Word: wastebasketed
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MacArthur Park in downtown Los Angeles is a wastebasket for crumpled lives. On its grimy benches and littered walks gather the old, the warped, the baffled, the embittered, the workless, aimless flotsam of a great city. A faded woman in an antiquated ball dress and long black gloves glides along, clutching a parasol. Two fat, coarse-faced girls stroll hand in hand. An old man sits limp and vacant-eyed, numbed by the weight of his loneliness...
...practicing, he wandered about the Stanford campus, signing autographs for hordes of young admirers and startling passers-by with sudden, gazelle-like leaps into the air. The night before he was to compete, Brumel sat in the Stem Hall lounge, feet propped up on an overturned wastebasket, watching Gunsmoke. Behind him. other Russians were learning the twist to a loud-blaring phonograph. Mildly annoyed, Brumel stood up, walked around his overstuffed armchair to the phonograph, and turned the volume down. Then he leaped clear over the chair, landed on his feet, and sank back with a satisfied smile. Commented...
...interested in such ephemeral subjects as the adulteries of dentists"-and three of them, entitled Infancy, Childhood and Someone from Assisi, would open off Broadway next month. As for the remaining eleven, said Wilder, "some are on the stove, some are in the oven, and some are in the wastebasket." When all 14 were finally fully baked, then what? "After I complete these plays," declared the three-time Pulitzer prizewinner, "I'm retiring from life...
...From the Wastebasket. Sometimes in passages, sometimes in no more than a phrase, the book contains the entire Lowry life and legend. He was the rebel son of a prosperous English cotton-broker father, and he shipped to the Far East as a deck hand at 17 after reading O'Neill's Moon of the Caribbees. The publisher lost the sea novel, Ultramarine, that Lowry wrote about his voyage, and Lowry rewrote the book from notes fished out of a Cambridge roommate's wastebasket. After graduating with honors in English, he drifted to Hollywood, New York...
...painstaking worker ("The first instrument is the wastebasket"), Varèse creates his "organized sound" in a studio in Greenwich Village surrounded by the tools of his trade: gongs, sirens, whistles, drums. He is convinced that electronic music is clearly the music of the future, but he does not expect it to make more conventional composition obsolete ("Just because there are other ways of getting there, you do not kill the horse"). Still living modestly ("I am not an expensive animal"), he is as rigidly indifferent to the reactions of the public as he ever was. "My privilege," says Edgard...