Word: foggings
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...more overstock stacked in mounds around a remainder bookstore. Last year the film seemed so alive, so intense, so involving. "Escaping down 59th Street to Central Park," I wrote, "rerunning the film in our minds, two of us followed a silent, twisted path around boulders and lifeless trees. The fog joined nearby buildings into solid walls; the isolation, the desolation, were nearly as great as the initial feelings engendered by the film." This week, with showings of the film stuffed in between showings of another, there won't be time for the emotions to sink...
Perhaps because its sun-blasted emptiness is so different from their cozily crowded, fog-shrouded island, the trackless desert has always attracted Englishmen. A straight line leads from Sir Richard Burton crossing the Arabian desert in 1853 and Lawrence of Arabia down to Geoffrey Moorhouse. Burton had a simple thirst for the exotic. Lawrence was a complex mystic. Moorhouse, who left Nouakchott, Mauritania, in October of 1972 heading east into the Sahara, is a fortyish ex-journalist. In challenging the desert, he was intent on confronting his own fears and what he took to be personal cowardice...
...morning. They are so anxious to be around you, they'll do anything you say." Abercrombie would like to see as many as 15 such schools set up in the district. That, he feels, would at least be a start toward penetrating San Francisco's educational fog...
...date, more than 60,000 visitors have paid two dollars each for the round-trip boat ride and one-hour guided tour of the pen. Though there are 13 scheduled tours a day, come gale, fog or high water, tickets for weekends and holidays are sold out a month in advance. Tourists include some of the Indians who occupied Alcatraz in 1970, penologists, historians, police officers, prison wardens, troops of schoolchildren and an occasional former inmate (one ex-con insisted on getting married there, so that his wife would understand what he had been through...
...storm was churning overhead. The fog would not lift tonight. I heard a noise in the brush by the stone staircase and there was Francois. His pants were wet to the knees and there was a crusty line of sand up the front of his jacket. He looked frightened, but his eyes shone. He pulled from his pocket a handful of round, smooth stones from the beach. "Bombs!" he said. "I went to the beach and got bombs Le Bon Dieu will hurl these at them and kill them, and then put them in a volcano...