Word: shuddered
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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...housewife and mother, I find myself still part of an open shop, but I shudder to think that any job I might get could be had only by paying tribute to some power-mad labor leader. Looking at my children, I feel that we must make the right-to-work laws justify the trouble, or we sleeping (almost) free Americans may wake up to find ourselves regretful prisoners of the "liberals...
Iran remains a precarious outpost. The bloody July revolution in neighboring Iraq sent an apprehensive shudder through Iran's top thousand families and made them more receptive to the Shah's reforms. Though Iran is a Moslem nation, its people are not Arab, and the Shah is thus insulated from the Nasser virus. The Soviet Union, through pudgy Ambassador Nikolai Pegov, has lately purred friendship and slyly supported Iran's claim to Britain's oil-rich Bahrein Island. The Soviet Union sent its dancers and acrobats, sponsored joint Russian-Iranian projects such as locust control...
Freedom. Says Philosopher T. V. Smith of Syracuse University: "I all but missed this professional career, and I shudder to think how close I came to that misfortune . . . We are as little as possible engaged in the power struggle. Our profession has managed to make of arduous work a pleasure by transmuting pressures into power-with, rather than power-over, others . . . Only those who know the military or have experienced the industrial form of organization will fully appreciate how lucky is our academic lot ... It is good, how good, to share the unearned increments of joy arising from continuous collaboration...
...That isn't the half of it," he returned, with another shudder and the hint of a sob. "Attend, my boy, and you shall hear the whole sad tale of how I have been reduced in the course of half a morning from a young man flushed with the vigor of his bursting prime, to the doddering human wreck you see before you. "It all began at about seven this morning. I was sleeping the sleep of the young and the innocent, as is my custom of a morning, when the phone rang. I got wearily to my feet, staggered...
...writes Harold on a sheet of yellow paper, belongs to the night and together they conspire against Boston. They live illicitly, caress each other with streetlamps and shadows and juke box symphonies, the soft sob of loss, the subway shudder and the sigh. Night warms is black limbs by the gutter fires and furnace spit. We should bottle the night, prone and passive, siphon it into leather canteen flasks, take swigs of it while sunning ourselves by the river, savour it after a French loave-lunch, rub it on our arm in lieu of excrement...