Word: polishing
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None of which should deter potential readers; surely it's no longer a shock to discover that celebrities sometimes seek a little polish for their memoirs. And in this case, well, let's cut a chimp some slack here: Cheeta's screen career, which stretched right up to 1967 (Dr. Dolittle), called for a mastery of physical performance - mime, slapstick, acro- and aerobatics - not of stage English. Even his leading man, Tarzan, rarely ventured much beyond "Aaaheeyaaheeyaheeyaheeyah" or "Jane not worry." Now though, at the age of 76, and living out the last of his days in a Palm Springs...
...other things, the flap underscores the difficulty of gleaning the truth from communist- era archives. Police files similar to the one in which this document was found exist in most post-communist countries in eastern Europe. And such celebrated opponents of communism as former Czech President Vaclav Havel and Polish dissident journalist Adam Michnik have argued strenuously against their contents being divulged to the public, for fear that the information will be misinterpreted, used for political gain, or to carry out personal vendettas. Skeptics also point out that the communist-era police frequently forged documents to embarrass state enemies...
...Siberia is rougher around the edges. The precipitating horror--the narrator's grandfather hangs himself--creates a strangely shallow impression. But what the story lacks in polish, it makes up for in mood. Reading a Petterson novel is like falling into a northern landscape painting--all shafts of light and clear, palpable chill. The narrator and her brother Jesper grow up in this setting, on a farm in Denmark in the 1930s. Distant from their parents, they find happiness in each other, and as the narrator grows from tagalong sister to adolescent, Petterson gives their relationship a delicate physical dimension...
...brothers moved on to their next customer, and I was left abandoned, the polish still drying on my nails...
...suddenly remembered that all those bodies I maneuvered past had feet, and all the female feet wore nail polish. No woman I saw in Mumbai was so poor that there wasn’t some disintegrating color on her toes, some trace of shimmer. Personal grooming, which had always struck me as a waste of time, took on a new character. Getting your nails done wasn’t selfish, it was a kind of neighborhood beautification. I was living in a city of 40 million filthy, scuffed, aching feet, but all across Mumbai women were getting pedicures?on Malabar...