In a year's time, squatters at the edge of Colombia's port city of Barranquilla turned a bean field into a shantytown of crude huts housing 2,500 people. Lima's slums are growing ten times faster than the city itself; 450,000 live in slums today, compared with 120,000 in 1957. For nearly all, the chances of ever rising out of the slums are slim. The man finds odd jobs...
Psychiatric Seismographs. Like many another experimental French novelist today, Nathalie Sarraute is trying to break away both from stereotyped Victorian emotions like honor, love and greed and from the equally crude Freudian categories of guilt and sexuality. Unlike the others, however, she has not retreated into eye-catching but sterile gimmickry-writing only about things and objective surfaces, for example, or offering as a novel a box of unnumbered pages. Instead, she has returned to the world of minute inner impulses, best explored in the past by Dostoevsky. Too delicate to be recorded on the rough seismographs of the psychoanalysts...