Word: solidity
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Dates: during 1940-1940
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Such is the flavor of My Name is Aram. Effortless, delicate and slightly boozy, the little tales carry a sense of comic-poetic anarchy whose only name is Saroyan. For those who get the hang of it, there are several solid miracles of literary slack-wire walking. There is less of the brassiness and tinhorn rhetoric with which he usually destroys his effects. There is more self-effacing attention to business than usual. Saroyan will always be a question of taste; but another book or two, and he may also be one of the best and most original writers alive...
This week the 1940 publishing year draws to an end. It had not been a year replete with great books, but among 10,106 new titles published in the first eleven months was more than one of solid worth. There were 1,646 new novels, 603 new biographies and autobiographies, 284 geography and travel books; 1,434 books of poems, criticism or other belles-lettres. There were 1,570 books on politics, economics or current affairs, 794 juveniles and 3,775 technical and text books. Most notable was the year's flock of topical books, inspired...
...freely converted into printing presses; and everybody catches on just in time to earn the expected A or B. Anchored only to the graphs on the blackboard, Ec 1 floats freely in the realm of abstractions. If, as must be supposed, the course was intended to furnish a solid theoretical basis for the study of applied economics, it can only be regarded as a pleasant but thorough failure...
...were taken to Australia in the 19th Century, planted for hedges and as a source of fodder. By 1925 they threatened to crowd out native vegetation on 30,000,000 acres of land, and on 30,000,000 more acres the pears had completely won, standing in a dense, solid growth two to five feet thick. The cost of fighting them with chemicals, by digging or plowing, stacking and burning, would have been more than the land was worth. So, year after year, more land was abandoned, more homesteads deserted...
...Yukon country. Fortnight ago, Sourdough Robertson left his lonely cabin on Seventymile River, mushed for Eagle to lay in supplies. The air was deadly cold; spicules of ice rimed the oldtimer's whiskers. Warily he plodded. He knew his Yukon, knew that while the running creeks freeze solid early, little springs that never freeze bubble under the snow all winter; that to crash through an ice-skin meant wet feet that would freeze almost instantly unless he could build a fire...