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It’s as if by forswearing the evanescent experience of real-life performing, Glenn Gould gave himself eternal fame.

The writing had been individual attempts to capture moments, feelings, impulses; the reshaping was to shift those evanescent feelings into a coherent form.

Climate change has made the evanescent sport more precarious.

But it was in his novel “Next Season,” which I’m always foisting on theater friends, that Blakemore managed to capture the evanescent world of the stage in all its heartbreak and glory.

You want the fastest, easiest way to get that pile of evanescently sweet, nubby cobs on the table, ready for butter-slathering and gleeful chomping.