Word: frenchman
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...Frenchman's Burden. To these oddly assorted lands, half the size of Europe, almost seven times the size of Texas, France clings tenaciously, even though much of the land is still poor and only 50,000 Frenchmen live there. Not for years will the $550 million poured in since 1948 begin to pay off-but there are riches to be found, and France seems determined not to let this vast remnant of its empire go by default, or to make the same mistakes that led to Algeria...
Compulsive Eye. The hero of Portrait of a Man Unknown is a potbellied Frenchman, no longer young, who seems to live with his aging parents. That is about all the reader ever finds out about him. Most of his time seems to be spent in checking up on the activities of an old maid and her father. Both father and daughter were born under the sign of French avarice. The girl whines and begs for money, the father accuses her of hoarding what he gives her. One night he dashes barefoot and in his nightgown into the kitchen, climbs...
...Charles Montfior, master of the Restaurant Chez Pavan, is in love with gentle Liane, mistress of the hotel's flower pots. But apart from a bit of boudoir athletics that no true Frenchman would take seriously, he never gets his girl. The trouble is, he cannot concentrate. He can never quite get his mind off Vashni, an old sweetheart with the heat of youthful summers "always close about her, like an extra fragrance, that of a blossom crisping in the sun, which the kiss found under the heavy gold anklets that polished the skin, and behind her knees . . ." Most...
...With his hooked paw. the Devil drew me toward God," wrote a crazy mixed-up Frenchman named Joris-Karl Huysmans. He was never so crazy as when he earnestly took up diabolism. The record of his descent to the depths among the witches and warlocks of Paris was written in the first year of the '90s, and nothing more appalling appeared in the rest of that de cadent decade. Là-Bas, now republished in the U.S., might well call to the mind of old-fashioned readers Browning...
CLIMBING aboard an Egyptian Misrair Viking at Tunis airport early this week, I found, by luck, a vacant seat next to Krim. He was returning to Cairo from the Conference of North African Arabs and, after an initial coolness ("I took you for a Frenchman"), he dropped his natural wariness of strangers and began to talk. Once started, he talked so steadily and passionately that he left his breakfast of omelet and chicken untouched. Time and again, as he tried to explain and justify the terrible momentum of the nationalist rebellion in which he was caught up, the same word...