ellauri051.html on line 1378: 778 Pleas'd with the earnest words of the sweating Methodist preacher, impress'd seriously at the camp-meeting; 778 Tyytyväinen hikoilevan metodistisaarnaajan vakavista sanoista, tehnyt vakavan vaikutuksen leirikokouksessa;
ellauri051.html on line 1682: 1073 Many sweating, ploughing, thrashing, and then the chaff for payment receiving, 1073 Monet hikoilevat, kyntävät, puskevat ja sitten akanat maksun vastaanottamiseksi,
ellauri072.html on line 508: Infinite Jest is not the only thing that made Wallu famous, though. There was also his bandanna, which was as misinterpreted as so much else about him. As the Max biography explains, Wallace started wearing the bandanna as the least embarrassing solution he could think of to obscure the intense sweating attacks that overcame him without warning. (In high school, he had taken to carrying around a tennis racket and a towel as a tacit cover story for the sweating.) The acutely self-conscious, anxious, addicted and at times showy characters in Wallace’s fiction were not, Max helps us recognize, wildly difficult for Wallace to imagine — the characters were iterations of himself.
ellauri196.html on line 277: sweating in the sun hikoillen auringossa
ellauri222.html on line 837: British critics tend to regard the American predilection for Big Novels as a vulgar neurosis — like the American predilection for big cars or big hamburgers. Oh God, we think: here comes another sweating, free-dreaming maniac with another thousand-pager; here comes another Big Mac. First, Dos Passos produced the Great American Novel; now they all want one. Yet in a sense every ambitious American novelist is genuinely trying to write a novel called USA. Perhaps this isn’t just a foible; perhaps it is an inescapable response to America – twentieth-century America, racially mixed and mobile, twenty-four hour, endless, extreme, superabundantly various. American novels are big all right, but partly because America is big too. You need plenty of nerve, ink and energy to do justice to the place, and no one has made greater efforts than Saul Bellow. In 1976 Bellow was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature, praised by the Swedes ‘for human understanding and subtle analysis of contemporary culture’. Many times in Bellow’s novels we are reminded that ‘being human’ isn’t the automatic condition of every human being. Like freedom or sanity, it is not a given but a gift, a talent, an accomplishment, an objective. The busiest sections of the Chicago bookstores, I noticed, were those marked ‘Personal Growth’.
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