Word: plumped
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...farms around Benares, India's holy city, are nourished by the sacred Ganges. The soil is black and crumbly, as rich-looking as chocolate. Cane grows as high as a man's head. Water is knee-deep in the lush paddies. It is a happy land, where plump little children stand beside the road, laugh and wave to passing automobiles, where slender farm girls, with water jars balanced gracefully on their heads, smile shyly before covering their faces with colorful head cloths. Old men sit in the doorways of mud huts, contentedly puffing on long-stemmed hookahs...
After seeing her show last week, Mexico could understand Frida Kahlo's hard reality. And it is getting even harder. Recently, her condition has been getting worse; friends who remember her as a plump, vigorous woman are shocked by her haggard appearance. She cannot stand for more than ten minutes at a time now, and there is a threat of gangrene in one foot. But each day, Frida Kahlo still struggles to her chair to paint-even if only for a short while. "I am not sick," she says. "I am broken. But I am happy to be alive...
Kiki, as mascots have an awkward habit of doing, lived on. After World War II she reappeared in her old haunts, a plump woman, rather heavily made up. Last year she began to show signs of liver cirrhosis, and she spent a couple of months in the hospital. Last week, at 51, she was dead. There was no room for her in Montparnasse Cemetery, so her friends buried her at Thiais, out beyond the Porte d'ltalie. Foujita was there, his fringed hair now white. One by one the old Bohemians dropped their bouquets on the coffin, and then...
...black trains crowd after crowd jostles and fights past grimy turnstiles into a world of pale blue walls, glass doors, chrome-plated escalators, and emaciated salesgirls. Plump ladies fill the aisles, new mothers fondle bibs, middle-aged housewives try on the latest fashions illuminated by indirect lighting, and dirty-faced boys in brand new shoes follow Mama from counter to counter...
...William Inge's portrait of frustration and wasted lives even more harrowing on film than it was on the stage. With few close-ups, the camera prowls the squalid little home of the Delaneys like a fascinated eavesdropper. It hides at the bottom of the stairs and catches the plump disarray of Lola as she wanders sleepily down to answer the door-bell; it watches the young boarder nuzzling her boy-friend; it peers across the room at Lola, confidently alone and wriggling happily to exotic music from the radio. Throughout the film, the viewer feels himself an embarrassed intruder...