Word: small-town
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...juxtaposition of the two seems awkward, a forced and unnatural union. Sometimes the counter-poise is executed with great finesse, as in the chapter purporting to be his father's obituary. Updike shows his control of style; he is a master of pastiche in his broad caricature of the small-town newspaper...
...many a little town across the U.S., the basic economic resource was the railroad. Competition from trucks has made short-haul, small-load freight uneconomic for railroads, and many small-town stops have been abandoned. The Central of Georgia used to stop at Coffee Springs, Ala., and the town made a living by ginning and shipping cotton. But the railroad ripped out the tracks that ran through Coffee Springs, and today weeds grow in what used to be busy streets. "We're going nowhere," says a longtime Coffee Springs resident. "There's nowhere we want to go." Similarly...
Firemen's Confirmation. A quiet, careful man who runs his small-town practice with no frills (he does not even own a white coat), Dr. Cook is not the type to make a habit of long-distance diagnosis. But of Bob's letter he said: "It was a perfect case history, and a clear message to me." That message was "carbon monoxide poisoning." And 90 miles away, firemen who found a blocked furnace ventilator pipe that was forcing carbon monoxide back into the cottage made the final confirmation of Dr. Cook's diagnosis...
...been the kind young men dream about; six of his books, including two well-received novels (The Poorhouse Fair, and Rabbit, Run) have been published. A third novel, The Centaur, will be issued later this month; it is a complex attempt to combine as parallel themes reminiscence of small-town boyhood with Greek mythology. There is almost no critic who has not praised Updike's crystalline style, his mastery of the distilled phrase. Yet amid the praise there is a growing impatience. Novelist Stacton, who admires Updike's "sense of words," summed it up recently: "I wish...
Jean Seberg, as she was in Breathless, is depressingly effective as a small-town broad abroad, the sort of disinhibited Amie most Frenchmen earnestly implore to go home. Françoise Moreuil, Seberg's ex-husband, shows a pretty flair for direction in his first film. He keeps the story bouncing from pillow to Proust, and he bathes scene after scene in a morning light of such glittering purity that the spectator is simultaneously delighted by the physical beauty and disgusted by the morbid decadence he sees. It's like being served a dead mouse glac...