Word: crescendoe
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...Bopper." The band dramatically swelled into crescendo. "Chantilly Lace... and a purty face... and a pony tail hanging down..." The crowd screamed. The frenzy of the dance floor exploded again. Spike and Mary Lou were Big League. They knew the moves... all the moves, "...there ain't nothing in the world... like a big-eyed girl... to make me act so funny... make me spend my money..." The crowd parted. Spike and Mary Lou accepted the spotlight. Back and forth. Jitterbug rock. Through the legs... skin the cat. Up and out. Over the hip. Round and round. It was like...
...speed, like so many planets turning on their axes. "It is a spiritual feeling," explains Dance Master Ahmet Bican Kasapoglu, "but we are in reality. We don't give ourselves over to unreality." After nearly half an hour, during which kettle drums drove the music to a hypnotic crescendo, the dervishes gradually wound down. Their arched skirts sank to their ankles, and they crossed their arms over their chests, in seeming resignation to the necessity of returning once more to their earthly prison...
...equally simple but opposite conviction. The Ik, in Turnbull's description, are a paradigm of human nastiness. Their habits, he says, it "would be an insult to animals to call bestiality." By the end of this book the author's repulsion clots into hatred, in a crescendo of extraordinary statements: "Luckily the Ik are not numerous-about 2,000-and those two years reduced their number greatly. So I am hopeful that their isolation will remain as complete as in the past, until they die out completely." Why? Because, he says, "the Ik teach us that our much...
...said things well. Here he simply loses all ironic distance and falls list into sentimentality. At one point. Muriel is seen running at twilight over hills and through trees, shouting into the wind in her Welsh-French accent. "Claude, jetadore" while Georges Delerue's weepy score rises to crescendo. It is the sort of scene more expected to spill from the pens of masturbatory adolescents or nineteenth century novelists...
...stream of inspiration until the light of dawn the impossible stands before him--a revolutionary bus of Beauty Shaw of course, never shows up So the by now manic messiah carts his statue through a violent downpour to Shaw's gallery in the center of Paris and to a crescendo of stormy musak, he hurls his bust exultantly at the horrified faces behind the gallery glass...