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Word: glinting (lookup in dictionary) (lookup stats)
Dates: during 1950-1959
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Usage:

Poems, by Boris Pasternak, translated by Eugene M. Kayden. Though the language curtain sometimes reduces the poet's lyric song to schoolboy singsong, this translation permits more than a glint of Pasternak's genius to filter through...

Author: /time Magazine | Title: CINEMA: Time Listings, Nov. 23, 1959 | 11/23/1959 | See Source »

...father's breakfast table. Of a morning, John Joyce might read an obituary. "Oh! Don't tell me that Mrs. Cassidy is dead," protested James's mother on one occasion. "Well, I don't quite know about that," said Papa Joyce with a quizzical glint in his monocled eye, "but someone has taken the liberty of burying...

Author: /time Magazine | Title: Books: Dublin's Prodigal Son | 11/9/1959 | See Source »

...this faithfully wrought translation by Russian-born Eugene Kayden, professor emeritus of economics at the University of the South, more than a glint of Pasternak's poetic genius filters through; whole stanzas blaze with life and passion. But, since Pasternak frequently relies on a fusion of images and sounds, perhaps only an inspired fellow poet could devise sensuously idiomatic English equivalents. In Translator Kayden's rhymes, Pasternak's lyric song is sometimes reduced to schoolboy singsong...

Author: /time Magazine | Title: Books: Pasternak the Poet | 10/19/1959 | See Source »

This and other musical numbers are strung together like unmatched beads, but some of them have the wicked glint of genuine satire. Party Song stingingly peppers the social climbers of suburbia. Rejection ("that childhood rejection") does the same for the hobohemian set. New York is a cathartic for all the romantic nonsense set to music about the Big Town...

Author: /time Magazine | Title: The Theater: New Musical on Broadway, may 25, 1959 | 5/25/1959 | See Source »

...water, a McKinley-era chair. Into this setting shuffles the spry, white-maned humorist in the white suit. Involuntary tremors ripple the stiffened fingers, the lower jaw nibbles spasmodically at wisps of tobacco-stained mustache, the shoulders twitch like marionettes in the invisible hands of time. But a pagan glint of eye suggests that this is a life less spent than well spent. Then the voice, cracked but not ruined, speaks, and the evening begins showering comic sparks...

Author: /time Magazine | Title: The Theater: New Performer | 4/20/1959 | See Source »

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