Word: wrappers
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...publisher to see that the sky would not fall and mothers would not march if he published bare bosoms; he realized that the old taboos were going, that, so to speak, the empress need wear no clothes. He took the oldfashioned, shame-thumbed girlie magazine, stripped off the plain wrapper, added gloss, class and culture. It proved to be a surefire formula, which more sophisticated and experienced competitors somehow had never dared contemplate...
...series of implausible events leads to the bedroom of a 17-year-old seductress with a powerful allure: the unpublished novel of an obscure ecclesiastical essayist. Adam prefers the manuscript to the girl, who presents herself to him unexpurgated and not even in a plain wrapper. It should be a funny scene, but, like most of the situations, it flags quickly...
...haute couture country, and begins the long, long slide into ready-to-wear. In Europe, she picks up a fur-trimmed coat and a concert pianist. Her hair loses its luster, her complexion fades to the color of driftwood, and ultimately she lands in Mexico wearing a filthy flowered wrapper and carousing with Burgess Meredith, a blackmailer. After she shoots him for threatening to reveal her identity and spoil the Governor's bid for the White House, she plays her big courtroom scene, helped along by her son (Keir Dullea), now a clear-eyed young defense attorney. He never...
Over half of the Harvard and Kleist collections are from England, where the book-jacket first emerged from its lowly dust-wrapper status. Originally used by London booksellers to keep their wares free from fog and grime, the book-jacket underwent a crucial metamorphosis when Lewis Carroll's The Hunting of the Snark came out in 1876. Snark's humble grey wrapper shouted critical praise for the two Alice books. As the first known jacket to carry advertisements, it was the ancestor of the modern commercial jacket. The English publisher who pioneered designs for fiction jackets was T. Fisher Unwin...
...Certain Pleasure. The portrait adorns the wrapper of this book, which is the third and presumably final installment in the memoirs of the most relentlessly intellectual and ungrand-motherish woman in France. Simone de Beauvoir has no husband and no children; by design, she has denied herself the rewards, or the burdens, of maternity. The smile is unreal, put on, perhaps, for the photographer; she cannot accept or endure the fact that she is now 57. Her mortality has obsessed her for a generation. "Since 1944, the most important, the most irreparable thing that has happened to me is that...