Word: bosoms
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WHAT REMAINS is best captured in a letter Abigail wrote two days after Christmas in 1778: "How insupportable the Idea that 3000 leigues, and the vast ocean now devide us--but devide only our persons for the Heart of my Friend is in the Bosom of his partner. More than half a score years has so rivetted it there, that the Fabrick which contains it must crumble into Dust, e'er the particles can be separated...
...brassy twang. But Emmylou Harris' emotional singing style owes more to melancholy Appalachian bluegrass than to western swing. Despite its range, her voice is most telling because of its feathery delicacy, an almost tentative dying fall capable of stirring deep emotions. "I would rock my soul in the bosom of Abraham," this evocative voice promises in her best song so far. "I would hold my life in his saving grace." As the melody begins to rise, she floats a light true soprano above the whining steel guitar: "I would walk all the way from Boulder to Birmingham...
Buren is not bad at sounding like St. Just, but-alas for the purity of his sentiments-the Museum of Modern Art now enters, arms hospitably outstretched, clutching this inoffensive guerrilla to its bosom. If you look closely, you can just see the Burens in the MOMA show: four bland panels of black-and-white stripes, cut to the size of the museum windows and pasted up. What Buren's work really seems to be about is words: vacuous configurations gift-wrapped in fighting language, revealing the curiously transparent game of certification by which art posturers now proclaim their...
...where a regular breakfaster, having ordered his cereal and coffee, surveyed the counter and found it sugarless. Beckoning the proprietor, he asked genially what had become of the sweetening. After reaching behind the counter, the owner approached the customer, spoon in hand and sugar bowl protectively clutched to his bosom. "How many spoonfuls you want on your Wheaties?" came the grim question. "How many in the coffee...
Snakes and Parrots. Burke called his stories "tales" and had no illusion about their realism. In his Limehouse, Fu Manchu stalks opium dens; every flower girl has a "lily-white bosom" and is generally no older than 14-Burke seemed to have a pre-Nabokov feeling for nymphets. There are sharp krisses, malevolent white parrots and deadly snakes. It is, in fact, a never-never land that encloses the reader in a cave of such hypnotic mandarin prose as the following...