Word: ingly
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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...hours in the library could make it. Why, then, is it that I, Claudius, which is unrestrained hokum, seems truthful, while Families, which is so much more truthful, seems like hokum? The reason is that CTW has brought everything to the series but imagination and talent. The act ing is spotty, the direction glacially slow. The characters have as much life as the figures in the dioramas at a museum of natural history, and The Best of Families is as interminable as a ninth-grade history class on the last Friday before vacation...
...next novel. Her ex-fiance (Lucien Zabielski) throws himself at her feet in the belief that she tried to commit suicide out of love for him. Her former employer (Gordon Gould), the fa ther of the dead child, turns out to have been her adulterous lover. Yet, in seek ing the truth each character continues to live out a lie. Why? The governess offers an answer in a gently despairing voice...
Have you already copied this down?" she asks, point ing to the topic headings. A few heads bob yes, several more shake no; the rest of the stu dents merely carry on with their private conversations. The subject of the day is not terrorism, energy or Watergate. Aptly enough, the topic is "The Problems of American Education...
...mankind ever seeks some unify ing principle or vision. In a much earlier Borges collection, it took the form of the "Aleph," a tiny spot of light in which everything that occurred in the world could be seen simultaneously. In the new book, there is "undr, " a single word meaning wonder, which is an ancient tribe's entire body of literature. The Book of Sand is an other expression of this hyperidealism. A collector acquires a clothbound octavo volume bearing the title "Holy Writ." But he can never find the same place twice...
Sometimes. Alone. Between. Periods. Yet "ands" are cheap: "And Mr. Arland ask ing him why he hadn't seen him having a pint for some time. And the barber stopped cutting my hair and looked up at the ceiling." These repetitions may charm at first as a rendition of the maundering heard in Irish pubs; stretched out over a wad of pages, the trick grows thin. Even the little poems that conclude chapters seem limp: "And/ I loved/ Her." When Lennon and McCartney wrote something like that, they provided music...