Word: throbs
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...Algerian crisis. Gunther is even more successful with the elusive personality of Harold Macmillan, a fellow member of London's Bucks Club, who granted him a rare two-hour interview. In a revealing passage the author says that the Prime Minister talked "about the glow and throb of the England that was, the gallantry and peculiar innocent ardor, valor, of those lost, silken quivering days, and how a whole generation was cut off, sacrificed, exterminated...
Whether realistic or abstract, sculpture is essentially form that has been frozen: the trick is to make the form throb with life. The abstract constructions that lined the walls of Manhattan's Staempfli Gallery last week gave the illusion in their own ways. One piece was a swirl that seemed to spill from the ceiling; another was a maze of darting shafts (see color opposite). Some of the sculptures, when touched, danced like plants swaying under water; others, when plucked, sang like a forest in the wind. Italian-born Sculptor Harry Bertoia, 46, is only one of many artists...
President Charles de Gaulle last week spoke to France and to riot-torn Algeria. His prose had a misty imprecision but, as usual, had a throb of grandeur about it. In the first of three radio and TV appeals for a "frank and massive" yes in the Jan. 8 referendum to his plan to give self-determination to Algeria, De Gaulle warned the Europeans of Algeria that their dream of transforming Algeria into a province of France and Moslems into proper Frenchmen was dead...
Scattered across this diverse land, Nigeria's cities throb with the vigor of noisy commerce and the color of exotic dyes. In the federal capital of Lagos (pronounced Lay-gahs), where gleaming buildings rise among the slums, the streets are a cacophony of honking autos and a torrent of heedless jaywalkers. Lagos' open-air market is a constant melee: picking their way through tall piles of blinding indigo or scarlet cloth, vast platters of red peppers on bright green leaves, and mounds of white salt, hordes of shrieking women peddle alum, alarm clocks, Hershey bars, live chickens, hair...
Something New. Now heard was a new sound, the unmistakable counterpoint of jungle drums: the throb of Africa. It first came through in the pavanlike procession in which the delegations of twelve new African nations* marched across the floor to take their places for the first time, each aware that his own nation, however young, inexperienced, poor or thumbnail-sized, is armed with a vote as meaningful as that of any of the great powers. And while U.N. votes are but feathers in the world balance of power, the world would read them as the visible talismans of cold...