Word: veined
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...eastward side of his countenance bears a less benevolent aspect, a grim eye watches Japan, and he asserts, "If Japan ventures to attack the Mongolian Republic . . . . we have to be able to help that republic." And so it goes. The Russians bluster and the Japanese cat fire, in a vein ridiculously similar to boastful statements from pugilistic training camps...
Like Thomas Wolfe (Look Homeward, Angel; Of Time and the River), Saroyan writes about himself, but in a more Whitmanesque vein: he is large, he contains multitudes. Touted as a short-story writer, mostly because his "stones" are written in prose, he seldom sets down a formal narrative. Most of his "stories" are poetic shouts-no less lyrical for being written in street-language with many a cuss word-swelling the chorus of a "Song of Myself." It might almost have been Saroyan who wrote...
...Slalom" must be a rare treat for the devotees of snow and ice, for besides being entirely in a sympathetic vein, it shows how the feats of splendid grace are performed by experts. For the rest of humanity this unique film is vicarious participation in the breathless and apparently effortless antics of winter athletes, without involving any of the chills and spills, but at the same time giving a most generous sample in comparison with the measly glimpses of the news reels...
...architect set a glass-smashing example with his cane to other Royalists, who soon broke the car's lamps and windshield.* Someone tore off the rear license plate and dashed it through a window at M. Blum, the splintered glass cutting his neck to the jugular vein. Dragging the Socialist Leader out bleeding and gasping, the young Royalists seemed about to do their worst when four Paris policemen shouldered through the throng to restore order. They carried Leon Blum to the nearby headquarters of the Catholic Women's League, where improvised bandages were wrapped around his neck...
From the point of view of vitality, Ben Hecht's stories are only mildly, Kay Boyle's bitterly, alive. A theatrical, rococo writer, Showman Hecht spreads hokum and verbiage with a lavish hand. Most effective in this swollen vein when he writes about the greasepaint dramatics of Broadway or the alcoholic hilarities of fabulous newshawks, at his middling worst he seems a dim shadow of O. Henry or Edgar Allan Poe. Best story in the book (Snowfall in Childhood) stands out like Shirley Temple on the stage of the Grand Guignol: a simply written reminiscence of first love...