Word: glowingly
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...naked eye by early December, when it will appear in the morning sky. By early January, its tail-formed when the gases boiling off the comet are swept away from the sun by charged solar particles-may stretch across one-sixth of the evening sky. In fact, Kohoutek may glow many times brighter than Halley's comet, which blazed across...
...hundred Victorian parlors like the Merriwethers', attractive parents and children play recorders and sing lieder or Cole Porter. Leather editions on subjects like Provencal poetry decorate the walls. Pedigreed dogs, knowledgeably named in Russian or even Japanese, bunk into a birch-log fire. There is a golden glow of "we": husbands and wives, colleagues, the chosen circles at dinner parties off Brattle Street, the community of the faculty club. Must Dr. Merriwether, who teaches introductory physiology, give up all this Good Life for his Cynthia, "golden-haired but almost Indian dark, slimly full, tall . . . her hair waterfalled...
...this delusion of hers, but I'd drag her to parties anyway. And she would torture herself beforehand into the Look, a wasp-haired caricature, binding her curls tightly in a turban around her head, in a towel steamed for straightening. And she would chatter, and the pink would glow in her face. But then she would stand mum and prudish all night and hate herself in a corner. Afterwards, I'd try to comfort her, doing a stint of complaining myself to cheer her up. She never believed though, that I could hurt, too. She wanted, you see, what...
...zany creature that the public saw, all that campy, trivial bluster, was real enough in its way, it was far from the substance of her deeper glow," writes Myra Friedman in Buried Alive (Morrow; $7.95). "The hysteria, the extravagance, and the foolish noise were a barren fuss embraced by barren hearts, and it was a lost child who would kick up such rubbish to gain entrance into rooms so empty." Written with a sympathetic intelligence, at times fiercely lyrical, Buried Alive is an honest book about Joplin the idol and Joplin the victim in the frantic, manic disarray of rock...
...Indian-Pacific rolls out of the night and finally into the first suburban fringes of Perth. It is 6:45 a.m. Kitchen lights glow in the freshly painted frame houses backed against the track. The sleeping-car porters rap hard on the compartment doors to make sure all passengers are awake. A disc jockey, piped into the train from a Perth radio station, is playing his morning selection. "Now here's a good one," he says, and the song begins, "Pardon me, boy, is that the Indian-Pacific...