Word: tempoed
(lookup in dictionary)
(lookup stats)
Dates: during 1950-1959
Sort By: most recent first
(reverse)
...Association of Editorial Cartoonists, Goriaev was candidly eager to see what the place is really like. Heading toward the Street in a taxicab, he thought he could sense the pace of city life accelerating. "Time is money," he said. "The closer you get to Wall Street, the more the tempo picks...
Semeonov and Goriaev made entranced tourists. Goriaev was charmed by the casual tempo of Washington Square, blinked at a man resting with his shoes off. Said he: "There is great humanity in that." Shuttling to Washington, D.C. for a day, they marveled at the give-and-take between newsmen and President Eisenhower at a press conference. "It's like pupils in school," chuckled Semeonov. "The reporters all jump up at once and shout, and the President points at one and says 'you.' " Asked why he never criticizes the Soviet government in his cartoons, Semeonov deadpanned...
...from society is so complete that he treats self as the only reality and cultivates sensation as the only goal. But the self-revolving life is a bore, a kind of life-in-death that requires ever intenser stimulants to create even the illusion of feeling. Stepping up the tempo, "go, go, go" becomes the rhythm of madness and self-destruction. The future of the Beat Generation can be read in its past-the James Deans and Dylan Thomases and Charlie "Yardbird" Parkers-and the morbid speed with which its romantic heroes become its martyred legends...
...with icy politeness, "why are you in such a hurry? We do admire the playing of the orchestra, and we are surprised they can play all the notes, but we would rather listen to the music of Mendelssohn." The young man on the podium flushed, resumed at a slower tempo. Hour after hour, it went on that way last week while 19 fledgling baton wavers flailed away under Steinberg's watchful eye through Liverpool's international competition for conductors...
...tousled white hair quivering rhythmically, his ruddy, jovial face radiating glee, Alexander Calder was beating a steady tempo on the African tom-tom. Swirling around him, clanging a Mexican calabash rattle, clattering a huge Swiss cowbell, tinkling a melody on dangling wires, were his friends -writers, painters, musicians. A gentle breeze delicately spun the forest of mobiles hanging from the ceiling of the Connecticut farmhouse. Suddenly "Sandy" Calder stood up, walked outside past sentrylike steel stabiles, shuffled to a nearby creek. Staring at the soft, easy ripples, Calder exclaimed: "Look at those tiny waves, circling, soothing, yet so much alive...