Word: bed
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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...merges them into one totality. This unity of the human body with nature was one of the major themes that Kirchner sought a style to express. "Developing a calligraphic style is just as difficult as learning to walk," Kirchner wrote. A drawing such as his large Nude on a Bed (1908), one of the highlights of the Bergen collection, shows that the search for style was a conscious endeavor, involving constant formal training. The work, in charcoal over pencil outline, seems a careful and fairly conventional life-study until one looks more closely at the way in which Kirchner...
...days. We had dinner, some sort of casserole. Talk. More wine. We listened to our host's Dixieland records. His wife tended the baby, smoked cigarettes, sometimes laughed, looked tall amd tired. All I could think of was: he and she will be sleeping together tonight, in the same bed, touching, panting, writhing...sex! Our host's good fortune seemed beyond bounds. The baby's cries seemed hardly noticeable, at least no more so than the trolley cars which clanged above our heads, outside. Close to midnight, by which time our host and we had drunk silly quantities of wine...
...memorial services-often followed by lengthy feasts-have proved to be particularly taxing for Japan's 1.7 million Buddhist priests. Most Sundays, Tokyo Priest Kotetsu officiates at five or six services. "By the time I go to bed," he says, "I feel physically dead tired although spiritually aroused." Shoko, the Osaka abbot who presided at the services for Hikotaro, has stopped smoking to protect his overworked vocal cords. The work has its secular compensations. Temple offerings range from $100 to $3,000 per service...
...just too predictably bull-headed, so intent on lancing any threats to its authority that journalistic quality ceases to matter. On the other hand, the idyllic days of hard-nosed investigative reporting, exposes and journalism prizes emerge in vague, rosy-colored hues through the sheen of memory. Sitting in bed after a bout of adultery with Harry, Laura rummages through a sheaf of old photographs and reminisces fondly: "Remember when we used to do everything ourselves? We were dangerous then...
...embarrassing moment that truly happened to me, though. It's a very small incident but very peculiar. Last fall, one night about two o'clock in the morning, someone phoned in a bomb-threat to Eliot House. Every resident of the House piled out of his or her bed and into the courtyard, as those nightmarish klaxon-horns which double for fire-alarms resounded through the rooms. Everyone left, that is, except me. I became, that instant, the first non-drugged person in history to sleep through a bomb-threat, and those god-awful foghorns, one of which...