Word: reader
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...Reader George C. Gould's letter [May 10] telling us that he who has "a clear conscience" should not be bothered by wiretapping, is a sad and frightening sign of acquiescence. Even if conversations are "uninteresting," we should insist on the right to talk in private, regardless of subject matter. It is just such "simple folk" who, unwittingly perhaps, further the creeping Big-Brotherism that threatens to be part of our future...
...growing similarities between Europeans have enabled investigators for the first time to draw a sketch of the composite Euroman. In a study commissioned by the Reader's Digest, 24,000 adult Europeans in 16 countries were surveyed in 1969 by leading research firms on the Continent. The results showed that Euroman is roughly 34, married and has 1.5 children. He is employed by a factory or company that has 50 or more employees. In addition to sizable social benefits, he earns about $50 a week in take-home pay. He quit school at 16, but he speaks one other...
...lampoons in the form of two characters he plays: Mrs. Edna Everage, a dogmatic, middle-aged Melbourne lady who wears bizarre hats and white gloves, and is wild about the Queen, gladioli and ex-Prime Minister Sir Robert Menzies; and Sandy Stone, a middle-aged husband addicted to the Reader's Digest, radio serials and budgerigars...
...flawless finale, but as a stopping point on the way to perfection. The poem is the point at which our strength gave out." His essays themselves are best read in the same light. Each talks to its neighbor, reveals its genesis and goals, sometimes even addresses its reader. As a collection, rarely do they presume to speak the whole truth, and when they take an inadvertent wrong turn, it's only as a way of admitting that a developing talent is at the wheel. Sometimes Rosen gets himself entangled in this web of his own creation ("When a pimple appeared...
...scene insinuates itself early in the reader's mind. The place is London, one of those comfortable, leathered clubs with high-back wing chairs and good port. Across the table, C. Aubrey Smith, his mustache drooping imperially, leans forward in his scarlet mess dress tunic to rearrange the saltcellars, silverware and apples on the table before him. There are proud mutterings of hussars, lancers, and Royal Scots Greys, tones of awe for the Panzergrenadiers. "There they were," he announces with grave mien. "And over here, a thin red line...