Word: weede
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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...anything but paperback, he is usually dead, or his books have come to be considered classics-or both. John Earth, 36, is alive, and none of his books have yet reached the classical shelf. He has written four novels-The Floating Opera, End of the Road, The Sot-Weed Factor and Giles Goat-Boy. The first three together sold fewer than 8,000 copies. Goat-Boy, the only one that can be called a popular success, sold about 50,000 and showed up briefly on the bestseller lists. Despite this inconclusive reception, The Sot-Weed Factor has now been republished...
...Being a journal of record is the quickest road to not being read," Bethell notes, "and we can't afford that. We try, for instance, to avoid a glut of alumni notes. They get readers to subscribe, but they can fill half the magazine unless you weed out the trivia. We tend not to print the 'I-ran-into-Charlie-the-other-day-in-the-men's-room-of-Grand-Central-Station' variety...
What the U.S. Public Health Service recommends, and the A.D.A. approves, is a machine that delivers an X-ray beam 2¾ in. in diameter. Extra-heavy aluminum filters weed out useless rays, and lead shielding keeps all radiation within bounds. The patient gets only a small fraction of the radiation that was sprayed out of pre-1958 machines...
German expressionists, too, are supposed to be historical relics these days. Take Oskar Kokoschka, for example. In pre-World War I Prague, they gleefully translated his Czech name literally-"bad weed." Austrian Archduke Franz Ferdinand, whose assassination helped spark World War I, once growled, "That fellow's bones ought to be broken." He wrote plays that people called mad, but mainly he painted pictures that few people liked. Hitler unhesitatingly banned him as "degenerate." Kokoschka cheerfully outlived them all; today, at 80, he is more generative than ever...
Time Lost and Time Remembered. "An outpost by the sea, Population 427. Twenty-seven bars, a defunct weighing machine, zinc-roofed cinema. Waves, weed. Potatoes on the uplands, drizzle on dry days. Decaying bachelors and young Helens with church medals pinned to their bodices, eyes down and kicking shins under dusty dining-room tables. We add, we subtract, we do the nine Fridays and the wind blows the seaweed onto the barbed wire...