Word: pallidity
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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...earth's surface in order. We've got to keep the blacks down or they'll take over like Hitler did."* And a Times reporter noted that the hoodlums came from all over London, even from areas where there were no Negroes, "because these stunted, pallid thugs like the chance of violence without danger...
...International Association for Liberal Christianity and Religious Freedom* seemed designed to meet just such reproaches, for its watchword was tolerance. Yet, as its delegates spelled out just what they meant by liberalism, their version of an irreproachable Christanity began to look to many a Christian like nothing but a pallid imitation of the real thing...
...prose fails to redeem things. There is only one decent piece of fiction--"Mademoiselle Champignon", By Frederick Wakeman, a Harvard junior. Wakeman is sandwiched between two long short stories, the first a pallid Hemingway without irony, called "The Leedhes." It begins with twenty-one simple sentences, stumbles along under a clock of belabored symbolism, and never quite gets on its feet again. C. C. Abt returns in the other effort to tell a long tale inadequately...
...beer-pudgy reporter, a jovial, middle-aging man named Joe Shaw. His real name is Clarence, but he is "everybody's uncle" and therefore Joe. Self-described as "an uncouth provincial boor," he tells a tale of a pair of modern Dick Whittingtons who see London as "the pallid aviary of bank notes flapping their wings in time to the cunning chimes of Big Ben." The London-lured travelers are school friends who grew up together in a town where the pottery kilns were like "giant Burgundy bottles." Their characters are fixed as schoolboys; life, they are told...
...sprawling ugliness of a three-story Willard Hotel that seems to imprison the audience as well as the players, this pallid version of Broadway's Look Homeward, Angel has just enough story line for a wistful, low-key one-act play. The line goes hopelessly slack in the second and third acts when Playwright Sergel keeps falling back on his first. Even the major Anderson characters seem thin, and for a good reason. Anderson merely sketched them with evocative daubs; his adapter failed to fill them out with the detail demanded by the theater. Out of misapplied reverence...