Word: infernos
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...summer and entertained lavishly, as befits an emissary from Playboy. The theologians grew so used to stopping by his house at cocktail hour that eventually they even ventured as far as Hefs Chicago mansion for discussions. "At first, they entered the house as if it were Dante's inferno," says Mount. "But now those cats are used...
...manufacturers of shower curtains and shish kebabers, had set up exhibits and were prepared to write orders from buyers converging from all parts of the country. Then, late at night, fire suddenly broke out in a booth in the main exhibition hall. Within 15 minutes, McCormick Place was an inferno; because of the intensity of the fire and its rapid spread in all directions, investigators suspected that defective electrical wiring was the cause. Eight hours later, one watchman was dead and one of the world's great exhibition halls had been utterly devastated. The economic wreckage was incalculable...
...play. On a bleacher-sloped stage, the survivors and the accused confront not so much each other as their own benumbed memories of demonic events. The accused deny all responsibility, using the familiar argument that they were merely carrying out orders. The survivors, like men risen from the Inferno, recount horrors that, however familiar they may have become, still beggar the imagination with the terrible knowledge of what man can do to man. Those who lived draw word pictures of those who died: women whose wombs were injected with cement till they perished, naked men who were beaten bloody...
...finest portion of the film was the last. For this much of the credit goes to the marvelous chorus of avenging Furies, whose frightening make-up, snakepit writhings and almost surrealistic dancing were worthy even of Dante's Inferno. The play itself is a real suspense thriller, with the out-come in doubt. It builds up to the theatre's first trial by jury, a device that is still proving useful to dramatists 2500 years later...
...months, first in Devon and later in London, Sylvia wrote without letup. By the end of January 1963, her nerves were a shirt of nettles. On Feb. 4 she arrived at a friend's house, lugging the children. "She was in an inferno," the friend remembers. "Depression is not the word." For six days she let herself be looked after, but on Feb. 10 she went back to her flat to spend the night. The next morning, in an Auschwitz all her own, she executed what one critic calls her "last unwritten poem." The epithet is appropriate...