Word: darked
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Just standing there in front of the microphone, Garrison Keillor has standing. Boy, does he. He is a big, weedy fellow, 6 ft. 4 in. tall, with horn-rims and a big shock of dark brown hair, snazzy in black tie and tails, red socks and galluses, and black sneakers with white stripes. When he is feeling rueful and self-mocking, which is fairly often because he is a shy man, he calls himself "America's tallest radio humorist." This, the listener is meant to understand, is the kind of hick distinction that small-town Midwesterners cherish, and Keillor...
...grazing as a lion drags down one of them. The author is sharp but not cruel. She does not tell her story in order to solve a murder (although solve it she does) nor to subject her characters to unbearable stress in order to analyze their failures. The dark secret of the well, in a conventional narrative, would be the engine that drives the book. Here it is an undercurrent...
...Washington's turn last week to be stunned. In an astonishing turnaround, Yurchenko, in effect, redefected to Moscow, leaving behind a furor of questions, doubts and recriminations that promise to echo for months. Did Yurchenko simply have a change of heart, one brought about by the dark gremlins haunting a homesick mind, or by despair over being spurned by a Soviet girlfriend living in Canada? Or was he an ingenious fake, his flight to the U.S. and subsequent reversal shrewdly planned by the Soviets to humiliate the Reagan Administration and to glean secrets from debriefing sessions with the CIA? Either...
...sportswriters called him the Brown Bomber, the Dark Destroyer, the Sepia Slugger, the Mahogany Maimer, the Chocolate Chopper, the Tan Tarzan of Thump. These were far more than sobriquets. As Chris Mead observes in his enlightening biography, Champion, Heavyweight Joe Louis Barrow could never be a mere titleholder. He was always an emblem...
...have been such a radical change in his style in just two years, from the plainspoken beauty of Wind to the diabolical and delirious poetry of Stone. There was hardly a beat for transition, just an amphetamine rush of allusive imagery and electric boogie fused by will and some dark unknowable divining spirit. Bob Dylan not only lived on the margin, he was the margin. Approach at your peril. Precious few have ever got near him, and no one has gone beyond...