Word: pernods
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...placed in an iron lung, he came out of a coma long enough to murmur "Red Hand," the name of a counterterrorist organization which operates in West Germany and Belgium against suspected arms suppliers to Algerian French Africa. He also muttered something about having been served two glasses of Pernod. The first tasted "all right," the second was "bitter." Last week he died, and blood tests showed that his diagnosis was right: it was thallium poisoning...
...putting its bad apples at the top of the barrel and its milk of human kindness inside Pernod bottles, Irma La Douce endows its harmless story with a nice tingle of iniquity, even a certain mixture of sweetness and bite. Now and then the gags and goings-on go sour, or the story droops: Nestor-Oscar, for example, outwears its welcome. But under Peter Brook's brilliant direction, most of Irma moves remarkably fast, with the advisable speed of things outside the law and people on the lam-or it kicks its heels with Parisian verve and pertness. Marguerite...
...jostling farce, or drama is encroaching on comedy. But the play, as it plunges over rapids in which both men and women are hurt, and virtue and vice are drowned, is kept between banks by an ironic tone and wit. By the end, the champagne seems more like Pernod, and the last word-a kind of lament for women by way of lashing out at men-goes significantly to the procuress...
...another of Duerrenmatt's pessimistic, Pernod-flavored judgments on mankind, The Deadly Game has both its moral and its theatrical merits. Few men tried at Duerrenmatt's Court of the Unconscious would escape whipping; in the unconscious of the very men who stage the trials there may lurk as much blood lust as love of law. They, with their icy, refined, half-mad sense of justice, and the American, with his coldhearted dog-eat-dog view of life, face one another with contrasted inhumanity; the space between them seems nothing less at times than all groping humanity itself...
...idyl is broken by Edith, who shows up to buy a painting and promptly recognizes the lamster. Will he turn worm and let himself be stuffed back into a boiled shirt? Not, the reader can bet his burnt sienna, until expatriate geniuses drink Pepsi-Cola instead of Pernod. For wives, the moral is clear: if a husband begins to doodle, draw your own conclusions...