Word: sagas
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...terrible story. Many embraced it. They even luxuriated in the outrage of it. The saga was extravagantly awful. Brawley is black and at the time of her disappearance was 15 years old. The old story: strange fruit hanging from a poplar tree, the night riders in sheets come North now. Was hers not the primal American tale of violated black innocence, of white bigotry that wears a badge and goes unpunished? Did it not reverberate with all the horrors of America's original sin? Did it not recapitulate, precisely, the original drama of abduction and violation that brought black Africans...
Never mind that many versions of this saga contradicted one another and the facts of the matter; they were invariably pithy and memorable. Donaldson's determination to set the record straight leads him to a repudiation of Cheever's freewheeling manner. Cliches seem to certify sober, scholarly research: "Life was not all fun and games, however" . . . "The New Yorker's taste was genteel, and as time wore on Cheever wrote about everything under the sun" . . . "Fred was the apple of his father...
That is precisely the sort of song -- raw and nasty, full of bluff brimstone -- that never made it into the carnal candy land evoked by the 1987 movie Dirty Dancing. The shrewdly calculated saga of a girl's coming of age in 1963, the film Dirty Dancing is responsible more than anything else for this new slew of what might be called pube rock. The movie was so perfect a young teen dream, it became almost poignant. You had to see it to believe it, and many did. Dirty Dancing pulled in $65 million at the box office...
...saga of T.K. the handicapper began when she was the trainer for women's soccer. "It started when [former soccer player] Kelly Landry would ask me how we were going to do," T.K. says. "Then I'd look at the stats. After the second year, I started making prediction scores. I just went on from there...
...Bingham saga spans several generations, but Barry Sr. and his wife dominate the pages. Mary, a Southern girl poor in finances but rich in snobbish pretense, met Barry when they were students at Radcliffe and Harvard. She saw in him the perfect Kentucky gentleman who could make her dreams of genteel grandeur come true. "Like Barry," Brenner writes, "she . . . had grown up with the same hard lessons of vanquished pride, the specter of Civil War memorials, geriatric veterans invited for Sunday dinner, and the endless parades of cripples . . . celebrating another battle of the Lost Cause...