Word: greys
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...difficult for me to envisage any kind of melting pot. As far as I know, in a melting pot all colors turn out grey. I see the American ethnic groups as a huge symphony orchestra in which each instrument retains its own characteristics, makes its particular contribution and, together with the other instruments, creates a wonderful or a terrible sound. Surely, to achieve a good sound, a French horn does not become a violin, nor does a piccolo turn into a kettledrum; rather, each strives harder to play in harmony with the others...
...Gromyko, hunting in what was once the preserve of royalty. For the occasion, Kosygin had brought along a turtleneck sweater, a quilted jacket and his own Belgian-made Herstal over-and-under shotgun. Gromyko cut a different figure: gun in hand he tramped through the fields in business suit, grey fedora and dark topcoat. Still, he proved a good shot. In any case, the forests of De Gaulle's Rambouillet chateau are well stocked for just such occasions, and it was a lot like shooting birds in a barrel. Together, the twelve-man party liquidated 263 pheasants...
Born into a dull, grey Victorian world, Chichester became a loner in a home dominated by a clergyman father who "squashed any enthusiasm," and in private schools where the punishment for a misdemeanor was a whipping. So in later life-after careers as a sheep-shearer, gold prospector and land speculator in New Zealand and a mapmaker in England-Chichester was struck with sea fever. Though he thought "the whole prospect of the Atlantic so appalling that I can't face it," he nonetheless thrilled to "the moan of the wind in the rigging," loved drawing "deep, mad breaths...
...goes, from The First Spat to Son's Wild Oats-something involving a bottle of bourbon. Suddenly it is time for daughter to leave the nest, and Fond Father Waxes Wroth: "My daughter is marrying an idiot." Autumn leaves begin dappling the script; Preston and Martin, grey-wigged, pat the familiar bed farewell...
...persistent snow of manuscripts descends on Random House's midtown Manhattan headquarters-one wing of a Florentine stone mansion, shared with the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of New York. The manuscripts usually come from agents-grey cartons from William Morris, orange from Curtis Brown. It is here that the vagaries of book publishing can get stickier than a freshly glued spine at a book bindery. Established authors are apt to be stubborn, demanding, supersensitive, uneven in their production, and extremely difficult to hold on to. For example, Cerf did not want to publish Author Robert Crichton's second book...