Word: readers
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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...prominence clinging to champagne bottles, beer kegs, brandy snifters and, of course, fifths of Irish. In the process they have broken almost every advertising rule in the book. Their ads are casually illustrated, almost never done in color, and they can pussyfoot around a subject so quietly that the reader sometimes has trouble telling what the ad is about. What they do have is fun, an aged-in-the-wood humor that tickles readers and rings up billings of $1,000,000 a year from clients who give them some 20% of the gross, compared to the usual agency...
...long before the reader is benumbed and desperate, like a man trapped at a cocktail party by a character who insists on reciting everything he knows about textile mills, adultery and elephant hunting...
...boredom of suburban marriages. He is perhaps at his best writing about bars, which he does with all the poignancy of Dickens describing Christmas dinner at the Cratch-its'. But when Price's comeuppance arrives-wine, women and the SEC have made him a pauper-the reader finds it hard to believe that the man is truly shattered. This may be because an ex-wife gallantly bails him out with a $1,000,000 gift. At book's end, Craig broods, in italics: "How very rich he'd be if he owned anything except the million...
There is no doubt that Casanova's Memoirs ranks with the great literary confessions, notably Rousseau's and Cellini's. The trouble with confessions is that the author, no matter how detached in manner, implicitly pleads for the reader's understanding. Somehow neither 20th century sociology, which might remark on the extraordinary tolerance of Casanova's era, nor 20th century psychology, which might speculate about the libertine's compulsion "to prove something," really equips the reader to understand Casanova...
...Doctor Zhivago has already shown, the sense of life in Pasternak is heightened by the flashing vigor of his imagery; sometimes he welds disparate images to startle the reader into a rebirth of wonder. At the first patter of a summer drizzle, "dust swallowed up the pills of raindrops." In an offshore storm, "skies crouch lower/ Flying downward/ Steep/ Sea slopes/ And finger the deep/ With wings of clamorous gulls...