Word: glasse
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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...people in this country and there are some political people. And all of these hopes, dreams and idealistic people going around are misleading and confusing and weakening our position. We have never said they are unpatriotic, although they say some pretty ugly things about us. People who live in glass houses shouldn't be too anxious to throw stones." Yet he was able to joke about his critics. "If I have done a good job of anything since I have been President," he smiled, "it is to insure that there are plenty of dissenters...
West Berlin is the focal point of more than one cold war. Outside the towering glass-and-metal headquarters of Publisher Axel Springer, burly guards are posted at every door. Loudspeakers have been installed that emit such a high-pitched whine that it will pain the eardrums of would-be invaders. From the East, over the Wall that runs alongside the building? Not at all. From the West. Militant West Berlin students have threatened to break into the plant and smash the printing presses-not to mention the faces of any Springer personnel who get in their way. To which...
...over the bed and lifted himself to a sitting position. He needed nurses' help to get off the bed, but then he stood in a walker, waved one arm high, heaved himself into a comfortable position on the bed, and took a drink from a glass. Proulx "hadn't moved a joint for three years," said Dr. Murray. "But this fellow is going to walk...
Divorced. J. D. Salinger, 48, solitary author, whose Glass family chronicles have been produced painfully and slowly (only one story in The New Yorker in the past eight years); by Claire Salinger, 33, his second wife; after twelve years of marriage, two children; in Newport, N.H. She charged treatment "to injure health and endanger reason" based on his indifference and refusal to communicate. He did not contest...
...VIETNAM by Mary McCarthy (Harcourt, Brace & World, $5.95), is seen darkly through a bile-colored glass. The Viet Cong somehow do not make the scene; the G.I. is an unmitigated heavy. Novelist McCarthy confesses at the outset that her visit to the war last February for the New York Review of Books was to seek what was damaging to America. Written in corrosive prose, her book is a searing catalogue of squalor: rusting heaps of empty cans marking the progress of American divisions across the countryside, unwashed refugees and naive do-gooding Americans burbling enthusiastically of winning Vietnamese hearts...