Word: fleshed
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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...Fleshing Out Saints. Until the late 8th century, Western art lay largely under the influence of Byzantium, whose hovering saints were stripped of flesh, transcendentally vaporous, symbols of life beyond death. So otherworldly was Byzantine art that by the time Charlemagne was crowned, images of the sacred figures had been banned for 74 years. Eastern iconoclasm had emphatically blotted out the Greco-Roman exaltation of living man. The new Carolingian Emperor personally set about to change the art of his times...
Barely perceptibly, women's under wear began a year ago to melt into skin air. Girdles crept up the leg, and bras got briefer. The body stocking came along, and the traditional white and pink colors were superseded by a flesh color that matched the owner's own. Short of eliminating itself entirely, the industry seemed to have nowhere left...
...ruck and into the luck. Sillitoe was always a careless writer, and now that he is crassly cashing in, he is grossly sprawling out. He is inaccurate: "They were attracted like two magnets in a field of iron filings." He is prolix: "Frank kicked him, a hand cracking on flesh, and the purple, spark-fanged floor on the sway and loose burst at Keith like a piece of ice over the eye-face. Keith reacted, fist bursting, a whalehead driving across the light, packed with flintheads and darkness." He is even ungrammatical: "Walking along black midnight roads, the wound...
Report to Greco illuminates Kazantzakis' life in the way that lightning illuminates the dark. A sudden flash, and there stands that lusty old goat Zorba, the flesh-and-blood model for Kazantzakis' most successful novel, who taught him "to love life and have no fear of death." Another flash reveals the writer in the throes of creation, dipping his pen into his own blood: "Writing may have been a game in other ages. Today it is a grave duty, to proclaim a state of mobilization, to urge men to do their utmost to surpass the beast...
...higher significance of regularity. It is both absurd and touching to see the aging lion mew so meekly. He seems humbly grateful for the small favors of existence, humbly aware of the failures of his private life. In a poem about bedrooms he writes sadly: about blended flesh...