Word: slum
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Though tensions have eased, little else has noticeably changed since the riots. Not only are most of Watts's pillaeed stores still closed, but the slum is still without a single restaurant, bowling alley, roller rink or movie theater (the nearest cinema is a 60?, four-mile round-trip bus ride away). Men loll in clusters on front porches drinking Colt .45 beer. When a white man passes, a lanky teen-ager taunts him: "Better not be here at 5. That's when the riot's gonna start all over again." A police car drives...
Closer Parity. Both the Indian and Pakistan governments were also dropping public hints as to the ground rules for future fighting. Each disclaimed any intention of bombing the other's jammed, slum-packed cities, which are easily flammable and prone to panic. And seemingly, neither side intends to launch a massive, win-the-war offensive with the aim of destroying the enemy's army and occupying his land...
...generation of radical writers-John Steinbeck, William Saroyan, Clifford Odets, James T. Farrell, Robert Cantwell-who, like Author Kazin, were starting out in the Thirties. An essayist, critic and anthologist (F. Scott Fitzgerald: the Man and His Work; The Portable William Blake), Kazin was born in a Brooklyn slum, the son of an immigrant Polish Jew. He got his first job, as a part-time book reviewer for the New Republic, in the summer of 1934 -"that bottom summer when the first wild wave of hope under the New Deal had receded." It was a thin time, and Kazin recalls...
...World War II, the Old Town area of Chicago was a dilapidated slum that was home to a lot of poor Negroes and Puerto Ricans but a pox on the face of the city. Set on the north side of the city just 20 blocks from the Loop, the neighborhood still had its solid old houses with the high-Victorian flare that had been built in the 1880s. But the solid burghers who built them had long since moved to the suburbs. And decay had left the streets lined with seedy bars and sleeping bums...
...water -a day in 1961 when everything went right, a day in 1956 when everything went wrong, a long warm summer's sail among the shining isles of Greece. Much of his time is spent making crusty pronouncements from the poop ("A marina is the yachtsmen's slum"), and there is nothing here for people who think port is something that comes in a bottle. But anybody who can tell a top carling from a garboard strake will want a copy of Spring Tides in his dunnage the next time he does a windward dozen...