Word: spiralled
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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...spiral curved down, Schwartz ran through more and more women, more and more colleges. He campus-hopped to Princeton, Kenyon, the universities of Chicago, California, Syracuse. His ambition to be the Great American Poet deteriorated into a panicky need for money. Inspiration was replaced by alcohol and amphetamines. The body went to flab, the handsome face to coarseness. Fellow Poet Hayden Carruth remembered Schwartz slouching toward 40: "He looked and spoke like a defeated shipping-house clerk...
...barking, licking and jumping happily about, very friendly incredibly raucous. The watchman slinks off to leave me to my friends. Mirrors and glass on either side of the hall multiply us infinitely. Even though the room itself is rather dark, I can see in front of me a large spiral staircase lit by the ethereal glow of some unseen fixture on the second floor...
During the 1973 Arab oil embargo, the nation's major international oil companies did engage in some shortlived and frantic price gouging. That happened when OPEC prices began their dizzy upward spiral and the companies marked up the selling price of imported oil that had been brought into inventory before the prices rose. As much as $5 billion in windfall profits resulted. This happened at a time when the rest of the economy was plunging headlong into the worst economic downturn since the 1930s, and such cynical profit taking gave the oil companies a black eye. Few can forget...
...Third World by the wealthy nations to build up their own industrial and military establishments leave few resources for the underdeveloped countries themselves to use. When the industrial countries, in turn, sell back to the undeveloped countries weapons systems and defense technologies instead of the technology of peace, the spiral of continued militarism amidst crushing poverty continues...
Author James D. Atwater, a TIME associate editor who has lived in London and patrolled with bomb-disposal units in Belfast, has shadowed this gritty, convincing thriller in shades of gray. He knows the variegated forms of middle age, of working-class London, of fear: "A thin spiral of smoke was curling up from one corner of the top. He could smell the almond scent. 'You son of a bitch,' said Thomas, looking straight down into the box . . . The hour hand was nearly touching the nipple of metal." Atwater's stage machinery creaks a bit as Thomas...