Word: moonlit
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...they were abstract: he painted the sea to look like a flight of cold, curling steps, and made forests echo the architecture of cathedrals. During World War II he based one exultant canvas on the vapor trails of bombers and fighters overhead, and another, gloomy one, on a moonlit junkyard swimming with wrecked planes. When he was dying, at 57, he painted sunflowers, which turn their yellow disks to the slow geometric...
Pridi Banomyong's henchman, Prime Minister Thamrong-Nawasawat, was dancing a tango at a charity ball one moonlit night two weeks ago when a friend whispered warning words in his ear. The Premier took it on the lam for a lamasery. Meanwhile Phibun's military friends, using Siam's 20 or so ancient little Swedish and Japanese tanks and armored cars, took over Bangkok. Phibun, as new Supreme Commander of Siamese Forces, entered the Defense Ministry on the shoulders of cheering soldiery. Many officers prostrated themselves in homage...
While the orchestra at Lahore's Falett's Hotel played quietly for dancing, European guests drank cocktails on the moonlit terrace. Beyond earshot of the music, whole blocks of buildings lay gutted. Streets were bare and silent. Over the deserted railroad station the smell of corpses hung...
...collector from Chicago was glad that he visited the Middletown, N.Y. asylum that day in 1916. It was a privilege to talk with Artist Ralph Albert Blakelock, whose moonlit lakes and forests were bringing up to $20,000 apiece. And the painter seemed perfectly all right, too-at least, until the moment when he drew what looked like a roll of bills from his pocket and gave three to his visitor. "Take this back to Chicago," Blakelock soberly advised him. "Don't spend it, but live off the interest." The bills turned out to be three little green landscapes...
...drawn the thick curtains against the night, there was nothing that so pleased the Victorian as to lay back his head on the antimacassar and curdle his comfortable blood with fiction about fiends in human form. So Victorian Novelist Wilkie Collins, who dispensed such fiction, was not displeased, one moonlit night in the 1850s, when a beautiful lady, robed all in white, ran up to him on a lonely road, screaming for succor. She had escaped, explained the white lady, from a fiend who had held her in durance with the help of hypnotic powers and a kitchen poker...