Word: fleshed
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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Divinity as Beauty. Lips lift in a sublime smile, torsos twist into reverse curves that enliven flesh, and ornament clings to smoothly modeled skin like a caress of art given to nature. Beauty was a reflection of divinity, just as the slender saints that adorn Chartres cathedral are the disembodied spirits of medieval Christianity...
...lower level English courses as the Unifying Theme. With some exuberant exceptions, the Unifying Theme for Harvard undergraduates is malaise. It is a vague malaise to be sure. Most often only a brooding ostenato to gayer melodies, but there nonetheless. No simple response to those thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to, the Harvard Malaise is a nagging self-dissatisfaction, a dearth of inner order, despite any personal triumph. The fact that the undergraduate rarely enjoys unqualified happiness registers not so much a nebulous mal du siecle as a fairly specific mal de Universite, a heavy burden of melancholy...
Adam sunbathes, smokes, writes to his girl friend, sees the sun transformed into a monstrous spider or a thousandarmed octopus. His girl visits him. They go to the beach, where Adam feels himself turning to a statue, "his flesh freezing into a minera1." He runs, and suddenly knows that the earth is hostile, molten under a thick crust; he has visions of "the flames of petrified nature." He goes to the zoo, and feels "at one with the lizards, mice, beetles or pelicans. He has discovered that the best way to mix with a species is to make oneself desire...
...introducing. But in his autobiography, Sartre simplifies and shortens. The writing is austere, crisp, even epigrammatic. The result is a warm, albeit desperately sad, account of his childhood and early teens. And far more than most autobiographies, this is an inward-turning book, cutting into the living flesh of the man to expose the origins of his beliefs and behavior. Modern existentialism, it turns out, is rooted in the struggle for sanity of a spoiled and lonely child...
...Monsters. At eight, in those happy days before TV, Sartre began to write stories of his own, filling copybook after copybook, until "my wrist ached," with wild tales of African jungles and supernatural horrors that made his flesh crawl as he put them down...