Word: host
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Dates: during 1940-1949
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...with the Communist-dominated Front National). Now he is France's most discussed writer: his temple, the respectably bohemian Cafe de Flore on the Left Bank. There he spends most of his writing and preaching day. Simultaneously he works on a philosophic book, a play, a novel, a host of articles...
Author Weiskopf packs into his novel a host of characters whose stumbling, often shady, approach to life neatly matches Austria's equally stumbling and shady progress into war. Twilight on the Danube glimmers romantically with bluebearded armament manufacturers, handsome intelligence officers, youthful idealists, and tea-party gargle about actresses and the disturbed condition of Balkan affairs. By the time the fatal shot has been fired at Sarajevo, Publisher Reither has found and lost his last and greatest love, and his entire family have fallen victims to their own dreams and to the Empire's infectious blend of sloppiness...
Such shop talk flowed as freely as the punch at a party last week in Louisville's stately old Pendennis Club. Blue-eyed Barry Bingham was host to 107 employes who, like him (he was a Navy commander), were home from the wars.* Mark Ethridge, back from his presidential mission to the Balkans, dropped in for a drink...
...listened to Van Mook, Clement Attlee visibly brightened. By dinner, the atmosphere was almost gay. The host had expected his company to stay three days. But things were going so well that, over coffee, he proposed a late night session to tidy up loose ends. By 3 a.m. the business was done. A vague communiquè cloaked a definite though general plan...
With this episode, in a break as abrupt and final as that of Britain from peace to war, Novelist Waugh begins the more obviously earnest part of his book. "My theme is memory, that winged host that soared about me one grey morning of wartime. These memories, which are my life-for we possess nothing certainly except the past-were always with me. . . . These memories are the memorials and pledges of the vital hours of a lifetime. These hours of afflatus in the human spirit, the springs of art, are, in their mystery, akin to the epochs of history, when...