Word: mane
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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There is an undeniable magnetism about him. He lacks Jack's graceful wit and easy intellectuality, to be sure, and his reedy voice is oddly suggestive of a Bostonian Bugs Bunny. Yet his slight (5 ft. 10 in., 165 Ibs.), wiry frame, his sandy, sun-bleached mane (to which a hand keeps straying nervously), his electric blue eyes all project an image that youngsters, in particular, see as the embodiment of his brother's appeal. His steady outpouring of statements on everything and anything, often aimed a cagey centimeter or so to the left of the President...
Lithe and handsome in fringed white buckskin, his golden mane glinting in the sunlight, dashing George Armstrong Custer stood before a tattered guidon of the Seventh Cavalry, smiting bloodthirsty Sioux hip and thigh. Finally, standing tall, his dead troops strewn about him, Custer faced a climactic Indian charge singlehanded and became the last man to die at the Battle of the Little Bighorn...
...they make beautiful music together, pouring out the big, lush organ-like sound that is the maestro's trademark. While Stokowski's days as the glamour boy of the podium are behind him, the long slender hands still dance like birds when he conducts, the silver mane still shakes in splendid disarray, the great craggy profile still sparks a response. And as always, he still juggles the orchestra's seating arrangements to gain special effects, still edits Beethoven and Brahms to suit his own taste...
...last book was written under a painful burden of arthritis. What kept her going? "My gambler's spirit, my instinct for the game of life." Night after night, often all night, the aging lioness with the mad grey mane and a brow like Beethoven's sat writing under the strong blue light she loved. "Go away slowly, slowly, without tears; forget nothing! Go away adorned, and do not stop on the irresistible way, do not stop for rest except to die. And if you have, to the very end, kept in your hand the friendly hand that guides...
Prophetic Inspiration. As a young man he was everything northern women love about Italy: wild mane and burning eyes, sensuous lips and rich, soft voice. Wherever he played, and he played from St. Petersburg to San Francisco, Ferruccio was besieged by women who wanted to make beautiful music with him. It cannot be said that he was always faithful to his piano, but in the broad Italian construction of the term he was loyal to his wife, a placid Swedish girl who thought he was simply wonderful...