Word: brushed
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Editor Cyril Connolly's Horizon is wide and highbrow. In his little (circ. 9,500) London magazine, he likes to wield a brush on big intellectual canvases. Six years ago Editor Connolly put out an all-Irish number, a year ago an all-Swiss edition. In the October issue of Horizon, Connolly paid his respects...
...paints violent confluent; and the eternal struggle of good and evil, the major theme of both works, provides him with a wonderful opportunity for an objectification of his most intense mystical passions. The idea of a series of paintings allows Blake to produce a sort of drama with his brush, a drama whose conflict ends in a religious purgation of evil. The resolution is also joyous and lively, for in the last of the Job series the harps and horns are taken down from the trees, and the books are thrown aside...
...Dear Eleanor," his friend since childhood, Sumner Welles wrote a long and friendly letter. But it added up to a brush-off: the State Department had reason to believe that Eisler was a Communist; visas could not be given to Communists ; the U.S. consul general at Havana would listen to whatever evidence Eisler could present on his own behalf, but the law would have to be followed...
...Roosevelt sent off a second note: "This Eisler case seems a hard nut to crack. What do you suggest?" This brought another polite brush-off from Welles. Last week Mrs. Roosevelt, now busy with U.N. duties, told newsmen that she had never met Eisler and did not remember writing the notes to Welles. "When I was in the White House," she said airily, "I had hundreds of such requests a month, and, depending on the character of the request, the letters were passed on to the correct Government department...
...hotel be completed in time for November's UNESCO conference, and all around Rivera's paunchy figure carpenters and electricians bent noisily to the presidential will. But Rivera's own share of the work, he at last decided, was done. An assistant handed him a round brush wet with yellow paint, and Rivera quickly added a few touches. Then he thrust his soft little hands into the pockets of his dungaree jacket and walked away. He was bone-tired but content. At 61, when everyone had said he was slipping, he had felt himself...