Word: somehows
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...wonder if colonization might somehow be magical. After all, Miles Davis is the direct descendant of slaves and slave owners. Hank Williams is the direct descendant of poor whites and poorer Indians. In 1876 Emily Dickinson was writing her poems in an Amherst attic while Crazy Horse was killing Custer on the banks of the Little Big Horn. I remain stunned by these contradictions, by the successive generations of social, political and artistic mutations that can be so beautiful and painful. How did we get from there to here? This country somehow gave life to Maria Tallchief and Ted Bundy...
After 1954, whenever I heard the pledge recited (in the ritual stream-of-consciousness way that one says, "ThirtydayshathSeptemberAprilJuneandNovembe ralltheresthavethirtyone"), it sounded somehow tampered with and wrong. The original version had been grooved into my brain. I mistrusted the addition of under God first of all on unconscious aesthetic grounds. The new phrase, set off by tendentious commas, was a hiccup in the flow of the drone, the mumbled civic music, the school kids' om. Even as a callow youth, I sensed that someone had intruded an alien and politicized bromide into the pledge. Again, the adjacent word indivisible banged...
...father wrote us every single day, each one of us. Every day for three years, he wrote us a letter. If you go back and look at the letters, they were distant. There was no familial kind of sense to them. But there was an obligation to somehow remind us that there was somebody back home that was thinking about...
...very existence of Sounds of the River (Harper Collins; 307 pages), the U.S.-based author's second memoir in his adopted tongue, assures us that despite the odds against him, this callow country bumpkin will somehow make good in the big city. The book is comprised of a series of colorful vignettes that chronicle Chen's seven-year odyssey from the humiliation of his arrival on campus to the hard-won triumph of securing permission to study in America. Shuttling his narrative between Beijing and Yellow Stone, his home in the Fujianese countryside, Chen recounts his often-awkward coming...
...century after the end of the empire, something of McCluskieganj survives. In 1998, after an absence of 33 years, Hourigan returned from Australia to the family home with her ailing husband. "My late husband said: 'I was born here and I want to die here,'" she explains. "And somehow I'm just more comfortable here now." The weeds, say the settlers, are yet to choke the ideal of a gently segregationist shelter on which McCluskieganj was built. "This was my mother's house," says Kitty Teixeire. "How can I leave...