Word: resounds
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...Alexander Solzhenitsyn's voice is stilled, the wilderness of silent acceptance becomes deeper. The voices of free people everywhere must resound to save this eloquent voice. The chains still remain and must be severed link by heavy link. The liberty of one man can be a decisive...
...sober, and does not suggest loose living or the suicidal word divorce. He is a pro, and so is his aide, and they produce a satisfactory announcement on the third try. He okays it and then says lightly that he never really wanted to be Vice President anyway. Overtones resound; both know that he has indeed blown a solid chance to be Vice President. With his wife out of the picture, he now belongs in an unstated, yet clearly sexual way to the aide. But she is very ambitious, and each of them can compute the figure by which...
Solzhenitsyn and Sakharov are the conscience of that part of mankind that is in slavery. They ceaselessly call upon the Soviet government to end its persecutions, and to democratize the regime. Each in his own way addresses himself to the world, and their words resound with concern for the future of humanity. Thus, they are attempting to halt the infernal cycle of mutual hatred and military adventures. Sakharov, who is leading this heroic battle, is supremely worthy of the Nobel Prize...
Willful and pervasive racism happily has been a casualty of the activist sixties. An appreciable number of blacks now attend school here and we even have a handful of black Faculty members. But echoes from the past continue to resound periodically. Former Dean Dunlop's long and largely successful war with the Afro-American Studies Department, for example, had racist overtones. Although Martin L. Kilson, professor of Government, was honest and outspoken in his interest in black studies and his proposals for changing the program, it is hard to find a rationale for Dunlop's actions. Even if the former...
When political, the art world resembles a castle populated by Coney Island ghosts. Fluorescent skeletons jiggle their pasteboard bones in each recess; the cellars resound with prerecorded mutters, wails and injunctions to silence; entrepreneurs tap their way down the corridors, prodding each moulding in the hope that a panel will fly open, revealing a lost Titian, an undocumented Goya, or a Japanese gingko-nut tycoon with an open checkbook. Collectors do not want the taxman to know how much they paid for what, and neither do dealers. The availability of a painting may be the occasion for as much conspiratorial...