Word: greys
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...summer sky still breaks over the land in splinters of green, gold or luminous waves of grey, staining the hills blue and purple and vermilion, heaping the valleys with shimmering veils of mist. In that weird, wet Atlantic light-or so they say-the swarthy chieftains and pale queens who once ruled the five kingdoms of Celtic Ireland still clatter across country. As the island's endless sleight-of-sky creates and dissolves horizons, the landscape seems dreamily unreal. The reality of Ireland is special: it lies on a border region where tragedy and laughter, jollity and gloom, hell...
...this week's issue, in addition to our European correspondents, we have been hearing extensively from our roving White House correspond; ent, Hugh Sidey, following Seán Ó Cinnéide around Germany and Ireland. And across the grey border of Berlin was TIME'S Moscow Correspondent Israel Shenker, who found himself unexpectedly invited by the East German government to watch Nikita Khrushchev appear on his own side of the Berlin Wall. Shenkers trip from Moscow to East Berlin was no ad for either German or Communist efficiency-the Communist airline officials lost his typewriter; the East...
...reality of war is felt only in the occasional crack of a sniper's rifle or the firefly descent of flares, but its effect on Ivan and his comrades shows in their gropings for reassurance from one another. Even Masha, a girl medical officer with eyes like a grey squirrel's, helps in her inarticulate way; in one somberly lovely scene, she shyly lets a captain (Valentin Zubkov) pursue her into a forest of birches as the camera, darting on owl's wings, follows them through the receding halftones of black, grey and silver...
...minutes later, a short, plump man in a shabby grey suit bustled expressionlessly down the gangway, sank into the Opposition front bench facing Macmillan, and fingered a cardboard file. As the clock struck, Labor Party Leader Harold Wilson rose to his feet and for a second savored the tingling silence before breaking it with his flat, nasal Yorkshire voice. "This is a debate," he began, "without precedence in the annals of the House...
...outside, the small whitewashed house, surrounded by tiny birch and fir trees, looks as if it might belong to a mousy little spinster who would never do anything that would cause talk among the neighbors. But the house on the outskirts of Brussels belongs to Paul Delvaux, a grey-maned, sad-faced man of 65 who, next to René Magritte, is Belgium's top surrealist and can sometimes be seen standing in his studio wearing blue jeans and sandals, slowly filling a huge canvas with vacant-eyed female nudes. Against one wall stands a row of skulls...