Word: flatted
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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...back in his accustomed London haunts, primly pacing his familiar round. His day began at 8 a.m. At noon, after a man-sized breakfast of tea, porridge, bacon & eggs, he set out for his place of business, the publishing firm of Faber & Faber, in Bloomsbury. He left his flat in Cheyne Walk, Chelsea (Expatriate Henry James used to live in the flat just below), wearing an impeccable dark blue suit and carrying a tightly rolled umbrella, walked one block to the No, 49 bus stop. When the bus came, he mounted to the upper deck, unfolded his London Times...
...dance on Golder's Green / With Cardinal Bessarion"). In addition to chronicling the doings of King Bolo, he contributed romantic verse to the Harvard Advocate. After Harvard, Eliot went to study in Paris for a year ("on the old man's money"), and in a Left Bank flat wrote his first significant poem. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, the portrait of an aging man reviewing a life frittered away between timid hopes and lost opportunities...
Polyphiloprogenitive. The war only slightly disrupted Eliot's ordered and somewhat lonely life. His wife, who had been in a nursing home since 1930, died three years ago. Since the war, Eliot has shared a flat in artistic Chelsea with his good friend, Writer-Critic John Hayward (brilliant, witty Hayward, almost completely paralyzed, manages to get about London in a wheelchair). Eliot has the simple but expensive habits of an English gentleman (although English gentlemen usually consider him a typically American gentleman). He dresses well, likes claret and good cheese. As a church warden at St. Stephen...
...Music seems to be a stimulus to other modes of expression: the walls of the listening rooms have all developed severe cases of pornographic murals. One need only hear the cellar in full session,--the notes from five different phonographs and as many pianos, all loud and sounding rather flat after seeping through the soundproofing--to be convinced that music has become a vital local...
...came as a shock. Imdahl would rather write novels, he says, "but I'm so much at a loss for words that I find even simple conversation painful. I want to compose songs, but how to do so is beyond me. So I paint." His Man was a flat, featureless, lemon-yellow figure with a broken-looking neck, suspended against a pitch-black background. It could well symbolize the state of art in Germany...