Word: potatos
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...left behind a stern point of view that can serve journalists as well as painters. To a proud husband who complained that Stuart had failed to capture his wife's elusive beauty, the artist replied: "What damned business is this of a portrait painter? You bring him a potato and expect he will paint a peach...
...flat, open country within the city's northern boundary, the land to the west is checkered with brown wheatfields and lush, green, potato gardens. Eastward stretches a no-man's land where once fertile fields lie desolate and deathly still. They could be in two different worlds-and, in a sense, they are. Even the countryside outside Berlin is divided into East and West by a vicious, impenetrable hedge of rusty barbed wire and concrete. As itsnakes southward toward the partitioned city, it becomes the Wall...
...second house, but never have so many Bostonians-proper and improper-spread out in such numbers into the cool Berkshire Hills, or the trout-stream areas of New Hampshire and Vermont, or the watering places along the North Shore and Cape Cod. New Yorkers are stippling the dunes and potato fields of Long Island with daring new beach houses that are a far cry from the vast mansions of Southampton-the second houses of another generation...
...recent years, Brittany's artichoke and potato growers have been dumping their produce in the streets in dramatic protest over their lot. They complain that they get less than one-third of what the customer pays for their produce, with the rest going to an army of rapacious middlemen. The farmer also suffers from an antiquated distribution system by which 55% of all produce consumed throughout France has first to be trucked in and out of Paris' ancient Les Halles market, which makes Les Halles a great tourist sight but otherwise makes no sense...
Trouble Ahead. Bound in hard covers, the potato serials formed a vast sub-literature whose authors typed fast, grew rich, and pretended to be wistful about critical neglect. Among the fastest and richest was Faith Baldwin, whose income reached six figures a year during the '30s and '40s, and who has written, under her own name and pseudonyms, at least 100 books Edmund Wilson has never heard of. Editors loved her because she was dependable and fast. Once, with no perceptible quickening in pace, she clicked off a 12,000-word novella during a four-day coast...