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Word: spitted (lookup in dictionary) (lookup stats)
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...yellow paper, belongs to the night and together they conspire against Boston. They live illicitly, caress each other with streetlamps and shadows and juke box symphonies, the soft sob of loss, the subway shudder and the sigh. Night warms is black limbs by the gutter fires and furnace spit. We should bottle the night, prone and passive, siphon it into leather canteen flasks, take swigs of it while sunning ourselves by the river, savour it after a French loave-lunch, rub it on our arm in lieu of excrement...

Author: By John D. Leonard, | Title: DOWN and OUT in Cambridge | 9/18/1958 | See Source »

...only two to escape when a prison truck cracks up in a ditch. Linked but loathing, they stumble through swampland, nearly drown fording a river, nearly wrench their arms from their sockets clawing out of a deep clay pit. When they pause, it is not to rest but to spit forth their hatred. Telling Poitier why he is a "nigger," Curtis says: "It's like callin' a spade a spade. I'm a hunky. I don't try to argue out of it." Replies Actor Poitier: "You ever hear tell of a bohunk in a woodpile...

Author: /time Magazine | Title: Cinema: The New Pictures, Aug. 25, 1958 | 8/25/1958 | See Source »

...begrudge my loneliness, not my persecution. But you have taken my lyre and broken it, and spit on the dead centuries, and rendered art into pornography. For what it availeth, I can do naught but curse...

Author: By John D. Leonard, | Title: The Cambridge Scene | 7/24/1958 | See Source »

...week found himself all but excommunicated by his erstwhile pals in Peking. Tito, snarled Peking's People's Daily, spoke with "the voice of a traitor," and his criticisms of Communist China (TIME, June 30) were those of "a dwarf kneeling in the mud and trying . . . to spit at a giant standing on a lofty mountain...

Author: /time Magazine | Title: COMMUNISTS: The Road to Serfdom | 7/7/1958 | See Source »

...yellow paper, belongs to the night and together they conspire against Boston. They live illicitly, caress each other with streetlamps and shadows and juke box symphonies, the soft sob of loss, the subway shudder and the sigh. Night warms its black limbs by the gutter fires and furnace spit. We should bottle the night, prone and passive, siphon it into leather canteen flasks, take swigs of it while sunning ourselves by the river, savour it after a French loave-lunch, rub it on our arm in lieu of excrement...

Author: By John D. Leonard, | Title: Down 'n' Out in Cambridge: The Soybean Cult | 6/30/1958 | See Source »

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