Word: sorts
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Dates: during 1920-1929
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...Kalish is the sort of artist who is written about in news columns rather than on art pages. Both his work and his story are good human interest material. A Polish Jew, he worked for a while in foundries in Cleveland, reproduced in bronze the men he saw there. The New York Evening Post, under a big spread devoted to pictures of his statues, called him the "Walt Whitman of Sculp-ture." The Philadelphia Inquirer gave him a page of its magazine section one Sunday ("Glorifying America's Workingmen in Bronze and Marble") and the Literary Digest wrote...
...country's leading scarehead artists. They told them that their serv- ices for Publisher Hearst had been the height of probity compared to what they must do now. They must hell-rake kitchens and what passed in Denver then for boudoirs, for scandal and gossip of the most personal sort. Their gleanings they must then dress with language and emphases known only to habitues of a raucous young country's fleshpots. The stories were either published? blasting reputations?or brandished with a menace that brought forth, if not actual blackmail, the most servile acquiescence in the publishers' larger schemes...
...President of the Society of Free Thinkers recently brought suit against the New York Board of Education because one hour from every public school week has been left open for religious education of any sort the parents of pupils may choose. This parochial instruction, furthermore, is optional. It seems to us that it is rather an anomalous sort of free thinking which attempts to curtail parents' right of choice in the matter of their offspring's religious education. Free and anti-religious are not generally considered synonymous...
...young author of Lady into Fox, A Man in the Zoo and The Sailor's Return does none of these things. In his matter-of-fact fashion, so quiet that it becomes mysterious, he makes her father a sort of pocket-borough St. Francis of Assisi. He fills her heart with restlessness and her head with innocent resolution, keeps her procrastinating over escape until her father's mania for feeding birds is quite pronounced, until she has a friend and perhaps lover in the grocer's son, until one more village Easter passes and the first nightingale...
...them." Or again, "A work of art? It has no invention; it has no order, system, sequence or result; it has no lifelikeness, no thrill, no stir, no seeming of reality; its characters are confusedly drawn and by their acts and words they prove that they are not the sort of people the author claims that they are; its humor is pathetic; its pathos is funny; its conversations are--oh! indescribable; its love-scenes odious; its English a crime against the language. Counting these out, what is left is Art. I think we must all admit that...