Word: riche
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Dates: during 1980-1989
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Feltsman falls between extremes. An angular, bearded man with the suffering face of a symbolist poet, he communes with the keyboard, not with the audience. His technique is solid but not especially flashy, his tone rich but not warm. Like many Soviets, Feltsman has some residual romantic mannerisms, such as a rhythmic stutter step in phrasing that in the early 19th century would have been viewed as a genuine rubato (literally, robbing the time value of one note and adding it to another) but is today decried as distortion...
...women as well as men, inverting the victim and the criminal in domestic violence. Says Charlotte Fedders: "There are women who are taught that marriage is forever, who feel guilty when they are beated and think it's their fault because this doesn't happen to good people or rich people or successful people." Battered wives with low self-esteem who are given the impression that they bear some responsibility for their own beatings are not likely to file charges or leave their husbands. And then wife-beating will remain one of the most common unreported crimes...
...imbalance between the rich and the poor in the United States is on the rise, said Piven. "Not only is the middle[class] shrinking, but the poverty level is up," she added...
Tama Janowitz's A Cannibal in Manhattan surely will rank at year's end as the singularly most annoying book of 1987. Janowitz somehow has failed to make an amusing tale out of the clever premise of a marriage between a purple-skinned polygamist and a rich Manhattan heiress. Her story of a reformed cannibal, Mgungu Yabba Mgungu, a native of the South Pacific island of New Burnt Norton, who visits New York City and finds a wife is pretentious, irritating and--worst of all--just plain boring to read...
Before he gets there, though, the cannibal does drugs and enters analysis. Give Janowitz some credit, though. She has collected in hardcover perhaps every hackneyed cliche ever made about the idle rich. A literary phenomenon created by the same chic Manhattanites she ineptly tries to parody, Janowitz doesn't seem the least bit aware of the element of self-parody in her novel. But, then again, anyone who could agree to appear in those liquor advertisements with Arthur Schlesinger that run in The New Yorker probably wouldn...