Word: brushed
(lookup in dictionary)
(lookup stats)
Dates: all
Sort By: most recent first
(reverse)
They moved ahead cautiously in the gloom, and stopped, moved and stopped again. Ahead, a staff sergeant named Stanley Main crouched, groping gently for the trip wires of Chinese mines. He rose, went on, crouched again. Finally the paddies were behind. The ground rose. Trails thinned out. Brush materialized in the darkness. Then, ahead, dim against the glow of the sickly crescent moon, Sergeant Main made out the ridge he was seeking. Nine Marines fanned quietly out to establish a base of fire. Main, a second sergeant with a submachine-gun and two riflemen circled with infinite caution toward...
...Marines sprayed the summit with automatic-carbine fire. Chinese on the ridge replied with burp guns. Amid the brush of the slope, Marines tumbled the bulky, bleeding form of the wounded sergeant on to a poncho and labored off in the darkness, a man hauling at each corner of the improvised litter. Bright, raucous mortar bursts followed along behind them. The bursts were short and above the din they heard a cheering sound-two alarmed Chinese patrols back on the ridge were busily trying to kill each other. The Marines reached their own lines safely by dawn...
JACKSON POLLOCK, who once flirted with form in his abstract paintings, then rejected it for pure drippings from a paint can, now seems to be swinging slowly back to brush & palette art. In five of his 14 new canvases there are signs of brush work, and in four of them there is a bow to form: a writhing, half-kneeling woman, a grotesque head, a suggestion of an animal. The rest is mostly recognizable Pollock: rich blots and dribbles of free-running color...
...girl was coming in from Smith, his tuxedo was in shape, his tickets were high on the forty. But when he tried to find a place for her to stay, he came to grief. At hotels and tourist homes in Boston and around the Square, he either got brush-offs or exorbitant prices. When the hour of her arrival at South Station found him with nothing better for her than a park bench, Pumley was thinking seriously of the Bridge...
Playwright Rattigan is not such a hack as to brush aside the serious point of his story; rather, he responds just enough to betray it. Far more theater man than playwright, he has a way, whether with a scene's falling apart or a character's fate, of being saved by the bell - by someone on the phone or someone at the door. He seems less to chronicle suffering than to exploit it. But he respects the rules, he scrupulously obeys the sign reading No Unhappiness Permitted After 10:45 p.m., even if it entails the most false...