Word: squatness
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...have two souls," he declared during a lecture tour of U.S. universities in 1931. "One is that of a man of the world who enjoys ease and comfort and a nice season at Newport. The other is that of a man who likes to squat in a dirty Arab tent, full of Arabs, and eat with his fingers. . . . The desert is my bride. ..." Adolf Hitler was fighting only Bolsheviks, Oppenheim added, and nice persons needn't be afraid: "We are not a people of revenge. . . . We want only a chance to work...
That these trials of the most turbulent 18 months in the history of Great Britain did not keep Producer Gabriel Pascal from turning out a polished and distinguished product is a transcendent Oscar in the onetime cavalryman's lap. The squat, fervent, irascible Transylvanian, determined to use his hard-won franchise on the world's richest mine of entertainment material, not only had to play cook & bottle washer but also had the redoubtable Shavian personality to contend with...
They ought to use their legal remedy and not the remedy of force." A squat, sloppily dressed man with a mop of uncombed hair and the face of a kindly bulldog, William Hammatt Davis, 61, is a successful Manhattan patent attorney who has long made labor relations his avocation. He has served in many a Government agency, State and national, was chairman of the New York State Board of Mediation. To him belongs credit for settlement of the Allis-Chalmers strike, which Labor Department conciliators had given up, OPM's Hillman had fumbled and OPM's Knudsen...
Wherever three or four women squat beside piles of grain and peppers, there is Harar's market place. Before the town's Law Courts there is a constant babel of dissatisfied litigants. In five minutes on any street one may see an Armenian fighting with a Hindu; an Abyssinian woman with her simian face smeared with rancid butter to keep vermin away; an old bishop who knew the strange, sad, lame poet-adventurer Rimbaud, France's Byron, when he lived in Harar; a beautiful, brown-skinned, high-breasted Harari woman carrying a load of wood...
Sergeant Pullen's tank looked just like the eight other light tanks in Company D: a squat, 27,000-lb monstrosity of one-inch armor, five guns, a single turret, a 250-h.p. radial engine, gasoline tankage for about 70 miles of combat operation at 10-35 m.p.h. It was painted a dirty brown. It was not beautiful in any sense. When Sergeant Pullen tried to put his feeling for his tank into words, he would say with passion that he would feel like beating in the face of anybody who tried to take his tank. He alone knew...