Word: twilit
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...stamp on Jack is visible yet. If Scioto Pro Jack Grout taught Nicklaus how to play, and Nicklaus taught himself how to win, Charlie taught Jack how to lose. Since his unexpected fourth U.S. Open and fifth P.G.A. victories at the age of 40, Nicklaus has spent six mostly twilit years displaying an unerring grace (everywhere but on the greens) that brought him to the last round of his 28th Masters four strokes and eight players behind...
...instance, two majestic Satsuma-ware sake flasks, with a glaze the color and texture of old, cracked ivory, adorned with faint blue landscape paintings by Tangen, whose ghostly suggestiveness, mere scribbles wreathing out of the whiteness as though through fog, is exactly like Whistler's own images of twilit landscape...
...after lights-out? Dreams, of course. Few black-and-white drawings have caught their incongruous logic as well as The Garden of Abdul Gasazi (Houghton Mifflin; $8.95). A suburban boy takes a nap on a magical couch. When he rises, he finds himself in a twilit garden, owned by an ominous wizard in a fez. Nothing is quite the same, not even his pet. The fat man's hobby: turning pet dogs into ducks. Long after the spell ends, an eerie residue remains, like a dream that persists in the waking world. Chris Van Allsburg's narrative leans...
...behind steel-rimmed glasses. But when he described himself, there was no mistaking the original style of the most literate, widely traveled humorist of his time: "Button-cute, rapier-keen, wafer-thin and pauper-poor is S.J. Perelman, whose tall, stooping figure is better known to the twilit half-world of five continents than to Publishers' Row. That he possesses the power to become invisible to finance companies; that his laboratory is tooled up to manufacture Frankenstein-type monsters on an incredible scale; and that he owns one of the rare mouths in which butter has never melted...
Such are the elected handicaps of Do You Turn Somersaults?, which began a five-week run at Washington's Kennedy Center last week. The old parties who fret, fuss, fumble and fudge their way into twilit romance are Anthony Quayle and Mary Martin. But the play is nonetheless an event, for this is Mary's first appearance on the stage since I Do! I Do! almost ten years ago. Surely she deserves the rose-colored badge of courage, if nothing else, for choosing this comeback vehicle-a fragile work that could expire of its own sweetness without...