Word: proletarianized
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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...face that Moscow turned to the world this week was, except for the missing mustache, disconcertingly the same-fat, inscrutable, steelyeyed. Georgy Maximilianovich Malenkov and his fellow heirs to the proletarian kingdom of Joseph Stalin had stepped into power with every outward sign of unity...
...shapeless grey cap and simple soldier's tunic. Like Stalin he proved himself devious, inscrutable and cruel, but where the master had muscle, Malenkov is as pale and pasty as the cream buns he loves. He was almost certainly the son of a Czarist subaltern-an offense against "proletarian biology" which he long tried to expiate by scolding Marxist scholars for their "researches into who is [a man's] grandmother . . ." Too young in 1917 to become a hero of the October Revolution, he is of the new generation of Soviet...
Pythagorism, cried the magazine, had reared its transmigrated head in the proletarian writings of Vasily Semenovich Grossman, an engineer-turned-author who spent World War II as a combat correspondent with the Red army, and had moved on to high regard in Communist literary circles. For the Right Cause, Grossman's unfinished tome on the battle of Stalingrad, had been certified as dialectically sound by Moscow's literati. But after it appeared, Kommunist angrily reversed the verdict: For the Right Cause was "permeated" with the wrong slant. Pythagorist Grossman, warned Pravda a few days later, had better recant...
Authors Arno and Anneliese Peters made no bones about it. Back in 446 B.C., they wrote proletarian heroes were denouncing private property and the democratic state; and by 476 A.D. a splendid fellow named Masdak was proclaiming to his native Persia that "private property is the root of hatred and strife between men . . . the cause of all evil and bad. Communism is applied religion ..." In 1492, of course, Columbus discovered America, but in the Peters book the founding of the Siberian town of Sibir rated as much space...
...tender-tough little story about a gang of kids who grew up, much too fast, in the dirty but lively Santa Croce quarter of Florence. Unlike most of the half-forgotten U.S. proletarian novelists of two decades ago, Pratolini knows how proletarians live, and he writes about them with a tender gravity that is unflecked by condescension or political twisting...