Word: morbidness
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AMERICA ALIVE" was not ready. Thus neither were we. Thus I talked with Mona Caywood-Moore, who had earlier told me, "People think its morbid, or something--I'm having the time of my life. I never laughed so hard. It's no less morbid than women who have breast enlargements--get a little built up for the magazines. And I've been in more pain having braces put on my teeth...
Seeking to learn more about her new husband's country, Christina Onassis recently asked a friend: "Who is Dostoyevsky?" One wonders what the great Russian novelist, a master of morbid psychology, would have made of last week's strange marriage in Moscow. Would he have found a chapter in The Possessed for impulsive, dark-eyed Christina, 27, the twice-divorced, jet-setting daughter of the late shipping tycoon Aristotle Onassis? Would another Karamazov brother have emerged from his reflections on her spouse, Sergei Kauzov, 37, a former sales representative of the Soviet ship-chartering agency Sovfracht...
Laura Mars (Faye Dunaway), a punk-chic photographer preoccupied with photographing violent, bloody, and morbid scenes, becomes alarmed when a psychopathic killer begins knocking off her friends by stabbing them in the eye with an ice pick (a rather uninspired and not very subtly executed modus operandi which grates more than it terrifies). Mars has visions of the murders as they are happening and tries frantically to find the killer, using her psychic powers...
...cheers are not loud, but they are insistent, and growing. After a slow start, Nixon's book has taken off on the bestseller lists, perhaps appropriately like a bat out of hell, and public interest in Nixon memorabilia is reported to be growing. Worse yet, it is more than morbid curiosity: a radio station in Miami reported two weeks ago that a poll of its listeners showed they would vote for Nixon over Sen. Edward M. Kennedy '54. The Lord may move in mysterious ways, but at times they are downright fearsome...
...platform at the surrounding landscape, eyeing the bums lounging in the late-morning sun in front of the local rip-off tavern--the one that raises its prices twice a month, on the days when the welfare checks arrive in the mail--and watching with a sort of morbid curiosity as a crew of teenagers begins harassing a crippled wino as he staggers his way into the local pawn shop to barter away his past for a pint of skull-buster. How the other half lives, and all that, and you turn back to your newspaper. But then you realize...