Word: hell
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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...know where he can go from here." The whip's job may not cut all that keenly with many voters, especially those who have no high regard for the Senate. A few Senators even thought that the affront just might goad Kennedy into saying "to hell with them" and running away. Assuming that Kennedy, as he repeatedly proclaimed, had no intention of jumping into the 1972 race, the defeat was not a total gain for Nixon. Byrd may be more philosophically attuned to some Nixon programs, but he takes his partisan role seriously and is a far more abrasive...
...Strauss-she delightedly rips off piece after piece of her disintegrating dress before eventually changing into a Raquel Welch 2000 Years B.C. wash cloth-only to resist the eager lad when he finally gets it up by demurring with a sincere, "Honus, tell me, do you really mean it?" Hell, lady, you don't go around shoving your boobs in the poor kid's face and then start preaching situation ethics...
...grip, Sajer holds on to his reader, simultaneously appealing to him for absolution and denying his right to judge. He pictures the reader sitting in an armchair by the fire, curled up in a comfortably moral position. Out of anguish, out of arrogance, he pulls him down into his hell. What he is finally saying is: Don't judge...
...book is far from a tract for pacifism. If Sajer has created a hell worthy of Dante, his reaction to it is curiously mixed. "Peace has brought me many pleasures," he writes, "but nothing as powerful as that passion for survival in wartime, that faith in love, and that sense of absolutes. It often strikes me with horror that peace is really extremely monotonous. During the terrible moments of war one longs for peace with a passion that is painful to bear. But in peacetime one should never, even for an instant, long...
Nether sections of Avenue B provide the Boschian landscape of Hell. They swarm with dreadful objects: flaking $65 walk-ups and urine-stained corridors, a cat skinned live in the alley, bums and glue-sniffing Puerto Rican delinquents, burst trash bags and rusty fire escapes. All these things, lit by the glare of burning cars and the flash of pot or amphetamine, are the backdrop to one of the best fictional studies of madness, descent and purification that any American has written since Ken Kesey's One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. Donald Newlove clearly...