Word: crawlingly
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...that you cannot eat the ice now or drink the water, which is laced with cordite. Soldiers are facing stomach problems because of this. We had no proper bunkers, so we dug a 16-ft. tunnel into the snow. When the Indian shells started landing on us, we would crawl into this tunnel for safety. You don't get enough space to spread your legs in the tents. You always sleep sitting up. Sometimes there is so much firing, you cannot relieve yourself even if you want...
...plane (which has to refuel), you are assailed by millions of flies. The fly biomass of central Australia must be 10 times the biomass of humans or kangaroos. You at once start doing the irritable wave of the hand known as the outback salute. The flies crawl into your nostrils, eyes and ears, and when you get back in the plane, they fly in clouds into the cabin, so that the pilot takes out a can of powerful insecticide--"Jeez, this is going to smell really putrid," he cheerfully announces--and sprays them down. Then you take off. Forty minutes...
Lourie's novel purports to be a memoir that Stalin left behind, stashed in a crawl space above the room where he died in 1953. In hard, flat, ruthless prose that is also sometimes horribly funny, Lourie's Stalin, supposedly writing in 1938-39, directs an operation to seek out and assassinate his nemesis, Leon Trotsky, then bunkered in Mexico City, raising rabbits and plotting a comeback...
...plot is more complicated than this--and much chattier. Even the opening is talky. "Turmoil has engulfed the Galactic Republic," the now familiar trapezoidal text-crawl tells us. "The taxation of trade routes to outlying star systems is in dispute." Immediately one is perplexed. A summary made sense in the earlier films; they were episodes IV, V and VI in the grand fable, and as continuations of an initially untold saga, they required some elucidation. But what's the need for back-story text in a tale that is just beginning? Can it be that Lucas was unable to dramatize...
...Pristine chanteuse Sarah Cracknell, understated pop priestess in the vein of Diana Ross, returns with gifted nerd musicians Bob Stanley and Pete Wiggs to make more of that astro-optimistic music for waxing reminiscent over good old days that never were. Here, acutely-attuned sophistication unfurls in a lazy crawl over barely-populated audio-maps of restrained infectiousness. It is an enchanting but ultimately deserted place they take you, inhabited only by a gaseous voice. This is music you always heard in your head--but never so well made. Foraying onto the micro-dancefloor, Saint Etienne enlist the expertise...