If you're not the kind of person who makes death threats, or uses misogynistic slurs, or thinks Hillary Clinton's campaign manager ran a child sex ring from a Washington pizzeria - if you're a basically decent and undeluded
sort, in other words - it's easy to assume you're doing nothing wrong.
She came to work attentive and cheerful, somehow calling to mind what Susan Sontag told Jorge Luis Borges in a letter: You showed that it is not necessary to be unhappy, even while one is clear-eyed and undeluded
about how terrible everything is.
Jody: Only that you're all tough undeluded
His dealing with common romantic scenery and sentiment is shown in [...] Elinoure and Juga; he makes a poetical use of melancholy motives, himself untouched, or, at any rate, undeluded
The simplicity and integrity of these two historic figures are presented in vivid narrative and affecting detail, so that they alone appear undeluded
by either the evils of slavery or the "rotten Vanity Fair" (Taken in Faith 73) of the Union.
dualities made known in pleasure as in pain, the undeluded
Who can ever forget the desperately deluded mother of The Easter Parade with her ludicrous nickname ("Pookie") and her thwarted artistic and social aspirations, or her undeluded
but equally desperate daughter Emily whose life unravels so terribly in the final pages?
Perhaps he will go to the library and read Pynchon, who, by the way, offers a blurb for this novel, citing Knipfel's "cheerfully undeluded
American voice." The Buzzing is either undeluded
or deluded or overdeluded.
It is to this extent remarkably undeluded
, alert as to motives, and obedient to Ralph Touchett's fraternal injunction (not untinged with irony) to "judge everyone and everything for yourself!".
In other words, Ormus goes on this final tour with his eyes open, undeluded
about Vina's death.
You showed that it was not necessary to be unhappy," Susan Sontag writes in "A Letter to Borges," "even while one is clear-eyed and undeluded
about how terrible everything is." Sontag's new collection of essays, Where the Stress Falls, drawn from her work of the past twenty years championing artists, art forms and causes, salvages tremendous comfort from acute disappointment.
It's always astonished me a bit that Bloom has managed to steer so clear, comparatively, of Eliot and Pound, but the terrain of Bloom's taste has generally been the romantic sublime, and for important reasons in Eliot, including Eliot's sense of impersonality and his penchant for austerely undeluded
realism, Eliot's work veers significantly away from romance, as I understand the term.