Word: morbidities
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Dates: during 1920-1929
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...Russians may not be essentially a jolly race, but somewhere about their bearded persons lurks a kind of laughing madness. If you thought them gloomy, morbid, humorless, you should have read Chekhov or Gogol's Dead Souls. Rather than go to the library for an old book, read Kataev's The Embezzlers...
...paraded down the main street of Galveston in the first crinoline that town ever saw. Her charms thus enhanced induced old Isaacs Menken, vocal teacher, to make her a Jewess and his bride. A memory of her first love drove her from Menken's hearth, but later gave morbid ardor to her acting of Lady Macbeth in New Orleans. In New York she became a poetess and the wife of Heavyweight Champion John C. Heenan. Her acting in Mazeppa brought her fame. This was the sensational play wherein, as a Tartar boy, she wore the first boyish...
...proximity to the Mt. Auburn Cemetery, that the Vagabond was set to musing on the eternal brevity of all things in general, and the period between then and his examinations in particular. But the sun shone too brightly and the breeze wafted too softly for such morbid reflections, so that suddenly what with the spring and all there flashed into his mind-one of those inspirations for which the Vagabond is famous-a line of what might, with judicious help of the riming dictionary, be a poem: "If April comes can May be far behind." It had a familiar ring...
...fumes arose. The man ran to his wagon, into the noxious gases. Within a minute he fell into convulsions. A little while later he was bleeding from the mouth. Now, three years after, he is kept in a hospital. He cannot walk. He cannot feel. He writes inane and morbid poetry. He shouts out hymns for his own amusement. His wits are loose...
...Soglow ambitions are modest. He confines himself to vignettes. Sometimes they are smokily morbid, but the artist is more often impelled to bitter Hogarthian humor. As a regular contributor to the New Masses, he was (in the March issue) allowed to lampoon the staff of that earnest, proletarian monthly as a ridiculous, sour and impoverished quartet, weary of life and thought. O. Soglow is a signature frequently seen also in the blithely capitalistic New Yorker. There he is the Harpo Marx of art, maintaining a pungent silence with untitled comic strip exercises in pantomime, often verging on the vulgar. Recently...