This is a story well - fed movie stars and such people love to tell themselves — that they'd leave behind their lives of luxury for a stinking
hovel if it were for love and family.
Not exact matches
Yet, the «instinct,»
if we want to use that word, is of a higher order than mere cravings, which Gopnik glosses over when he compares the impetus to read to our need for clothing and shelter: «there really are no whys to such things, anymore than there are to why we wear clothes or paint good pictures or live in more than
hovels and huts or send flowers to our beloved on their birthday.»
It's just four miles,
if even that, from my
hovel to The Sidewinder on Red River Street near 7th, where the club is precariously perched upon a high embankment overlooking Waller Creek.
A downcast, heavyset American girlfriend whose bright orange hair was strewn across his Alphabet City
hovel as
if a cadre of Angora rabbits had visited.