Word: rhythm
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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...eyes lighted on a spider plant which she had brought one day and not bothered to take away when she left. It had proliferated; many little offshoots were now hanging down until they dangled over the radiator." Perceptions noted, then brushed aside, only to return again, create the underlying rhythm of their days, until Marcia's mental backslide brings a sharper focus. Pym charts the courses of these blameless lives, informing them with a wise, rueful compassion that is all too rare in contemporary fiction...
...talks endlessly about teaching, which he misses profoundly. In his new role as a university president, Giamatti feels he has lost "the possibility for completion--the kind of purposeful wandering that teaching is like, in some sense of the word." He goes on to explain: "Classes have a rhythm, the semester has a rhythm. A piece of work has a rhythm; and in this particular situation, there is never that sense of completion." He doesn't know why he chose to temporarily abandon Petrarch and Spencer--temporarily because he plans to go back to the classroom as soon...
Against MIT, neither really got their rhythm together on the Engineers' small field, and the entire offensive line seemed to be off a half-beat...
...jump ahead. The story, and in a way the bus ride, started all those twenty years ago, when Elvis mixed black music and white music, added some rhythm he had learned growing up in the Pentecostal church, swiveled his hips, put his heart into it, and started the rock rolling. The story starts before rock'n roll became an American institution, before it splintered into hard rock, bubble gum rock, acid rock, punk rock, jazz-rock, folk-rock, and that most castrated form of rock, if it can be called rock at all--disco. By the time...
...Rote moments, these, mysteryless perhaps in themselves. It is where they lead, and with what fitful truth and deceit, that tantalizes. If, somewhere beneath the blood, the past must beat in me to make a rhythm of survival for itself-to go on as this half-life which echoes as a second pulse inside the ticking moments of my existence-if this is what must be, why is the pattern of remembered instants so uneven, so gapped and rutted and plunging and soaring? I can only believe it is because memory takes its pattern from the earliest moments...