Word: formlessness
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Actually, the post-modernists tell us that the formless void has always already been upon us, it's just that we're only starting to notice it now. You see, no matter how hard you try, your description of reality will never be complete, nor even true with a capital T. And what you don't say is just as important as what you do say. As Jacques Derrida proclaimed gleefully last year, No matter what you say, I can undermine...
...first meet the young protagonist of A Nite-Lite, acted with appropriate repulsiveness by the playwright, he is returning home from work, dressed respectably in suit and tie. His initial encounter with the motionless, battered body beside his front door arouses his sense of pity. He addresses the formless mass politely as "sir," and even brings out a plate of food. But as the homeless person fails to acknowledge these gestures, the young man grows increasingly annoyed and impatient. He begins throwing scraps of food at the human heap of rags and soon dumps the entire plate, as well...
...seen or heard. He and a scouting party find three friends massacred: "Martha's breasts were skinned. They are made by Indians into bullet pouches, says Beam." That juxtaposition of horror and information perfectly captures the genius of this imaginary diary. For Nissenson has created an apparently loose, formless work that is poetic in its artful selectivity. Scarcely a word is wasted. Hardly an aspect of the struggle to found a new civilization remains untouched. The Tree of Life dramatizes, sometimes with almost unbearable intensity, the American dream and its attendant nightmare. There is the heroism of embattled migrants, some...
...casual wear has split right down the Continental divide. The "Miami Vice" look, expertly (and expensively) produced by Matinique, enters around loose cotton shirts with big sleeves and large front pockets formless cotton or linen jackets and wide-legged, high-wasted trousers, all in semi-bright primaries like blue, yellow, and greens. Though Vice is nice, most men prefer not to look like walking piles of unironed laundry...
...CAVES seem at first overrated--dank, gloomy gouges in bare formless hills. Yet there is something unnerving about them. Claustrophobia sejzes Mrs. Moore, and, in a panic, she dashes out into the open air. She tells Aziz she would sit and rest; he and Adela should go on and explore without...