Word: ironical
(lookup in dictionary)
(lookup stats)
Dates: during 1970-1979
Sort By: most recent first
(reverse)
...coming thing. I find that my views are changing contrary to the trend. I have had my "liberation" and the victory is hollow. I find at times I yearn to feel again the exotic pleasure of hurrying home to prepare a man's meal, to iron and clean-not for me-but for him. My inner self is somewhat incomplete in its "glorious" independence...
...feminine" qualities: "Judged by the norms ... of the prevailing de Kooning style that Frankenthaler rejected, her art was seen as reckless, thin, uncontrolled, uncomposed, lacking in impact, and too sweet in color." Today, it is possible to see her best work as a triumph of sensuous integration: that iron sweetness, that blooming and expansive surge of color, is unequaled among living American artists...
Still the Portugese, now under the iron hand of the dictator Salazar, persisted in their non-maximizing forced labor schemes and their refusal to permit foreign investment. Angola struggled along with a moderately profitable coffee-producing economy. Yet no quality of forced labor could overcome the capital deficit. And the Portugese had no capital, only force...
...PARAMOUNT STUDIO has a marvelous main gate, imposing and familiar: you've seen it in dozens of movies about the movies. But behind the ornate baroque swirls of its iron facade lies a studio much like any other. Anonymous administration buildings, tacky writers's bungalows, and the looming shapes of the sound stages, lofty and featureless as airplane hangars, all stand on the sandy lot divided by wide dusty roads, baking silently in the heat. There is something hallucinatory about those roads, white and glaring, always seen through a quivering haze of dust that hangs hesitantly...
...relief, then, to enter one of the sound stages, to slide open a heavy iron door and step into cool darkness. The gloom is thick, palpable, and you are aware of vast spaces above you. Gradually, as you become accustomed to the artificial dusk, it takes form. Cables as thick as your arm snake over the floor and up the walls, black and viny. High up, just below a barely discernible ceiling, banks of unused lights cluster like hard dark fruits. And you are aware that this shadowy jungle is alive; figures appear and disappear, slipping swiftly through the darkness...