Word: pinks
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...Park Looking North, 1967. A chilly, wet day in New York, seen through a metal casement window. An antique statue of a faun on the sill, far in space and temperature from his native Mediterranean. And high on the brick wall of the apartment building to the left, a pink patch: a ray of sun breaking through winter's grisaille. Surely Koch had been thinking of the "little patch of yellow wall" in Vermeer's View of Delft, the last thing Proust's connoisseur Bergotte notices before he is felled by a heart attack. Memory and desire: Koch's great...
...inside a face and a name. And suddenly everyone wanted a piece of him. There were 40 messages a day from reporters; well wishers sent checks, whiskey, prayers, cigars and a bald-eagle calendar. One particularly aggressive fan, "Judy C. from New Hampshire," wrote almost daily on stationery with pink hearts and drove all the way to New York City from Manchester just to see him in the flesh. Mike's father taped the photograph to his refrigerator next to a laminated postcard of Jesus. Mike even heard that British Prime Minister Tony Blair held it up and said, "This...
...course, you will be far more likely to get approved for a line of credit if you apply while you are still drawing a paycheck. You may have enough of a window from the time the pink slips go out till the time you stop getting paid, but it's wiser to arrange your credit line before you need...
...Canaille, Cassis, Opus 200, 1889, is a superb example. The day is fading. The tartans, or lateen-rigged fishing boats, triangular scraps of white sail on the blue, are flocking back to port. The pallid horizon is delicately tinted with pink, lavender, yellow. The foreground, with its purple house and lavender rocks, is already darkening. But the sunset has lit up the prismatic shape of the headland to a blazing orange-yellow, a thrilling and almost transcendent intensity. It is the kind of painting that can absorb any amount of looking, and after 10 minutes with it you can appreciate...
...have no irrational fears about contracting anthrax. Rather, I have come to fear the arrival of that bane of Harvard students’ existence—the phone bill. It seems that every time I check my mailbox, there it is again, the innocuous looking envelope with the pink sheets of astronomical fees and the orange envelope of doom that screams expectedly for yet another check. But, no matter how many I pay, the Harvard Student Telephone Office (HSTO) continues to inundate my mailbox with these annoying envelopes...