Word: unkindnesses
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...down to lunch brooding about cancer and finds the botanist's wife, name of Yvonne, who is brooding over Kinsey's Sexual Behavior in the Human Male. Wylie quickly recognizes her as "a nice bitch . . . with a father complex" and wins her sympathy by telling her what unkind reviews TIME gives his books. Yvonne tells Wylie all about her experience in the conservatory...
...even the most casual observer of Hollywood can see that it is today nothing more than a crass publicity device which even a solemn-toned, pipe-smoking, God-fearing President like lovable, old Jean Hersholt can not conceal. (And I want it understood that I am not saying one unkind word against the man who brought the darling Dionne Quintuplets into this world. I've got cockles like the next guy.) Nevertheless, President Hersholt has stated that the Academy subsidy has been withdrawn because the Awards have been given consistently on artistic rather than commercial merit, which is what...
...year is speeding to a close, and we look to its going without regrets. It has been an unkind, unhappy year. The old year appropriately ends with drought in our land, but it is nothing like the drought of the spirit from which we have been suffering . . . The forces of disintegration and evil are marshaling for another trial of strength which may not be war, but something even more disastrous for our civilized values and for the human future. Here as well as abroad we should read the signs of the times aright and shake off this malaise...
...what grounds does Poet T. S. Eliot rate less than four columns when Poet Stephen Vincent Benét rates nearly seven? It would be unkind, perhaps, to grudge Simeon Strunsky and Jan Struther nearly a column and a half apiece but would it not have been better to allow more room for Ernest Hemingway (one), E. M. Forster (4/5), Lytton Strachey (½) and a shade less to Editor Christopher Morley (four)? Similarly, 5¼ columns for Poet Edna St. Vincent Millay seem extravagant in a book that spares less than two to Leo Tolstoy, one column...
Time has been unkind to the gold towns of Minas Geraes. Their old wealth is long since gone; the red dust of Minas cakes their half-deserted streets. But Aleijadinho's heroic monuments remain. Each year in mid-September, Mineiros rise from their huts and hamlets and journey by foot, by truck and by train over the scarred hills to the shrine-church of Congonhas do Campo. Last week, as they had for a century and a half, some 200,000 Brazilian peasants made the pilgrimage to kiss the sacred image of the Dead Christ in Aleijadinho...