Word: paleness
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Plain & Fancy. At 59, grey Jim Williams is as pale and paunchy as one of his machine-shop characters. He lives, somewhat apologetically, in a fancy 2O-room Tudor mansion with a $30,000 swimming pool in San Marino, Calif. He sits down at his drawing board as early as 6 a.m. and waits, with a fisherman's patience, for an idea to strike. Sometimes it takes hours. When he really gets one hooked, he finishes a panel in a hurry. If the fishing is good, he can polish off four panels in a morning...
...nature, the more sure I am that one Edward Lear should never have attempted to represent her. Yet . . . I know there is a vein of poetry in me that ought to have come out." If anywhere it did come out, fresh & free, it was in the pale and delicate watercolors he jotted down in a few feverish moments...
...churches, but only a few which are not Red schools, assembly halls, headquarters, or depots for grain confiscated from the people. At 2 o'clock in the afternoon we arrive at the den of the Reds. The sick Father, a Chinese secular priest, is lying on his bed, pale and exhausted. The village Christians tell me that the Father is spiritually rather than physically sick...
Arcand, now 48, is a lean, brooding six-footer with an ascetic face and a pencil-line mustache. When I called, he was wearing a pale green woolen sport shirt, brown tie, brown trousers and shoes. In a corner of his small living room were his typewriter and a table piled with pamphlets and books. In another corner was a radio-phonograph with a fair-sized collection of classical records. This room opens into a combined bedroom and studio. On the wall was a large painting of Arcand in a brown shirt. A crucifix was beside...
...Most of the British poets here anthologized seem cowed by the fashions of up-to-the-minute taste. Either they are still unrecovered from their burns from the Auden-Spender firecracker of the '30s (Marx, Freud, Oxford, pathos and wisecracks), or they have slumped into a pale, desiccated romanticism ("Sleep, my love, now love is over. . . . Tender about you, my arms will cover...