Word: reader
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...hectares of jewels and velvet, observing Marie, attended by nymphs, monsters, peacocks, courtiers, gods, satyrs and angels, as she makes a near mythological progress from a shaky Italian girlhood to the role of Queen Regent for Louis XIII. This huge book-the year's most fabulous-acquaints the reader with the history and shows off the art far better than any number of visits to the Louvre...
Micro-Art by Lewis R. Wolberg, 291 pages. Abrams. $25. A first-class attempt to prove visually that less is more. Photographer Wolberg offers a short history of microscopes, then dazzles the reader's retina with 220 amazing photographic enlargements of everything from the female sex organs of moss (blown up 300 times), to a virus (160,000 times its actual size) that greatly resembles an archipelago. The colors and textures are gorgeous, but at the price, they are a costly pleasure...
Sheriff Tawes (Gregory Peck) is a righteous, brooding Tennessean overtaken by the sterility of his existence. His unattractive daughter asks him inane riddles at the supper table, his wife (Estelle Parsons) quotes marriage advice from the Reader's Digest and his senile father jabbers from the porch swing. When the sheriff questions a young mountain girl named Alma McCain (Tuesday Weld) about a traffic violation, he sees her as a chance-perhaps his last -for freedom, rebellion, sexual gratification, maybe even love. Alma's father (Ralph Meeker) sees a chance for something too: protection for his illegal moonshine...
Built into the very timber and structure, the energy and bravura of the sixties' new journalism, there has always been such cultural one-up-man ship. As readers of Esquire and New York, we might not be all that very different from the type of personalities we read about, but just the plain and simple fact of the situation, that a writer should be guiding us through a critical evaluation- however obliquely that criticism might be made- seemed to suggest our own superiority. It certainly contributed to our self-consciousness. And as long as we were conscious of our foibles...
...acts of brutality and the psychology of the armed forces which primes our soldiers for them. Reading this book is like taking a ride in a spin-dry Laundromat filled with blood. Approximately one-fourth of the way into the book, there remains nothing for the most naive reader to discover, and the same events keep repeating themselves in wave after inexorable wave of nausea. After a cycle or two of these atrocities, all the blood has spun right out of the reader's head, the events lose all their reality, and all that's left is a grey blur...