Word: godly
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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...disoriented Midwestern roommate of the Death Poet, wandering about sadly, latching onto anyone who would listen, occasionally making conversation with the two calculator-addled physics jocks who haunted the stairs and discussed their SAT scores; the tall silent guy we nicknamed Frankenstein, stalking out at dusk, headed for God knew what, and returning at dawn...
...ogle the Harvard settings and release all that pent-up aggression by jeering at former Yale professor Erich Segal's heart-burning drivel. You can also think about the decay of Ali McGraw's and Ryan O'Neal's careers since then--proof, I guess, that there is a God. Last year, as Ryan whined, "Love--(beat)--means never having to say you're sorry," the film got caught in the projector and a big brown blotch quickly bubbled over his face, smote, perhaps, by that great Film Critic...
...sick and tired of long and tedious conversations in the backseat of my 1965 Mustang during which I tried (usually in vain) to convince some sweet Delta plantation princess that it was irrational for two healthy, mature adults to deny themselves the God-given pleasures of sexual play. I figured that anybody intelligent enough to get into Harvard would not let something as puerile as religious convictions prevent her from living a normal adult life. Sure, I wrote the perfunctory essay about how I was going to use my Harvard education for the benefit of mankind, or, at least...
...increase it, being itself a source of this very thing." As for modern art: "A Picasso, after a lifetime's practice arrives at the style of the cave drawings in the Pyrenees." Progress, for Muggeridge, is arrogant optimism, a shaking of man's tiny fist at God, and its furtherance requires "the final discrediting of the gospel of Christ...
...enlightened by the author's remarks on the subject. But the reader can see what Muggeridge has excluded by turning his face from the world. Things Past is shot through with melancholy, the lashing-out of a wounded man, a Christian who has forgotten how to play God's fool and a humorist who has misplaced the gift of laughter. - John Skow