Word: yorkerism
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...James Thurber has become (he should excuse the expression) a senior humorist, but in this lively collection of recent rethurberations in The New Yorker and other magazines, he shows no evidence of age-except perhaps an amiable trace of second adolescence. He wages the war between the sexes as briskly as ever ("Woman's place is in the wrong"), heartily belabors "the child-overwhelmed culture," trenchantly elucidates the principle of "negative cheerfulness" ("One statistician not long ago tried to cheer us all with his estimate that only 18 million people, not 50 million, would be killed here...
...begins a fresh, charming, witty piece of intellectual slapstick, a two-reel silent spoof of modern painting that is just as funny as Day of the Painter (TIME, Sept. 12) but much more subtle in comment and adroit in technique. The work of a 27-year-old New Yorker named William Kronick, Bowl was filmed at 16 frames a second and is shown at 24, with an arresting result: the picture moves across the screen, as the old silent comedies did, with a tic-quick impetuous energy and innocence that delightfully heighten...
...largest college system." A close second is New York City's system of seven municipal colleges, with 91,000 students, which by granting doctorates may soon become "the world's largest university." Last week, as its first chancellor, the California colossus logically picked a-skilled New Yorker: Buell G. Gallagher, 57, president of The City College, the oldest (1847) and biggest of the New York group. For $32,000 a year, California thus hired one of the nation's most respected scholar-administrators...
...threads break on interruption, while hers do not. All the Kerrs usually have dinner together, even if there is an opening. Walter and Jean are lucky if they can get a bite in edgewise, which may go some distance toward explaining why Walter Kerr's reviews?as the New Yorker has pointed out?are stuffed with wistful, gastronomic images. He's famished...
...Harold's Teeth. A New Yorker editor for the past 25 years, William Maxwell, 52, writes with more than a trace of the rueful resignation and wry disenchantment of much New Yorker fiction. His massive restraint sometimes brings his narrative to a dead halt; his quietness of tone sometimes verges on the inaudible. He can reduce the bone-wearying comic horrors of travel to a sentence as when Harold Rhodes, burdened with two lead-weight suitcases, just makes a train: "The station agent took their tickets gravely from between Harold's teeth." He has not created profound characters...