Word: inwardly
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...Avedon lets up on the extreme of technique, he can catch a masterpiece of self-satire such as a group photo of eleven plump, prim, grim general of the Daughters of the American Revolution. His unaffected snap of a drooping, slightly disheveled Marilyn Monroe may be the most psychologically inward picture ever taken of her. But the slippery bias of the book is best shown by the inclusion of one picture: a so-so photo of Major Claude Eatherly, slyly captioned to perpetuate the oft-disproved legend that this disturbed man was the pilot who dropped the firs atomic bomb...
Implosion. Another nugget of information in the AEC report was word that the Chinese depended on an implosion (inward-striking detonation) of chemicals to compress their U-235 and make it fission. Such a device is more effective than shooting two chunks of fissionable material toward each other in an apparatus like a gun barrel, as was done in the U.S. bomb exploded over Hiroshima. The U.S. also used the implosion method in its earliest nuclear weapons. Although a surprising number of commentators assumed that use of implosion showed advanced skill by the Chinese, the AEC did not agree...
...uninterested in the haunting, elusive landscape that for centuries has been the obsession of English painters. Rather, it is the minor and least honored theme of English art, literary painting, that has primed their vision. The time may be ripe for them. Among collectors and critics, weary of the inward-turned, paint-for-paint's-sake language of abstract expressionists, almost any lively new departure stirs serious interest...
...ship looks like a stretched-out version of the X-15 rocket ship. From the front, the effect is just as strange; two bulbous engine nacelles above the razor-thin wing look like black marbles perched precariously on a strand of wire; the thin vertical tail surfaces, canted noticeably inward, jut upward like giant insect antennae...
...three-quarters the length of the volumes he was introducing. But in his autobiography, Sartre simplifies and shortens. The writing is austere, crisp, even epigrammatic. The result is a warm, albeit desperately sad, account of his childhood and early teens. And far more than most autobiographies, this is an inward-turning book, cutting into the living flesh of the man to expose the origins of his beliefs and behavior. Modern existentialism, it turns out, is rooted in the struggle for sanity of a spoiled and lonely child...