Word: apts
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Dates: during 1980-1989
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...mainstay of a popularity that has seen more than 1 million copies of Rendell's books printed in English; she has also been translated into 14 other languages. Still, Wexford and Burden are fast becoming the bane of her career. Whenever Rendell makes a public appearance, readers are apt to tell her that they could do with fewer explorations into the midnight of the mind. Says the author: "It is very difficult for the creator of a series character to realize that he is very much more real and important to readers than to oneself. I can fully understand...
...fully creative." Ambler's account effectively ends after World War II: the next forty years are barely mentioned. From then on the author spent too many years in Hollywood handing his work over to others. Here Lies is a dark and witty title, but not perhaps the most apt. That was already taken by Malcolm Muggeridge for his autobiography. He called it Chronicles of Wasted Time...
...parables and commits self-mutilation. The book begins and ends with fireball confrontations between the evangelist and his firstborn son, recalled by another son, Luke. The rest, rich in incident, sounds the depths of sexual betrayal and despair. Treadwell calls himself a storyteller, a term that provides a sly, apt link between novelist and revivalist. Each, Wilson suggests, is trying in his way to explain the random nature of fate. In both the father's febrile sermons and the son's cool observation, there is no justice, no fairness. There is, however, the restless energy of a fine emerging writer...
Spurring such growth is apt to be difficult at a time when the U.S., the World Bank's principal shareholder, is fighting a record budget deficit. Moreover, Conable's activist view is a departure from the laissez-faire climate of Ronald Reagan's Administration. It might have been considered downright heretical until last October, when Treasury Secretary James Baker announced a new official line at a World Bank and International Monetary Fund meeting in Seoul, South Korea...
There is a poignant story here, but Sheehy cannot tell it. Her banal prose and feeble attempts at social science reduce experience to jargon. Alternating her own trendy problems with accounts of Cambodian genocide seems bizarre, to say the least. An apt subtitle for this book might be The Lotus and the Narcissus...