Word: wildernesses
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...Americans will be neither out of place nor outclassed this year, even if we will not see Eric Heiden wearing his five gold medals like a Titan's necklace, or pumping his arms in the golden suit that appeared welded to his body. Not that his outfit was wilder than anyone else's in this ice capade: goggle-eyed skiers in interplanetary helmets, figure skaters sprayed with sequins spinning in electric blues, the brash colors seeming to make a protest against the frozen season...
...innkeeper, whose name was Lyle Wolf, was from Los Angeles. One of a growing number of novices in the trade, he had allowed romanticism to overtake him a couple of years ago, chased the ghost of Thornton Wilder across the continent, and set himself up as a country squire, the possessor of a first-edition mortgage-Bob Newhart with a plumber's helper. His wife's name was Barbara, and Barbara was saying, over wine, that she had a relative hurt in a Corvair...
Whether forlornly ruminating on Alec Wilder's I'll Be Around, with a lonely piano and solitary celeste offering gentle support, or swinging easy with Cole Porter's Just One of Those Things against a background of burbling saxophones, or punching out Jule Styne and Sammy Cahn's Five Minutes More in front of some antiphonal spitfire trumpets that would have made Gabrieli gladly forsake San Marco for the recording studio, Sinatra is a master of mood and vocal nuance. He can ornament a line, subtly altering its rhythm, or bend just a single note...
Virginia Woolf celebrated Mme. de Sévigné in a lyrical essay: "This great lady, this robust and fertile letter writer, who in our age would probably have been one of the great novelists ..." Thornton Wilder sketched an invidious portrait of the 17th century French author in The Bridge of San Luis Rey; the poet Alphonse Lamartine called her the Petrarch of French prose; Proust compared her art to Dostoyevsky...
...elite meet to gyrate to the beat, gape and be gaped at. Owner Steve Rubell, who light-show years away was a Wall Street broker, stations himself at the doorway (with a few bouncers) to weed the throngs begging for entrance. "We only want fun people," he explains. "The wilder the clothes, the better the chance you have of getting in. We discourage the Bagel Nosh-polyester group." And a lot of other folks besides. John F. Kennedy Jr., who neglected to drop his name, was turned away. Even Dallas Cowboy Defensive End Harvey Martin, the terror of the Super...