Word: lucklessly
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JOHN CLELAND was a luckless little hack who in 1748, destitute and desperate, scribbled Fanny Hill or Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure for a flat fee of 20 guineas. He went on to become an inept philologist, ducked creditors much of his life, and died aged and unsung. If the poor fellow were only alive today, he could be a Big Writer, for critics on both sides of the Atlantic have acclaimed his ability to describe repetitive fornication with elegance and grace. He could wear hand-sewn Italian loafers, sell his still unwritten books to the paperbacks...
...called together Britain's first Parliament 700 years before almost to the day. In its long history the hall had seen prodigies, from the Court of William Rufus in 1099 to the trials of Guy Fawkes and his companions in the Gunpowder Plot, and to the condemnation of luckless Charles...
...device that knits the evening together is that dramatic vice, a narrator, whose luckless duty is to tell the playgoer why, for the moment at least, there is no play going on. When the actors take over, War and Peace springs to life-life with all its joyous, grievous and profound trivia, its indestructible reality. Children are born, men and women marry or do not marry, father fights with son and son with father, the old die. Peace is love, war is evil. In war, the young die, husband is torn from wife, the round of daily life is violated...
...joined by the green water of the Jumna River. Airplanes circled overhead, and one dived down to shower rose petals. Small craft crowded close as Nehru's tall, handsome grandsons, Rajiv and Sanjay Gandhi, lifted the urn. Thousands waded into the river in a frenzy of mourning-one luckless woman ventured too far, was swept away and drowned...
...quarrel between two men over money, to violence over a pool game. Structurally, "Scratch" is a terrible story. And yet, Goodwin probably has more writing talent than any other contributor to the Lion Rampant. His story begins, The water was named in derision by a generation of luckless farmers: Burnt Crop Creek, because they had watched the stalks of cotton and even of corn wither in the sun, and heard the heavy winds rattle through the hone dry fields like seeds ticking in a gourd. They merely quit the land, leaving that fractious patient stream to reclaim its banks. Another...