Word: burrows
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Dates: during 1980-1989
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...Splayed out from both banks are noiseless hollows and stubbly, once-farmed bottoms, all in the shadow of Appalachian mountains, which rise dark and gorgeous in every direction. But to the businessmen who brought the railroad through around 1900, wooded slopes and crags were incidental: the capitalists came to burrow and cart away endless tons of coal, which they're still doing today. The Tug Fork Valley, boosters chime, is THE HEART OF THE BILLION DOLLAR COAL FIELD. But hidden behind that bluff, commercial slogan is a different kind of past-peculiar and unsavory and murderous. This valley...
...Allen of the New York Post says sadly: "There's a tremendous emptiness without baseball. Its absence creates a big void, and nothing, I mean nothing, can replace it." Americans are trying, of course. Former Texas Congressman Bob Casey, an Astros fan, is using his baseball time to burrow into a novel the size of a steamer trunk, Shogun. What are the stats on a samurai? Attorney Jim Murphy, who normally attends about 75% of Houston's home games, has found a peculiar substitute for baseball: opera, an art form that the sport somewhat resembles-at least...
...cleverness" that almost destroyed them before. Riddley's narrative generates a different kind of suspense: the fascination of watching a strange world evolve out of unfamiliar words. Impoverished as it is Riddley's language can still generate unexpected riches. People in trouble are "living on burrow time." Two of the sciences that the nuclear "barms" wiped out are "chemistery and fizzics." When a person is trying to think amid too much noise he complains of "inner fearents." Riddley sometimes rises to alliterative poetry. He describes the rain "spattering on crumbelt conkreat and bustit birk and durdling...
...least one lesbian lover and numerous friends. Colette devoted her talent to her writing; her genius was reserved for friendships. "I should have long since given myself the pleasure of writing to you about your new book," she told Proust. "If I were to tell you that I burrow in its pages every night before going to sleep, you would think I was merely offering you a hollow compliment. But the fact is, [my husband] gets into bed every night to find me, your book, and my glasses. 'I am jealous but resigned,' he says...