Word: patriarchalism
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...Easter Eve, Russians of all ages, types and uniforms milled about with the candles they would light at midnight. The greatest excitement centered around Epiphany Cathedral, where the Patriarch Alexei-assisted by his metropolitans and bishops-would officiate. Twelve thousand Muscovites churned and shouted gaily in the clear starry night outside. Inside the cathedral were 7,000 more, unlit candles in hand...
...midnight, in his organ voice, the Patriarch chanted, "Christ is risen, Christ is risen," while the choir and the 7,000 took up the refrain. Light from the Patriarch's candle, touched quickly to a dozen others, spread through the nave. Gorgeous in his robes of silvered silk and wearing a pearl-and-diamond crown, the Patriarch swung his fragrant censer, blessed them...
Socialist Patriarch Léon Blum snapped back that the savior of the Republic spoke against the Republic. "I am obliged to acknowledge that an open fight has now begun," he wrote. "Without reservation . . . [the Socialist Party] will be on the side of the Republic." The moderate MRP's leaders were cautious and worried. The Right's approval of De Gaulle was markedly reserved. Communist L'Humanité demanded an Assembly debate to forbid Army officers to listen to De Gaulle. Worried about the increased danger of civil war, Socialist Premier Paul Ramadier paid a hasty visit...
John Marquand's sly satire of Bostonism takes still another dilution of commercialism in the film adaptation of a play that was a good novel. Progressively each of the interested parties have taken Marquand's Apley and twisted him into an inscrutable New England patriarch (the play) and now into a harmless old crone whose inner conflict is no greater than the woes of a lovelorn son and daughter. Not only is George Apley altered to fit the needs of non-New England audiences, but the aura of Beacon Hill and Louisburg Square is wrenched out of reality and transformed...
Taste Without Purpose. The Examiner's exclusive story, carefully edited by the Chief himself, read like a chapter out of an authorized biography of the patriarch of U.S. chain journalism. To set the stage, it went back to W.R.'s dear, dead Harvard days: "If anything, the young Hearst had more of a potential than his fellows. Back of him were an unequaled upbringing, a connoisseur's taste. . . . But, by his own admission, the tall, blond and very elegant heir to mining millions lacked a purpose...