Word: koestler
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Dates: during 1980-1989
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...served in South Korea while in the Army during the mid-1950s and later reported on China, then off limits to U.S. journalists, for United Press International from Tokyo. "I read Cheng's manuscript, and it knocked me out," says Kriss. "It is a powerful testament, akin to Arthur Koestler's tale of life under Soviet Communism, Darkness at Noon. It's an account of a brave woman's stubborn resistance to an overwhelmingly powerful regime." Kriss, who visited China last autumn, has watched with apprehension the government's recent attacks on intellectuals, students and those considered "bourgeois liberals." "Many...
Avishai, a writer, said he plans to work on "an intellectual portrait of Arthur Koestler," a 20th-century British writer born in Hungary...
...appeal to Playwright Eugene Ionesco. A major contributor to the theater of the absurd (he prefers the term "theater of derision"), Ionesco reviews the influence of surrealists and dadaists without missing the historical joke: "They all wanted to destroy culture . . . and now they're part of our heritage." Arthur Koestler, a leading intellectual and novelist of the '30s and '40s, sounds weary and detached. "I'm vice president of the Voluntary Euthanasia Society," says the author of Darkness at Noon. The following year, he and his wife Cynthia would carry out a joint suicide pact at their London residence...
...accounts of the famine are excruciating to read. Arthur Koestler, then an ardent Communist, was traveling through the Ukraine by train. He recalls women outside his compartment window holding up babies who looked like "embryos out of alcohol bottles." For soup, people boiled rats, nettles, tree bark and the skin of old furs. While guarded warehouses nearby were filled with grain, peasants were beaten, arrested and even shot for trying to take the few remaining kernels lying on the fields of collective farms. In one village, families gathered acorns from under the snow and baked them into a sort...
...Author Arthur Koestler little is definitely known. But he has written the most exciting novel of the season. The book begins with the clang of a cell door closing in a GPU prison. It ends with a shot in the back of the head in a murky passageway of the prison cellar. It moves with the speed, directness, precision and some of the impact of a bullet. More plausibly than any other book yet written, fiction or nonfiction, it gives the answer to one of history's great riddles: Why do Russians confess...