Word: findings
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Dates: during 2000-2009
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...slow-moving and tense beat that is punctuated by a sweeping, dramatic string sample. 50 returns to his most successful gangsta style in lines like, “it’s murder when they found the gun now they doing ballistics / but they can’t find a fingerprint this shit’s going terrific...
...outside—where the swaggering Bronson is, for once, ill at ease—the film is at its funniest. Flushed and shaking with rage, he manages to suppress a violent outburst when his sweetheart declines his marriage proposal for another man. Believing his fighting prowess would find him fame overnight, he complains to his handler that his most recent display was underappreciated “magic”: “Magic? You just pissed on a gypsy in the middle of fucking nowhere. It’s hardly the hottest ticket in town...
...That’s Theseus... He’s got this ball of string his girlfriend gave him, see. And he’s using it to find his way back out of the maze,” the young Calliope is told by her father. Drawing from the Greek heritage that the two of them share, Calliope Stephanides, the hermaphrodite narrator of Jeffrey Eugenides’ second novel “Middlesex” who will come to be known as Cal, follows the history of his family across two generations and one ocean in order to come...
...high level of interpersonal competition at Harvard might seem obvious, and discussing it, trite. But something about this quest for individuality here fascinates me, the innate desire to find something in oneself that validates existence amidst genius. For some, it’s the raw intellectual horsepower. For others, it’s the ability to navigate complex social hierarchies, to read men instinctively. For yet others, it’s the ability to cling to morals when others toss theirs aside. Maybe it’s just having the right combination of all the above. To justify one?...
...some of the wealthiest (but perhaps not some of the best-looking) young people in the country. Somehow in the struggle to cope with all the talent and prestige, with the sliding scale of relative happiness in constant flux, we criticize. We cling to the thing about ourselves we find distinctive. We fear so passionately that somebody might have everything—brains, looks, social connections, a sense of humor—that we tear down and pick apart. Nobody should have a beach house in Antigua and a summa thesis. Nobody should be a Class Marshal and a Rhodes...