Word: twanging
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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...California, graduated from Cornell. This geographic spread has given Stark a "neutral" accent that can't be easily identified with any region of the U.S. Network executives have a theory that national audiences are distracted by such regional characteristics as the broad "a" of New England, the twang of the far West, the drawl of the South. Much better, for their purpose, is a man like Stark who sounds as if he came from nowhere and everywhere...
Frank Learoyd Boyden of Deerfield Academy, Deerfield, Mass., is something of a phenomenon in U.S. education. He is a wiry little man of 72 who speaks with a Yankee twang, likes to drive a horse & buggy, and claims to know very little about his profession ("I was never tied up with theories"). But Frank Boyden may well be the most famous and beloved headmaster in the nation. He calls himself "a" country sort of person who likes boys...
Spending his honeymoon with Yolanda Donlan (Mrs. Drake) on a farm in England, Fairbanks plays the dude. He continually argues with a cynical caretaker, whose Aroostook twang is painfully out of place, and with a handyman who can never finish a job. This too typical domestic scene is complemented by giggles from Yo-Yo (Yolanda, an actress who should have been left on the string) and snide marriage-night remarks from Drake...
...congregation, he faced the Ark of the Covenant. On the lectern before him lay the great scrolls of the Torah, the book of the law of Moses. Rabbi Finkelstein's clenched right hand beat upon his breast in the traditional gesture of sorrow. Clear and strong, in the twang and guttural of the Hebrew chant, his voice rose...
...What are the sources, motives or unconscious origins of Anti-Americanism? First I would put British influences . . . [like] The New Statesman. [It is] the British Bible of every washed-up Liberal, soured Conservative, lapsed Catholic, half-baked grammar school intellectual, the new technical school boys whose knowing twang you hear on every bus, every manic-depressive Orwellite, fissurated Koestlerite, prehistoric Fabian, antique Keir Hardyite, flaming anti-Roman Catholic, like . . . the editor himself, Mr. Kingsley Martin, and every other unhappy misfit, pink and pacifist, whose sole prophylactic against despair, if not suicide, is a weekly injection of Kingsley Martin...