Word: sundays
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Dates: during 1940-1949
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...Balmoral last week the birthday party was quieter than Margaret would have liked. It stopped at midnight Saturday to avoid criticism by strict Scottish Sabbatarians, who had been ruffled recently when Princess Elizabeth took in the races, theater and a nightclub in Paris on a Sunday. The King toasted his daughter in champagne. A helicopter brought thousands of birthday greetings. Britain wondered (and doubted) whether Margaret would settle down. Said an East End docker last week: "I bet she's a handful...
...years later Lait succeeded Walter Howey, a Chicago contemporary, as editor of the Mirror. Against the toughest competition in the country-the tabloid Daily News-he has doubled the Mirror's circulation (to 1,054,000 daily, 2,206,000 Sunday). Lait's Mirror has one big advantage over all other Hearstpapers: it is the only one that does not have to run Hearst editorials (because the afternoon Journal-American does...
Edward Hopper's Manhattan canvases all looked as if they had been painted on a Sunday morning when few were up yet or else late at night. The few figures he did introduce looked stiff and lonely; they were transients, put there to emphasize the frozen rigor of the streets and buildings Hopper loves. At 66, in his deceptively simple pictures, he has done more than any other painter to define the beauty of Manhattan's steel, brick and brownstone shell...
...Sunday Punch. For 34 years, until he quit in 1942 after a quarrel with the Astors, hawk-nosed Editor J. L. Garvin had thrust his greatness upon the Observer and thumped British breakfast tables with his stubborn leaders, often three or four columns long. "The English Sunday," said a rival, "would be incomplete without his weekly thunderstorm." When Garvin parted with the Astors, Fleet Streeters bet that the Observer would collapse. But today, a team rather than a one-man show, the Observer is a sounder paper, if a less disturbing...
Thirteen years later his William Tell loaded him with even more honors-and furnished brass bands with a perennial favorite for Sunday afternoon concerts. He was then 37, and had written 38 operas. But he never wrote another one. His nerves shaken from overwork, he wrote a friend that "music needs freshness . . . I am conscious of nothing but lassitude and crabbedness." He composed little, settled down in Paris to grow fat from his well-stocked wine cellar and his imported bolognas. When friends chided him for being lazy, Rossini replied: "I always had a passion for idleness...