Word: oddly
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Dates: during 1980-1989
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...suburban shopping mall. Leave the catalogs on the coffee table and turn off the video-shopping channel. Hop into the car with a full bandolier of credit cards and head for the outback. Tucked away in Monterey, Calif.; Boaz, Ala.; Rockford, Mich.; Freeport, Me.; and a dozen odd small towns in between, scores of manufacturers' outlet stores are doing a land-office business by offering 25% to 70% savings. Along with the bargains, urban consumers enjoy a day in the country and engage in a venerable American dream -- the inalienable right to pursue the deep discount. Says Charles Bloom...
...Read my lips!" cries Bush. "No . . . new . . . taxes!" Read my lips. George Bush is ever at odds with language, as if he does not regard it as a reliable vehicle of thought. At his worst moments on the stump, his surreal moments, Bush is a sort of amateur terrorist of language, like an eleven-year- old Shi'ite picking up a Kalashnikov assault rifle for the first time and firing off words in wild bursts, blowing out the lamps, sending the relatives diving through the windows. Bush is mostly oblivious to the nuances of language, as if some moral...
Dukakis, with his weighty, even slightly oppressive air of self-possession and the small eyes that give his large head a somehow sealed look, like a tank turret even without his famous tank, applauded in an odd slow motion and dipped his left shoulder and gave a slow-motion thumbs-up sign, as if to say, "Way to go, Big Guy!" Then he came forward and started to tell the crowd about John Kennedy and Lyndon Johnson, and about how "we can do better" and how 1960 has rolled round again. History, says Dukakis, repeats itself. And at least some...
White's book about 1960 is in some ways a hymn and a poem not only to American democracy but to the American landscape and American people, to their varieties and resonances. White's writing then strikes a heroic note that sounds odd to the American ear now. But perhaps a sense of eloquence and size has passed out of history's favor...
While keeping all these odd characters, including his own, in frenetic movement, Exley again demonstrates his skill at hallucinatory free association. The point of the exercise may be lost on those who expect stories to make sense. For Exley addicts, there is another concern. He calls Last Notes "the third volume of my trilogy." Why he should stop where this book does, with the narrator newly married and looking for trouble, requires a full explanation. At the very least, Exley should go for a tetralogy...