Earlier ages seem to have been happier than ours with marveling at the rise of a Great Man, and less in need of the reassurance that comes from cutting him down to size.
Why was the cultural landscape ripe for the rise of Bobby Kirk, a man with straight-up opinions — "air-conditioning has ruined everyone" — and an unremarkable country life?
One Nation's only real success story and we use that term so loosely we're prepared to call it irony has been the rise of Malcolm Roberts, a man whose excessive self-confidence more than makes up for his lack of knowledge or understanding in really any area of the world or human experience.
Just after the van cleared the rise of a hill, there was a man standing in the road flashing a torch.
Shortly after the van cleared the rise of a hill, they saw a man standing in the road flashing a torch.
This is tiresome but unavoidable: in the nineteen-eighties, there was a much-trumpeted spurt of energy in English fiction, with the rise of a number of talented young men, notably Rushdie, Ian McEwan, Martin Amis, and Julian Barnes.
After all, surely that same degeneration would be far more eloquently illustrated by the unstoppable rise of a man paid to violate children's right to privacy on national telly?
It's the story of nothing less than the awakening of a soul, the rise of an artistic vocation, and a young man's confrontation with the grave responsibilities of life.
With the rise of agriculture, man's relationship with birds became more complex.
"The Grandmaster" traces the rise of Ip Man (Tony Leung) in phases from the 1930s to the 1950s.
