Word: quiets
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Dates: during 1980-1989
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Another cliche--the nation's campuses are quiet: youth doesn't care. I don't know about Berkeley or Notre Dame, but I do have some idea about Harvard. In the four years I've spent here, the conversations about what is wrong with the world and how to solve it are few and far between. And if talk is scarce, action is scarcer. I've read the bound volumes of The Crimson from 1969 and thereabouts again and again, they mean more to me than most of what has happened since I arrived here. Not because students knew...
THEN WHY IS IT so quiet here? One answer, given often, is that there's nothing to be upset about. That the war is over. As if, in the first place, Vietman was what this movement was all about, just Vietnam and not about a bigger war. Vietman did't happen by it self, or by accident. The same system that backed Thieu and Diem backed Somoza, backs Pinochet and Duarts; Vietman, is this sense, is still with us. In a bad mood, one can make the arguments that times have worsened. Vietnam, set against a backdrop of liberal progress...
Mike Watson deals with the subject in what both friends and casual fans have come to recognize as his understated style. "Quiet off the ice, effective with puck on the ice," reads the Harvard hockey media guide. Reserved, he is, Reflective, yes. Circumspect, of course. But perhaps most of all, Watson should be labelled authentic. He presents himself as he is, and takes action only within prescribed limits. Especially in his role as Harvard's 81st captain...
...husky U.S. Army officer dressed in civilian clothes headed down the staid Boulevard Emile-Augier on his way to work at the U.S. embassy in Paris. Quietly, a man with a dark complexion and frizzy hair began to follow him. Before Lieut. Colonel Charles Robert Ray, 43, could reach his metallic blue Chevrolet with diplomatic plates, he was killed by a single shot that struck him in the back of the neck. The killer, who was glimpsed by several witnesses, ran down the quiet avenue and disappeared into a crowd of commuters...
Those who have read any of Warner's eight volumes of short stories or six volumes of poetry or seven novels will not be deceived by her prim persona. In her first novel, Lolly Willowes (1926), she wrote with quiet fierceness of a "genteel spinster" who chooses "to have a life of one's own, not an existence doled out to you by others," even if the price be a compact with the devil...