Word: thin
(lookup in dictionary)
(lookup stats)
Dates: during 1970-1979
Sort By: most recent first
(reverse)
...average. The chill will descend as far south as Florida. A moderate winter is predicted for the rest of the country-but folkloric weathermen in the Midwest cite a number of telltale signs that point in the opposite direction: bears are fat and getting fatter, woolly bears (caterpillars) have thin brown bands across their middles and are moving fast, bushy-tailed squirrels are laying in extra supplies of acorns, bark on trees is extra thick. Onions are sporting thick skins, and everyone knows: "Onion skins very tough, winter's going to be very rough." Both the Almanac...
...Thin is in, right? And sexier besides. Well, not according to Anthropologist Anne Scott Beller. In her new book, Fat & Thin-A Natural History of Obesity (Farrar, Straus & Giroux; $10), Beller argues that fat women are not only cuddly, loving, jovial sorts, but more sexy too. She cites studies showing that endomorphic lasses are more responsive to erotic stimulation and have greater sexual appetites. In one survey conducted in a Chicago hospital, "fat women outscored their thin sisters by a factor of almost two to one," in terms of excitability. Only our culture's notion that fat is "morally...
...work held so long and so power fully in the writer's imagination that it overwhelms the reader. Like Tolkien's other books, The Silmarillion presents a doomed but heroic view of creation that may be one of the reasons why a generation growing up on the thin gruel of tele vision drama, and the beardless cynicism of Mad magazine, first found J.R.R. Tol kien so rich and wonderful. Says proud Fëanor, explaining why he will not give up to the Valar the jewels he worked so hard to craft: "For the less even...
...good guys don't want his germs in their apple pie and there's only a seat in the church pew if you've had a bath in the last week. And he tries to light a joint; fourth time defeats the wind and the drizzle. The match illuminates thin, brittle wrists, hollow brown face, crows-feet that are a mockery on this head with eyes that could be 15 or 50, skin drawn tight, and always he's hearing noises that aren't there, following shadows, running scared even when he's sitting down...
Author James D. Atwater, a TIME associate editor who has lived in London and patrolled with bomb-disposal units in Belfast, has shadowed this gritty, convincing thriller in shades of gray. He knows the variegated forms of middle age, of working-class London, of fear: "A thin spiral of smoke was curling up from one corner of the top. He could smell the almond scent. 'You son of a bitch,' said Thomas, looking straight down into the box . . . The hour hand was nearly touching the nipple of metal." Atwater's stage machinery creaks a bit as Thomas...