Word: pudenda
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...filled with Picasso's last paintings in the summer of 1973, they caused as much disappointment as surprise. Picasso appeared to have spent his dotage at a costume party in a whorehouse. The walls were covered with 17th century dwarfs and musketeers, puffing on pipes and goggling at pudenda. They were painted coarse and quick, with what seemed to be a kind of narcissistic perfunctoriness, as though the old man had become so obsessed with filling out his Don Giovanni catalogue that he could not stop long enough to finish the last entries. The paintings seemed...
...accredited woman doctor in the U.S. But the writers' list includes quite unimportant figures like Vita Sackville-West and Agnes Smedley, while ignoring real heroines of literature like the Russian poet Anna Akhmatova. What has caused the real flap, however, is Chicago's relentless concentration on the pudenda...
Miller's crapulous expatriates have a vitality that even Strick cannot quash. Their scatological, X-rated fury at a world that has the audacity to be imperfect is still molten. And their alternate curses at and apostrophes to the female pudenda retain a primal humor. But anyone who has read or watched the real Henry Miller knows that the author possesses a sly, ribald wit that is entirely absent from Rip Torn's somnambulistic impersonation. Leeching meals and wives from the bourgeois, Miller-Torn provides neither charm nor intelligence; it is impossible to believe that he would...
...also probably the only autobiography in which the author genuinely tried to suppress his identity. Small wonder. This fellow not only told all but did all. He had a lifelong devotion to the female pudenda. He was a mountaineer of the mons Veneris. Why? Well, because it was there. No rational or speculative explanation can serve otherwise to explain his enormous obsession. His book illustrates the Hegelian principle that quantity becomes quality. Art emerges from arithmetic: it could have been written by a computer fed to repletion by a sex-crazed programmer...
...soured somewhat. He wrote his memoirs in plain cantankerous English; there was less Irish charm and more Irish temper. To begin with, Dunne felt ill at ease writing about himself without Mr. Dooley as a shield: "Disrobing in public is not to my taste. There are intellectual and spiritual pudenda as well as physical. The more clothes I put on, the better I look. I plead guilty to preferring port and Montaigne to gin and Joyce or creme de cacao and André Gide...