Word: self
(lookup in dictionary)
(lookup stats)
Dates: during 1930-1939
Sort By: most recent first
(reverse)
...remote interest in the antiquity of Greece and Rome. It is a strange thing that seemingly intelligent people consider the Classics as "a dull joke" or "definitely exotic" or commit the old fallacy of expressing the term "dead languages" in a tone of contempt. To postulate as a self evident truth the fact that there is nothing of importance in the doings of man before 1900, is to exhibit a downright ignorance of the past and foolishly sublime confidence in the present. The test of and education lies in the degree to which it strengthens individual character. Certainly, experience...
...Cabinet officers of one nation say about another. The reaction, as expected, was brief and bitter. Said a Foreign Office spokesman for Japan: "Regrettable." Said the semi-official German Deutsche Diplomatisch-Politische Korrespondenz: "The German nation does not want lessons from any quarter on the subject of national freedom, self-determination and its best interests." Wrote Mussolini's spokesman, Virginio Gayda, in Giornale d'Italia: "We should like to believe his words were never uttered, but if they are authentic they constitute a new and exceptional document of provocation by the United States against Italy...
...Lincoln gave me confidence in my-self...
Hollywood woke up one morning last week to find its self-satisfied air full of dead cats. The slingers: Manhattan's Independent Theatre Owners Association. Inc. Their targets: Greta Garbo. Marlene Dietrich. Mae West. Joan Crawford, Kay Francis. Katharine Hepburn. Edward Arnold. Fred Astaire. The reason: These highly-publicized great ones were "poison at the box office." "WAKE UP." screamed the theatre owners to Hollywood's producers. "Practically all of the major studios are burdened with stars-whose public appeal is negligible-receiving tremendous salaries . . . Garbo, for instance . . . does not help theatre owners...
...English readers were pleased as they had not been since J. B. Priestley unfolded from his cocoon. My Son, My Son! is a sad story. But with its generous length (649 pages), plot and number of characters, its easy. Dickensian narrative, a fortifying moral, the story carries its own self-comforting device- not unlike the jet of oil that plays on high-speed emery wheels to prevent tools losing their temper...