Word: neatness
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DRIVE DOWN ANY street in Manchester, New Hampshire, and you're likely to spot a neat and quietly handsome billboard bearing the words: "Ashbrook--Responsible Republican." To the left of this inscription is a white arrow in a blue field. The arrow is pointing to left. Across the arrow is a bright red slash. The meaning of it all? "No Left Turn...
...Lions Club in old Key West. The crowd chatter, much of it warmly spiced with Spanish-American syllabication, died. The speaker was a stumpy, smoothfaced man who was as far away from his home in Everett, Wash., as he could be. His Adlai Stevenson-era button-down blue shirt, neat striped tie, close-clipped sideburns and Trumanesque pungencies perhaps marked him as a man of the 1950s. "What I stand for," said Henry Jackson, "comes closer to your thinking than all of the other candidates. I'm the different candidate." The sponge fishermen, tradesmen, retired couples and the rest...
Janouch's Kafka is a man of almost forty, a father-confessor whom the author meets in his office at the Insurance Association or on long walks through the streets of Prague. Neat and quiet, with "great grey eyes" and an expressive brown face, this Kafka ponders the problems of modern life as he walks beside his young friend, finally rising to some statement like "the dream reveals the reality, which conception lags behind. That is the horror of life--the terror of art. But now I must go home." And he strides away, tall and urbane, across the cobbles...
...plot is fairly complex and farcical, and Yandell does a neat job of keeping the small confusions and flimsy coincidences straight. Both Vandervanes use him: Kitty to try and persuade her husband to leave Sylvia, Sir Roy to further the escapade. Uppermost (but never very elevated) in Yandel's mind is preserving his friend's musical reputation by preventing a performance of Elevations 9. Spreading butter on Sir Roy's bow only postpones the debacle a few minutes. Happily Yandell has small expectations...
There is nothing quite like a master theory of history to set the old blood coursing. Master Theorist climbs his neat little mountain. He looks down upon the masses-ants, really. He hears the rush of centuries-a mere ticktock. Then he closes eyes and ears tight and pronounces his patented, stretch-fit perspective. Can any high match the high of an intellectual passing the aeons in review...