Word: murmured
(lookup in dictionary)
(lookup stats)
Dates: all
Sort By: most recent first
(reverse)
...hard to imagine Stewart's innocence as dangerous. The magic moments I treasure most are when his throaty hesitations are melted in a murmur of tenderness--the defensive and rigid store clerk of The Shop Around the Corner confessing his love for Margaret Sullavan, the small-time banker whispering "Mary" over and over while Donna Reed is on the telephone with another...
...begins on a decidedly unpropitious note, an Author's Note, in fact, in which Theroux describes his novel as "an imaginary memoir" and goes on to say that "even an imagined life resembles one that was lived; yet in this I was entirely driven by my alter ego's murmur of 'what if?'" Groaning seems a proper response at this point. Oh boy, another self-regarding writer playing solipsistic games for his own amusement. Anything good on the tube...
...rock group R.E.M. is not only one of the best bands in America, it is also one of the most consistent. Since its debut in 1983, the band has released nine major albums, and every one has set a high standard; several, including Murmur (1983), Automatic for the People (1992) and Monster (1994), have become classics. The band's latest CD, New Adventures in Hi-Fi (out Sept. 10), is not great R.E.M., but it is good R.E.M., which is to say it's as thoughtful and well constructed as any rock release that's come out this year. While...
...time-warp directness that locates them firmly in Clineland. Barnett climbs inside them all, the jingles and the ballads, with equal agility. But the standouts are the torch songs. The opening cut, Planet of Love, has a blue-eyed bluesy aggressiveness that Barnett builds nicely from a throaty murmur into a dominatrix growl; it's an invitation to a dangerous liaison, delivered deadpan. A Simple I Love You has the same let's-fall-in-love message, this time sung not as a come-on but as a last chance for human contact. Barnett brings to this lovely plaint...
While my students are enjoying free time, a parent calls me over. But instead of asking about his kid's flip turn, he makes a comment about Hahvahd. I am taken aback: the owner must have been bragging. The murmur of conversation in our area has died: all ears are on me. I smile and respond, then try to get my concentration back to where it should be: my swim class. On the way home, I see college decals in the back windows of other cars: University of Idaho, Pullman University, BYU. I promise myself never to buy a Harvard...