Word: apt
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...Frankenthaler canvas is apt to be wall-size, and every square foot can evoke a new mood. At times, the viewer thinks he may be under water, at times in outer space; often he has the uncomfortable sensation that he is looking at nature's gizzards. What is it all about? "I think," says Helen Frankenthaler, "that painting is a matter of making some kind of beautiful order out of human feeling and experience...
...himself was a part of the famed "219 Strike," in which 219 artists staged an ill-fated demonstration against being swept from the rolls of the WPA. He was clubed into sensibility, spent the night in a cell ankle-deep in filth. On canvas, Evergood's figures were apt to be as chunky as himself, his colors applied in solid intricately designed blocks. But the mood could be as soft as a glow. In Portrait of my Mother, he painted a woman who, doggedly masking her pain, calmly awaits certain death from cancer. And in Forebears Were Pioneers...
...because it counts on the unchangeability of human nature. Based on the population growth and increased smoking by women, the industry expects cigarette production to rise 18% by 1965 to 570 billion cigarettes v. this year's 485 billion. If many smokers feel guilty about their bondage, they are apt to share Mark Twain's melancholy experience: "Smoking is easy to give up; I've done it hundreds of times." They are also liable to feel pretty bad-tempered. Another author became so testy when he gave up smoking that his wife finally stuck a lighted cigarette in his mouth...
...dance, or try to." It is an apt description of his prose and his life, though scarcely of the man. At 48, Durrell is a short (5 ft. 3½ in.), chunky (145 Ibs.) man with clear blue eyes, thick blond-grey hair and a blunt face. Though his forebears were Irish Protestants, Durrell began his whirling-dervish life in India, where his engineer father helped build the Darjeeling Railway and died when Larry was 17. Recalls Durrell: "We lived the life which Kipling romanticized in Kim. All day long, processions of lamas passed my school whirling prayer wheels...
Novelist Monsey writes very well, but not very convincingly. His sentences, paragraphs and pages are apt and forceful, and for the most part sustain the moods he intends. But taken a chapter or so at a time, the writing wars with itself. The reader may wonder whether the author really means what his narrator says. The newspaperman's powerful, simultaneous attraction and revulsion toward sex has left him torn by disillusion. But his humor betrays him; it is sane and healthy. The grin may be twisted, but the mind is not, and it is hard to believe that once...