Word: crept
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...both men have published major novels. Kennedy's crept in like Chicago fog; Greeley's was announced with a Mayor Daley-style fanfare: a $75,000 promotion budget that included a cassette of Greeley explaining his work. The quality of the two novels varies in inverse proportion to their publicity...
...sentence was only for contempt of court, the time in prison irrevocably destroyed his health. Then, he was out again, only to be hauled in front of more committees. Hammett had always claimed to be a Marxist and a Socialist--and put no faith in the Fascism that increasingly crept into Stalin's Russia. But such subtleties were lost on the zealots. Marxism was considered synonymous with godless, atheist Ivans. The labor movements of the '20s and '30s simply did not translate...
...national renown was beginning to seem like work. Club membership had crept past 450, including a proud contingent from Carroll. Most were men, despite club advocacy of a Dull Rights Amendment for feminists (women don't seem to be comfortable with dullness, says Troise). Printing and mailing costs ate up the income. The organizers figure they made about $100 apiece. "Wefutzed around with T shirts for a while," says Glanting, but the only size that sold was extra large, and "who wants to have ten gross of T shirts in his living room?" Glanting was losing money skipping work...
...Romero's Dawn of the Dead, Cronenberg's movies are hip parables of contemporary moral malaise, in which ordinary people are infected by a malignancy as invisible and pervasive as the most swinish flu virus. As his vision aged, like rancid fruit, the malignancy crept closer to home. In They Came from Within, it was a small, snouty bug, transmitted from mouth to mouth during sex. In Rabid it was a bloodsucking organ that sprouts from the carrier's armpit. In The Brood and Scanners it is the mind itself, splitting the nuclear family and precipitating...
...intellectual gentry. He has lots of money, and, after The Right Stuff, an invigorated reputation with the critics. He revels in his success, seems actually to enjoy it--none of the tortured artist pose for him. Yet for all the success and the play at exuberance, middle age has crept into his writing. The writing itself hasn't changed much--the sentences still go on for several multi-adjectived, vocabulary-taxing, punctuation-packed clauses--but the narrator has changed entirely. Wolfe has stepped away from his subjects into the sound-proof booth of cynicism. In other words, so long...