Word: sicklying
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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Founder. Gautama, the Buddha, the Enlightened One, was born in northern India six centuries before Christ. As the devout tradition goes, Gautama, a king's son, married a beautiful princess, had a child and lived in silken luxury until he was 29. Then, seeing in turn a sick man, a corpse and an emaciated holy man, he was shocked into a realization of the harshness of life. He became a penniless wanderer and for six years mortified his flesh before deciding that extreme asceticism was not the path of deliverance...
Without arguing that the myth Stone exploits is necessarily because it is so hackneyed and largely untrue, I am more than satiated with the South-is-so-sick theme. Especially from a new writer, it is disappointing that the old cliches are hauled out once more. No Place To Run is supposedly about events in the Mississippi of the present and Stone is not writing fantasy. In fact, he goes out of his way to inject as many contemporary references as possible while evading the law of libel and slander. Without in any way acting as an apologist...
...what had they swallowed? Best clue was that Donna had eaten no flounder and had not got sick. Dr. Singley remembered having read in medical school a 1945 report of sodium nitrite poisoning in New York City. A colleague clinched it: he had just reread the same story in Berton Roueché's Eleven Blue Men, reprinted from The New Yorker. Simultaneously, unknown to the Camden team, doctors across the Delaware River were giving methylene blue to women who had eaten flounder in a downtown restaurant...
...most important factor in halting its ravages. Dr. John Snow checked a cholera outbreak in London in 1854 merely by having the handle removed from the Broad Street pump that was gushing contaminated water. Then the cholera vibrio was found, but volunteers have guzzled billions of them without getting sick-and now the disease, if it develops, can be treated simply by replacing body fluids, without serums or antimicrobial drugs...
...career, but his imagistic style put brassy, sassy dialogue in the corners of some sizable Hollywood mouths,* set a standard few could imitate: "She gave me a smile I could feel in my hip pocket." The lady had a voice "that dragged itself out of her throat like a sick man getting out of bed." Dinner "tasted like a discarded mailbag." Since Detective Marlowe was acceptable to brows of every altitude, including snobbish Critic Edmund (Axel's Castle) Wilson, even parboiled eggheads could carry Chandler's thrillers under their arms without resorting to plain wrappers...