Word: heyday
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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...sanitarium fire in 1948), Fitzgerald's indebtedness was chronic, and even his short stories were being rejected. The novel on which he had spent his greatest effort, Tender Is the Night, appeared in 1934, just as the proletarian novel was moving into its heyday. A long, lyrical study of the emotional and moral bankruptcy of U.S. expatriates in France, Fitzgerald's book sold badly, and was received indifferently by the critics. He spent the last years of his life in Hollywood, at first optimistic about what he could accomplish there, at length convinced that "for a long time...
...carrying the heaviest weight he had ever been made to carry (138 Ibs.), ran away with the Potomac Handicap in his usual styleand set a new track record for the mile-and-a-sixteenth while he was about it. Man o' War was in his heyday that year, and so was Havre de Grace. Halfway between Philadelphia and Washington, "the Graw"* drew crowds from 100 miles or more away, north & south...
...heyday of Dixieland and Prohibition, Chicago Gangster Dion O'Banion, the sparetime florist, used to stuff dollar bills in the bell of Muggsy's horn while he was playing. ("The more he stuffed, the sweeter the music got.") Like many another jazzbo, Muggsy drifted out of jazz into the bigger money. There were eight years with Ted Lewis' band-until "I just got tired of playing When My Baby Smiles at Me." As with many another jazzbo, there were spectacular years with John Barleycorn, until Muggsy wound up "dying" of a perforated ulcer in New Orleans...
...kind of turnabout of his 1938 invasion of Carnegie Hall, he does a classical disc-jockey program for Manhattan's WNEW. Having tucked away some of his heyday earnings, Benny has also become a patron of long-haired composers. Early this month, playing with the NBC Symphony, he gave the first performance of the new Concerto for Clarinet and Orchestra that he commissioned from Aaron Copland...
...British authors of the century, he was neither an English gentleman nor an American expatriate. His father worked as a hired gardener, later owned a pottery shop which brought him little success; his mother, a onetime housemaid, became a rather incapable housekeeper. His own visage, which, in his journalistic heyday, beamed down on Londoners from billboards and the sides of the city's big red buses, was unrefined, not to say coarse; his voice was shrill and slightly cockney. While indubitably a born writer, he was not in the least an esthete -indeed, he compared Esthete Proust...