Word: throb
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...might have lost some luster, its appeal for tourists endures. The main attraction: a cultural m?lange born of the island's location at the nexus of Asia's maritime trading routes. The historic streets of George Town, which is in the running for a UNESCO World Heritage listing, still throb with polyglot vibrancy. Touring the state capital's eclectic mix of Chinese, Victorian and Indian neighborhoods on foot is best, but a trishaw ride is easier on the legs and offers the additional delight of opinionated, if not always entirely intelligible, commentary from the sinewy, wizened drivers...
...three women in Solanka’s life (clearly Solanka is the heart-throb of a short, middle-aged professorial type, having made his way through three tall, beautiful women in the course of a single summer) become avatars of the Eumenides, the ancient Furies, and Solanka’s struggle with each of them in his creative, familial and romantic lives is the meat of the book. Yet the most poignant, underplayed aspect of the book is Solanka’s relationship with his three-year-old son. It is here that the novel exudes the warmth and heart...
...After three hits (the third was Doc Pomus? "Plain Jane"), Darin could have been pegged as a smarter Bronx version of Frankie Avalon and other Philadelphia Italians Clark was promoting; or maybe a less handsome relative of teen throb James Darren. But Bobby had two things they didn?t: a facility for songwriting and the old-fashioned ambition to go legit. The first hint of Darin?s staying power was "Dream Lover," a lovely potpourri of pop modes: the plinking rhythm of "Little Darlin?" (done pizzicato by violins here), the release from "This Little Girl of Mine...
...hatching out under my chin / Now there’s tiny insects showing through / And all them tiny insects look like you.” Along the same musical and topical lines, “Insanely Jealous” starts with an urgent but subdued bass throb, agitated hi-hat and the slender and raw tremolo of a violin. It gradually works into a deliberately guided frenzy of dipping and weaving bass and guitar squall—and, of course, the spit and muttered skewering of love: “But all I hear when they embrace...
Beneath a translucent scalp, the plates of Gertrude Dhlamini's cranium etch a geography of pain. Her illness is obvious in the thin, stretched skin under which veins throb with the shingles that have blinded her left eye and scarred that side of her face. At 39, she looks 70. The agonizing thrush, a kind of fungus, that paralyzed her throat has ebbed enough to enable her to swallow a spoon or two of warm gruel, but most of the nourishment flows away in constant diarrhea. She struggles to keep her hand from scratching restlessly at the scaly rash flushing...