Word: stink
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...case, starting as a happily married, witty college professor, Tattersall explores the U.S. penchant for nerve-racking upward mobility by trying it in reverse. In an excess of whim and Weltschmerz, he runs through a job in advertising ("I stink, therefore I am"), a stint as a successful TV singer, and on down through door-to-door salesman, street peddler, gardener, handyman and tramp. He winds up living in a run-down tenement, selling canned "fresh air" door to door to help take care of a mumbling mongoloid boy and a drunken mongrel basset hound. One night he gets...
...numbly but stubbornly seeks an honorable-a human-way to survive the "endless round that shrinks a man to something less than the size and the meaning of flying ants." Relentlessly staging a Job-like trial-by-humiliation, Armah daubs "the man" with spit, phlegm and sweat. Rot and stink-the look and smell of corruption-rise up from every page. It is a classmate, Koomson, who perfumes all the putrefaction with the sweet smell of his success as a self-serving official of the new regime...
...Bricks & Stink Bombs. Nasser had heard the theme of change all too clearly only the week before, when Egypt was rocked by anti-government demonstrations. The trouble had started right in Helwan, where 3,000 workers took to the street to protest the leniency shown by a military court to four top officers accused of criminal responsibility for the defeat by Israel in June. Egged on by leftist agents of Nasser's own Arab Socialist Union Party, the workers attacked a local police post, were driven off only with riot guns. Their cause was quickly picked up by students...
Screaming "Blood for blood!" and "Clean up your house, O President!", 15,000 students battled police for two days with bricks, tree limbs, firecrackers and stink bombs manufactured in chemistry labs. They marched on the National Assembly, on government newspapers and on Nasser's own Kubbeh...
...Edward Bastian, a graduate in political science from the University of Iowa, who spent a month in Viet Nam and captures the grime of the war. "You're always soaked, always miserable," he writes, describing the infantryman's lot, plodding through mud and swamps. "Your boots stink and your socks rot-and your feet rot if you aren't careful." Which goes to prove that there's more to say about one rotten sock in Viet Nam than a whole discotheque full of electric dresses...