Word: gobs
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Success has not spoiled James Fahey. Though his gob's-eye view of battle, Pacific War Diary 1942-45 (TIME, Aug. 16) is a smash critical hit, Amateur Author Fahey, 45, is happy in his $93.20-a-week job as a Waltham, Mass., garbage man. "I won't quit my sanitation job until I have been named Garbage Man of the Year," he said lightly in an interview, for there had never been such a title. But at the magazine of the trade, the Refuse Removal Journal, the remark brought action: Fahey was duly informed that the magazine...
...must have been an officer who said that war is 5% sheer fright and 95% boredom. An enlisted man knows better. To the ordinary gob of the U.S. Navy, World War II was 90% boredom, 9% infuriating trivia, and only about 1% was composed of that combination of terror and exhilaration in which battles are decided. Surprisingly little of this has come through previous accounts of what life-and death-was like for the anonymous masses of men jammed into the seagoing ovens plying the Pacific, largely because most World War II books have been written by admirals and reporters...
Miller himself set the tone of the debates that have raged over it when he wrote in 1934: "This is not a book. This is libel, slander, defamation of character....No, this is a prolonged insult, a gob of spit in the face of Art, a kick in the pants to God, Man, Despite Time, Love, Beauty....what you will...
...This is not a book This is libel, slander, defamation of character. This is not a book, in the ordinary sense of the word. No, this is a prolonged insult, a gob of spit in the face of Art, a kick in the pants to God, Man, Destiny, Time, Love, Beauty...what you will...
...remarkable about the parade of commercials was that they had been made with so much more imagination, humor, photographic skill and musical talent than the programs they were designed to interrupt. The cinematography in a Prell shampoo blurb was visual poetry as it showed, with crystalline acuity, each gob of goo sinking into each coil of hair. There was the pathos of Willy Loman in a Metrecal pitch called the Lonely Man (commercials have titles these days), which showed a forlorn, overweight figure trudging through Central Park on a cheerless winter day while a narrator spoke of blubber in tones...