Word: reader
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...grassy dune in Malibu, dressed in blue jeans and a red-and-white checked shirt that bring to mind a picture of Marilyn Monroe. There's Monica in a smoky black dress and Monica in a full-throated laugh. And there's Monica making eyes at the reader from behind a raft of pink feathers channeling the fan dancer Sally Rand--a young woman teasing the world with the prospect that one of these days, she's gonna let it all show...
There always has been. The daughter of a primal-scream therapist who became a lawyer and a fashion model and real estate agent who raised four kids, Ricci was a devoted reader of C.S. Lewis' The Chronicles of Narnia. She has conflicting memories of her young self. "I was the good child," she says, "always well behaved. Even if I wanted to kill someone." She also says, "I was an evil child--well, misguided. I just felt school was never going to end, that there was a weird smell in the classroom I was going to have to smell...
...most of the narrative techniques found in 19th century fiction. Ulysses has no discernible plot, no series of obstacles that a hero or heroine must surmount on the way to a happy ending. The book offers no all-knowing narrator, a la Dickens or Tolstoy, to guide the reader--describe the characters and settings, provide background information, summarize events and explain, from time to time, the story's moral significance...
...busy, or too creative to read as much as he does." "The juice of the past" isn't a bad description of the lifeblood of The Waste Land; but it was a past so disarranged--with the Buddha next to St. Augustine, and Ovid next to Wagner--that a reader felt thrust into a time machine of disorienting simultaneity. And the poem had an unsettling habit of saying, out of the blue, "Oed' und leer das Meer," or something even more peculiar. It ended, in fact, with a cascade of lines in different languages--English, Italian, Latin, French, Sanskrit. Still...
...Brando, that heartbreakingly beautiful champion of the Stanislavskian revolution in acting, never arrived at Hamlet. Never even came close. He would go on to give us a few great things, and a few near great things, but eventually he would abandon himself, as every tabloid reader knows, to suet and sulks, self-loathing and self-parody. The greatness of few major cultural figures of our century rests on such a spindly foundation. No figure of his influence has so precariously balanced a handful of unforgettable achievements against a brimming barrelful of embarrassments...