Word: forlorned
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...will joy-buzz you all night with this sort of thing (every week, in fact, for five or six years), while de Broca would rather tickle you, like a feather. So we soon discover that the he-man adventures of the hero, Bob St. Clair, all lie in the forlorn mind of a poor, put-upon writer who just scrapes by by churning out pot-boilers. The unhappy writer turns his chintzy publisher into an Albanian villain, and seduces the ice-cold grad student upstairs as the luscious female spy Tatania--all in books. The poor guy, awwwwwwww...
Upstairs the platform was almost empty. A uniformed T worker with a bullhorn had just announced to a small band, including a forlorn David Hershey-Webb, that a derailment at Copley Square had broken all Green Line service as far as Kenmore. Above ground, a confused crowd waited for buses. The overland route brought us to Kenmore Square, where another disgruntled crowd milled about. Across Beacon Street, in the Relax-A-Bit coffee house, a streetcar driver sullenly sipped coffee. He looked as gloomy as if he had driven the streetcar off its track himself; perhaps the derailment meant...
Gerald Ford, the nonelected President, has crisscrossed the country for months in a forlorn attempt to build a constituency among Republicans that would guarantee him the party's nomination in 1976. Last week former Treasury Secretary John Connally said publicly what other astute political experts have been saying privately for weeks: Ford's campaigning has been a "political mistake." Instead of building support, the forays have demonstrated his critical inability to inspire and stir up the voters. His failure has given new impetus to the candidacy of former California Governor Ronald Reagan...
...wide wings of earth, shucking off the road like a peel of plastic on an orange juice can. A bent, black ziptop on the unyielding earth. Bare and mute. Wyoming swells to dwarf the trucks hard-panting up her hills. In rust hues the sky descended upon her forlorn tracts, swallowing puny hamlets: a cafe, a grocery store, a gas station, a truckstop, a few shacks, 200 people--all in white; and blistering vacant roads. Over the endless, straight, dust-heaped earth, the van torches at 95 mph, slowing up every 15 minutes or so for an oncoming...
...gates 90 minutes later ("Hope no one has a heart attack," the aging man in front of me said humorously, his woman companion trying mournfully to smile) the car would have more dents than Cleon Jones's wallet, and the angry man would have gone off crying, hopeless, forlorn, hanging his once-proud head in shame, like Shoeless Joe Jackson at the Black Sox trial. Why--who--how could he have left the car there, this of all days? After a while the kids started throwing rocks at passing trucks, but since it wasn't a demonstration the cops stood...