Word: sleeps
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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...This business has ruined me for thinking," bestselling Humorist Max (Sleep Till Noon) Shulman complained to the Hartford (Conn.) Courant. "Every time I start thinking, a little voice intrudes and whispers, 'Hey, maybe there's a story in this somewhere...
...they keep the shabby rooms spotless, but there is no keeping down the cockroaches that scuttle across the linoleum flooring or the rats that infest the blocked-off dumbwaiters and the rotting spaces between the walls. (Every week 15 to 25 Barrio babies are bitten by rats as they sleep.) And Puerto Ricans, reared under a tropical sun that burns dry any refuse, have no feeling about garbage. They just heave it into the alley. The men have a hard time getting jobs. When they do, they find the U.S. tempo exacting. Said one plaintively: "If one fails to report...
...beauty of the Church of God. Nor was it possible to doubt that a more certain blow would have been struck against Communism by deepening the faith of those children than by playing over the anti-Communist record for their parents. "Of course Catholics should refuse to sleep while the enemy is restlessly active. Catholics again should resolutely refuse to take the bromides offered by left-wing journalists. But the Soviet should not become an obsession. It should be possible just occasionally to have a Communion breakfast without Communism on the menu...
...than (as the New York Times's Critic Brooks Atkinson and others noted) a glaring lack of creativeness. Broadway swam with revivals (Shakespeare, Shaw, Strindberg Peter Pan), with books made into plays (The Member of the Wedding, The Innocents, The Happy Time, Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep) with plays and books made into musicals (Regina, Lost in the Stars, Gentlemen Prefer Blondes'). Making its chairs out of sofas rather than building them outright, Broadway still scorned the idea that the play's the thing and whooped up the production...
Sung as only Flagstad can sing, with her gorgeous, earth-mother quality of sound, The Four Last Songs (Going to Sleep, September, Spring, At Sunset), were echoes of the old composer's most mellow and memorable days. They spoke of a calm tiredness, deep autumnal peace, affection for his wife. At Sunset ended with a quiet and resigned interrogation: "Is this perhaps death?" As the last soft sounds died in the orchestra, one listening musician said, "What an epitaph to write for oneself...