Word: mists
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Dates: during 1930-1939
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...divers Houses, they should be granted inter-House eating privileges as has been proposed before. This proposal was made last year, but was defeated, apparently for no better reason than that several Masters were afraid of proselyting on the part of their confreres. Furthermore, a good deal of the mist with which the Houses are at Present enshrouded would be cleared away if each House were to publish a booklet, containing a list of available rooms, and a statement on the part of the Master concerning the comparative strength of his tutorial staff and the atmosphere of the House. Finally...
...market might soon reach saturation point. Of these 14 short stories a bare half-dozen were up to standard; the rest were as undistinguished as run-of-the-mill magazine fiction. Faulkner seldom writes about ordinary human beings. When he does he is careful to hide them in a mist of sinister innuendo. His forte is pathology; his most effective stories depend on madness gradually unveiled. In a novel he has space enough for his tortuous unraveling, but many of these short stories fail to convince simply because the reader has not had sufficient time to become bemused. The four...
When he gets down to post-Civil War times, which even milder historians characterize as financially scandalous, McConaughy's progress becomes a dervish-whirl in a mist of vituperative facts. An index of his malefactors would read like the Social Register. Too over-violent throughout to be persuasive, Who Rules America? chokes over its own too-choleric mixture of fact and fanaticism...
...have expected Congress to have sent down Pennsylvania Avenue to say the same thing that Leader Robinson had made a joke of. His children, grandchildren, wife and friends following in four cars behind, the President rode hatless to the Capitol. His secretaries clucked their tongues at the wreaths of mist which hung about their bareheaded chief as he swung up a ramp to the House wing. On the arm of his son James he passed into the well of the House and after a round of applause and a volley of cheers, began to deliver his message to the first...
Many a writer appears on the literary horizon like a cloud no bigger than a man's hand, swells quickly to mistily gigantic proportions and-vanishes like a mist. Gertrude Stein is no such writer. Like a huge squat mountain on a distant border of the literary kingdom, obscured not only by the cloudy procession of more Aprilly authors but by the self-induced fog that hangs around her close-cropped top, she has loomed from afar over the hinterland of letters, a sphinxlike, monolithic mass. Twenty years she has squatted there; eyes accustomed to the landscape are beginning...