Word: pile
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...Repeats. Polytonal, polymodal, polyrhythmic, The Rite took some getting used to. It did not so much reject conventional harmony, as did the twelve-tone works of Arnold Schoenberg. Rather it brought contrasting tonalities crashing dangerously into one another. With its unexpected clustered stresses and pile-driving climaxes, it raised rhythm to an unprecedented preeminence. Jarring the 20th century out of its lingering romanticism, it was more than "the cornerstone of modern music," as Pierre Boulez calls it. It was one of those works, like Joyce's Ulysses and Picasso's Les Demoiselles d'Avignon, that announced...
...trailer subculture has evolved a bullet-shaped camper that is bidding to become the Cadillac of recreational vehicles. The air-conditioned, 25-ft.-long Discoverer, built by Detroit's Rectrans Inc., sells for $16,000, features a pile-carpeted living room with built-in television and stereo, a wood-paneled bedroom and a bathroom complete with toilet, shower, sink, closet and medicine chest. The kitchen boasts a refrigerator-freezer, stove, roomy cabinets and sink. So far, a swimming pool is not available as an accessory...
Cockroach and Crucifix. Typically, a Fahlstrom work is made of units: tiny cutout images of anything from a banana to Richard Nixon's head, from a bamboo stockade to a pile of feces, drawn with tightly focused and quite deliberate clumsiness and fixed to the base by magnets. The profusion and inventiveness of these units is dazzling. To scan Firing Squad (1968), is like spinning the selector of a TV set past images that suggest disaster but can barely be read in time-cockroaches, a panther, a G.I. doll on skis, a Bobby Kennedy headline, a crucified Lyndon Johnson...
...sympathetic lawyer friend (George Voskovec), a hostile daughter (Madeleine Sherwood) and a remorse-laden son (lames Ray). Finally, there is a flip nurse (Betty Field) and the trusted family physician (Neil Fitzgerald), who has been something like a brother to the dying man. As the characters talk, a mounting pile of reportage -without even a grain of redeeming insight-gradually buries the audience...
JONES has not for a decade been considered a major novelist, but the reason is no longer the race he runs with the bitch goddess. He's made his pile and is sitting on it, while continuing to practice his craft in his own idiosyncratic fashion, producing works of dubious value but vast pathological interest. Jones' mind hasn't broadened, and he's never again found a situation where the catalogue approach to literature has proved applicable. But by viewing his later works, one may see the author's progression from hard-boiled anarchist to embittered sexual contender to kind...