Word: waldo
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Bogging down in dialogue midway in the second act, "Laura" stagnates because the characters describe rather than do anything. Otto Kruger's Waldo Lydecker, who, in his own words, "sprang from the womb with an epigram on my lips," is too amusing, turning what should have been a taut mystery into a second rate Phillip Barry drawing room comedy incidentally concerned with murder. "Laura's" John Dalton climax, so successful in the film, is inexplicably greeted by laughs in the play: the change in medium has somehow twisted the playwright's intentions...
...Married. Waldo Peirce, 61, bearded painter of healthy, bucolic scenes, much-married pal of much-married Author Hemingway (see above); and Ellen Antoinette Larsen, 25, fellow painter and fellow resident of Manhattan's Greenwich Village; he for the fourth time, she for the first; in Pomona...
...market, Jess Birdwell met a gentleman whose card was inscribed: "Professor Waldo Quigley, Traveling Representative, Payson and Clarke. The World's Finest Organs. Also Sheet Music and Song Books." "How many reeds in a Payson and Clarke [organ]?" Jess asked him. "Forty-eight, Brother Birdwell," replied Professor Quigley, "not counting the tuba mirabilis. . . . Those reeds duplicate the human throat. They got timbre," he added ("landing on the French word the way a hen lands on the water"). "How many stops?" asked Jess. "Eight," said the professor. "And that vox humana! . . . You can hear the voice of your lost child...
...they had done for Britain during the war. With one eye on Canada's evident riches, he could not resist reciting England's shortages-food, coal, "sheets, blankets, curtains, pots & pans and crockery," clothing, shoes, furniture. But all was not dark in the Isles. He quoted Ralph Waldo Emerson: Britain "has a secret vigour and a pulse like a cannon." Canada, he said, is "the new shoot from the old stem; but the old stem is still . . . full of life...
...what we can," sighed Ralph Waldo Emerson, "summer will have its flies." In 1945, summer was having its perennial drought in readable books. "Along about every July," cracked Random House's bubbling Bennett Cerf, "publishers start crying into their $6 lunches at the Colony and $2 mint juleps at the Ritz Bar that business is awful. But by September 10, they're again screaming that they're in the 90% income tax bracket...