Word: marvells
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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Bombed to rubble in World War II, Rotterdam later became a marvel of economic growth. Holland's second biggest city now boasts the world's busiest port and a vast complex of petrochemical plants with blue-chip owners like Shell and British Petroleum. Unfortunately, the marvel also gushes appalling fumes - acrylates, hydrocarbons, paint solvents and sulfur dioxide. Of all Dutch deaths from bronchitis in urban areas, the highest number occur in Rotterdam. Dutch workers are quitting the city's industries, which are seeking replacements from as far away as Turkey...
...Idealist. Rarely is Casals personally revealing. He does offer praise for Martita, his youthful present wife, married in 1957. "She is the marvel of my world, and each day I find some new wonder in her." It is only in the second half of Joys and Sorrows that the reader begins to glimpse Casals the idealist, who used his artistic prestige to protest political injustices. Early in life he rejected socialism: "Full of illusions about changing society and man," he decided. "How is man to be changed when he is full of selfishness and cynicism, when aggression is part...
...these issues are part of the same battle. The government must not be allowed to continue its war in Vietnam and in the ghettos while activists marvel at the bravery of minks and muskrats...
...issue of Today's Health contained an article about a man who had spent $28,000 on Diabetics and was still not Clear. Obviously, the real or imagined dividends of processing are made highly desirable; one is forced to marvel at the confidence Hubbard inspires. Consider his description of being a Clear: "Compared to a homo-sapiens, homo novice is very high and god-like." But, "compared to a truly self-determined being, homo novis is an ant ready to die under anybody's misstep." Ah, so Clear is only a beginning. After Clear, one begins work on becoming...
...that it happens very often. "Take one with you, Jim!" someone shouts, and the big man rises and knocks one back in one gulp. "I just did," he says, and leaves his admirers gaping. James Dickey is everyone's notion of a poet: part Proteus, part Puck. People marvel at how much liquor he can hold, but he wonders why he can't drink as much as Hart Crane. Others are awestruck that he writes poems, criticism and fiction. He frets that he cannot paint...