Word: pomp
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Dates: during 1940-1949
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...Pomp. Today Jinnah revels in his one-man show. Nobody in all his Moslem League can be called a No. 2 man, or even No. 8. He delights in the princely processions staged by his followers when he tours the Moslem cities of northern India. His buglers herald his arrival at railway stations. Bands play God Save the King because "that's the only tune they know." Victory arches go up, rose petals flutter down from the rooftops, richly bedizened elephants, camels, mounted guards of honor accompany the Hollywood float in which Jinnah rides. Today Jinnah...
...updated F. W. Though the last Englishman had long been dead, the British Empire continued to exist. The Germans had been the first people to ask to have their chauvinisms removed by the Central Psycho-Surgical Bureau. Russian Communism ("hoary with age") had clothed itself in such "intoxicating religious pomp" that the young Marxist clergy swung censers (full of disinfectant), chanted rhymed statistics and wore miters inscribed with the sacred text: "The Welfare of the Greatest Number of Microorganisms is the Purpose of the Cosmos." The U.S. had passed a Constitutional amendment "by virtue of which the economic...
...idea: the heroes of the Mexican Revolution, though dead, might be made to contribute to national unity and, incidentally, to P.R.I, prestige. Dr. Rafael Pascacio Gamboa's suggestion: disinter the bodies of Emiliano Zapata, Pancho Villa, Alvaro ObregÓn, rebury them with full and traditional pomp in a crypt beneath the Monument to the Revolution...
...skipper is physically and spiritually strong. . . . Overpowering events . . . have given the grinning, gum-chewing Missourian new stature, new dignity, new confidence-but no pomp. [He] is less of an autocratic figure than any White House incumbent since Taft. There is no 'crackdown' in his system. Even those who have the hatchet out for Truman . . . acknowledge his determined honesty. . . ." There were those who sought to smear him, said Considine, but Harry Truman was a man's kind of man, as American as ham & eggs...
Pennsylvania Avenue was wet with autumn showers; the tires of the big, shiny sedan sang until it slowed for the turn into the White House drive. As the big machine stopped, with the air of quiet pomp that only official cars achieve, the wind bent trees out across the wide, wet lawns. The burly man in the back seat-Admiral James Otto Richardson, Commander in Chief of the U.S. Fleet-did not appear to notice. He had arrived punctually at 1 o'clock; he got out quickly, and walked into the executive mansion, looking straight ahead...