Word: lapped
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Pasha of Marrakech. His Excellency Hadj Thami El Glaoui, Pasha of Marrakech, was born in the high Atlas about 80 years ago. His first profession was banditry, and he still rides round Morocco with a machine gun on his lap. Today, El Glaoui, still lean, dark and pantherish, is one of the world's richest men. He takes a tithe of the almond, saffron and olive harvests in his vast domain, owns huge blocks of stock in French-run mines and factories, gets a rebate on machinery and automobiles imported into his realm. As a sideline, he reputedly takes...
...Frankie is too smart for that. On occasion Sinatra, who was trained as a flyweight by his fighter father, has also gone in for slapping people around. He throws pretty frequent crying fits and temper tantrums too, and has even been seen to weep in his secretary's lap. His prodigality with the big green is legend from Hoboken to Hollywood. "Perhaps," says one friend, "Frank is the wildest spender of modern times. He throws it around like a drunken admiral." A member of his family reports that he usually carries nothing smaller than $100 bills and "peels them...
...clock the loudspeakers told the crowd to split into three groups. One moved along broad Nguyen Hue Boulevard. The second marched to Doc Lap Palace to cheer Premier Ngo Dinh Diem...
...leprosy, he did what a devout Buddhist should. Dressed in white robes and carrying a walking stick, he made a lengthy pilgrimage to the 88 holy places of Buddhism on his native Japanese island of Shikoku, visiting each three times. But at the end of the last lap, having found no cure, he did what a devout Buddhist should not: he turned in at the gate of an Anglican missionary hospital...
...known work is fully translated for the first time and prefaced with a perceptive introduction by Critic Lionel Trilling. Like another Eastern Jewish writer, Sholom Aleichem, Babel was a folk artist of the ghetto. To Aleichem (TIME, April 25), the ghetto was as comforting as a mother's lap, and he could always smile through the tears; to Babel it was just a prison cell which he tramped with despairing irony. Laconic and deadpan in style, his autobiographical stories are nonetheless as anguished and personal as a scream...