Word: fleshless
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...Santa Teresa. Clearly the most narrowly realized of the five sections, Bolaño’s odd-footed parsing of racial and radical politics from New York City has a Kafkaesque absurdity about it (cf. “Amerika”). The world Fate inhabits is awkwardly fleshless, but the details he chooses can illuminate whole parallel universes; “[T]he Mohammedan Brotherhood caught his attention because they were marching under a big poster of Osama bin Laden. They were all black and they were all wearing black leather jackets and black berets and sunglasses, which gave...
...people were ferocious warriors and enthusiastic gatherers and keepers of heads, which held special significance for them. According to French anthropologist Nicolas Garnier, who has spent lengthy periods living among the tribes, the head was a sacred trophy. Some time after a dead ancestor had been buried, the now-fleshless skull would be exhumed. A relative, guided by apparitions of the dead person, would then overmodel the original features onto the bones...
...Cluchette was characterized by the same blend of drama and inconsistency that was later to mark the reports on Attica. According to the reports, when a guard discovered the dead body of John Mills, who allegedly had been beaten with his own flashlight until his face was partially fleshless and then dropped from a three-flight catwalk, he also found a note lying beside the battered corpse. The note read: "One down...
...absolved by it, clears her poetry of much of the bitterness her suicide read into it, and allows the poetry an inkling of self-love in all the self-hatred. It means that it is no longer possible not to read her anymore, especially her last and most fleshless skeletons, now that there is the slender reed of her self-love to sustain the reader. Her last poems. "Daddy," "Edge," and "Words," are her best. English publishers found them so unbearably confessional that for a long time these last poems found no outlet. She did not intend these...
...tosses in nightmare; waves swill against his mattress, accusing figures and monsters jostle in the water, and a gigantic buttoned glove flops like a squid against the bedroom wall. A skeleton lies across a railroad track, two bony ringers stuck between fleshless lips to whistle an approaching train to its accident. Cliffs become gloomy torsos, a lobster floats in air. The images seem like snippets from a surrealist collage by Max Ernst. In fact, they filled the graphic work of a 19th century German academician named Max Klinger...