Word: musee
(lookup in dictionary)
(lookup stats)
Dates: all
Sort By: most recent first
(reverse)
...Untidy Muse. This book makes no more sense than the king's English, but it projects the same fey charm. It is no longer than a summer's reverie in an aluminum chaise longue, where it was clearly designed to be read. Its gossamer plot drifts like a cloud; its characters have all the substantiality of that scarlet flash in the lilac bush that may have been a hummingbird. What delicate diplomatic mission has brought Bemis to Suruk? Why does Sajjid offer him $1,000,000 to come, and why does Bemis refuse the fee? For what reason...
...world will not stop spinning to hear the answers. It had better not, because Author Connelly's untidy muse has not bothered to tie up every loose end. Characters muster on whim, and for the same reason dissolve like smoke; promising bends in the plot lead nowhere at all, like garden paths. This should bother no one but the literal-minded reader, who is seldom found in a chaise longue anyway...
...letters will seem a disservice to Allen's ghost. To anyone who cannot, sorting through this epistolary mountain for the occasional glint of gold will seem hardly worth the effort. The nuggets are there all right; even in his casual correspondence, Fred Allen could not resist the comic muse, whether diagnosing his own health ("I find myself winded after raising my hat to a lady acquaintance") or commiserating with a toothless pal, who "has been living by sucking the butter off asparagus." Freelance Writer Joe McCarthy, who claims to have edited this collection, did no such thing...
...with Midland and Irish accents when appropriate, to show that the street song is more often comic or dramatic than tender. "The golden age of innocence and love was in the country," he said. He added that if using the street ballad as social criticism requires "marking the literary muse into the literary prostitute, I'm in favor...
Eliot lies in ashes. Auden flogs his muse infrequently in exile. England, for so many centuries "a nest of singing birds," finds herself today unwontedly in want of a great poet she can call her own. Yet in a quiet nook of Yorkshire, a strange bird occasionally lifts his voice to cantillate the fierce interior music of a tortured and solitary sensibility...