Word: dears
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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...Dear Collector: We hate you. Sex loses all its power and magic when it becomes explicit, mechanical, overdone, when it becomes a mechanistic obsession... You have taught us more than anyone I know how wrong it is not to mix it with emotion, hunger, desire, lust, whims, caprices, personal ties, deeper relationships that change its color, flavor, rhythms, intensities...
...heartbeats to create an atmosphere of horror and anticipation. A lot of vintage detail, but very little substance betray Clark's B-movie origins. It's not all that bad but it's not Sherlock Holmes. As the master sleuth himself would have said. It's elementary, my dear Watson. What we have here is an impostor. Would the real Sherlock Holmes ever stoop to such depths of passion? Never...
...classic New Yorker cartoon pictured Moppet staring mutinously at Mom over a plate of murky compost. "It's broccoli, dear," says Mom. Says Moppet: ''I say it's spinach, and I say the hell with it." There is good news for M. & M. The 1979 garden catalogues piling into mailboxes this spring offer a number of vegetables that look like spinach, taste better than spinach, but are not Spinacia oleracea. Some of them have been imported from the Orient, notably shungiku (Chrysanthemum coronarium) and tampala hinn choy (Amaranthus tricolor...
...would like some day to explore them to find out why I have turned out as I have. That day is going to be a long time coming, for I am not about to explain my life in the primitive vocabulary of this ignorant writer and her Dear Friend. How can you reach people who are obliviously struggling underneath a welter of preconceived notions and prejudices, people whose mental neon flashes when you come near them, Black Experience...Inner City...Hypertension..Sickle Cell Anemia...all important subjects, and all, when treated in a simplistic, reductionist way are rendered into...
Midnight, when we broke up, found me first out the door. I couldn't stomach the prospect of the writer and Dear Friend making their way to me with half-beatific smiles. They would have clasped my hands and nodded benevolently, gestures all too familiar, as they kindly wished me the best of luck with my writing...