Word: quies
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During football season sophomore fall, I started to write honkers like: "The fourth quarter [against Columbia] degenerated into a `qui es mui macho' contest over which team could shoot itself in the foot with the bigger gun." Or: "The first three Cornell scores were virtual gifts from St. Restic and his 45 reindeer." Suffice it to say these statements didn't play well in Mather, Currier and Kirkland (Where Intelligence Is Just Another Big Word) Houses...
Albert, who becomes Catherine's lover while Jim is visiting Jules and Catherine, writes her a song which discusses her "visage de femme fatale qui m'fut fatale," the face of a femme fatale who was fatal to him. And Albert is the one who describes the statue which Catherine resembles, "the lips are very beautiful...a little disdainful. The eyes are very fine too." Jules says that Catherine is "neither particularly beautiful, nor intelligent, nor sincere, but she is a real woman...and she is a woman we love...and whom all men desire...
Imagine my surprise when I innocently picked up Wednesday's Crimson--only to find that queer folk such as moi-mem (and how better to show off my own queerly piquant style than to do it in French?) "undermine civilization." Qui, moi? Responsible for the decline and fall of civilizations from east to west and back again? My, my, but I have been a busy, busy girl. All that time I was supposed to be off writing my too-too fabulous dissertation, I was actually fiddling while Rome burned. I obviously do not have my priorities, er, straight. Calgon, take...
...wild ride in a Paris taxi can be an electrifying experience. Soon, it may prove to be even more shocking. Cabbies, alarmed by a recent wave of attacks by passengers, are eyeing a device called le siege qui brule, the hot seat. Wires beneath the rear seats are connected to the taxi's battery. The driver can step on a pedal to deliver enough electricity to stun even a crazed gunman...
...much as dey next jeune homme, and I t'ink I can spot dey gen'win article. (And sans doute, dey gen'win article can spot me! . . all mes freres Cay-johns reading dis story, shakin' yo' head, sayin', "C'est qui, cet imposteur?") So I go to dis Border Cafe, take a coupla friends, and I wait in line, you know, ha'f hour or so, and lemme tell you what I eat, and how it taste...