Word: hums
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Yesterday's phenom, today's ho-hum. A few years ago, Richard Pryor was the comic everyman of movies and the top black box-office draw. But the pictures he made at machine-gun pace were too ordinary to sustain his eminence. He was still a star, but in spite of his work, not because of it. Worse, a new black phenom, with just as much on the ball and a better batting average, stole Pryor's thunder. Now he works in the shadows, a batting practice pitcher for All-Star Eddie Murphy...
...PROBLEM IS that great universities, or rather those that would sooner appear great than be great, hum along towards the intellectual frontier with all the speed and grace of a brontosaurus. Harvard is notorious, particularly in the English Department, for sitting tight and hoping whatever's new and exciting will go away with next year's graduates. But that strategy hasn't paid off with all the permutations of New Criticism, which refused to crawl away and die, and the odds aren't in the department's favor now. As it is, students are deserting the English Department in large...
...know," he said to the suggestion that life is not that simple. "But if a guy is over 25% jerk, he's in trouble. And Henry was 95%." Finally, many Ford executives bristle at Iacocca's implication in the book that it was he who made the company hum. Indeed, they claim he left Ford in disarray, strategically aimless. Then there are his professions of humility. Says a Ford executive: "He suffers delusions of modesty...
...flat expanse of the gray-brown desert. There were hundreds of them, Iranian infantrymen who had fought and died. A column of Iraqi tanks, their spotlights flickering through billows of thick dust, churned past the bodies toward the east; the roar of their engines blended into a continuous hum. As outgoing rounds of 130-mm artillery shook the windows of his headquarters nearby, Iraqi Major General Sultan Hashem Ahmed told a group of reporters: "There are no Iranian soldiers on Iraqi territory--not even...
...packed bodies, as in a stockyard whose animals are all looking to heaven; the cricked necks, the bellowing guides, the august patterns on the remote ceiling. Up on the scaffolding, where the restorers are at work, things look quite different. The noise has receded; it is more like a hum of bees. The frescoes have moved forward, monopolizing one's whole field of attention, swollen, enormous in their intensity...