Word: smelling
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This is a dead city, a battlefield where vultures circle overhead and the smell of panic is stronger than the stench of the unswept, palm-fringed boulevards. The shops are barred, the restaurants deserted. Hour after hour, day and night, the tomblike hush is broken only by the distant crump of exploding mortar shells, the whoom of bazookas, the crack of anti-aircraft cannon, and the short, chattering bursts of machine guns...
...which he calls manifestations of an It under conflict. "I am forever asking of my patients the purpose of their illness, (which) has to resolve the conflict, to repress it, or to prevent what is already repressed from entering consciousness." By discovering what patients did not wish to smell, Groddeck claims to have cured their colds. Yet he takes a modest view of his curative power, for "the success of the treatment is not determined by what we prescribe, but by what the It of the sick man makes of our prescriptions...
...tiny Swiss mountain village of Unterwasser, near the Austrian border, live people with names like Tsering Ken-chock, Tashi Samdup and D'Olma Doji. Instead of being apple-cheeked blonds, they are brown-faced, black-haired, almond-eyed, and smell faintly of rancid yak butter...
...that saw the hip little world of Author Norman (The Naked and the Dead) Mailer, 38, go clamorously smash -from last November's stabbing of his wife to his ignominious ouster from a February poetry reading for an alleged "raw recital of filth"-was ending amid the sweet smell of vindication. A Manhattan judge who likes to "gamble on human beings" last week gambled on a suspended sentence for confessed Spouse-Assaulter Mailer. Simultaneously, Mailer's Manhattan publisher, G. P. Putnam's Sons, was venturing a different sort of risk: release of the first collection of Mailer...
...locksmith and the cobbler, and the florist's potted sidewalk garden; the front-stoop squads with time and chitchat on their hands; the old man gazing like a mute portrait from the frame of his second-story window; and the strangely silent Sunday morning, sweet with the smell of freshly washed streets...