Word: lusted
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...they be troubled by this beauty, into which the soul with all its maladies has passed! All the thoughts and experience of the world have etched and moulded there, in that which they have of power to refine and make expressive the outward form, the animalism of Greece, the lust of Rome, the mysticism of the middle age with its spiritual ambition and imaginative loves, the return of the Pagan world, the sins of the Borgias. She is older than the rocks among which she sits; like the vampire, she has been dead many times, and learned the secrets...
Lulu's story, hatched in the erotic mind of Playwright Frank Wedekind, is even more lurid than poor bewildered Wozzeck's. Lulu is a vampire who feeds on power and lust. She destroys three men in the first two acts. At the end when she is murdered and horribly mutilated, the orchestra emits one terrifying shriek. Then only did Bostonians sit up in their seats. For although Berg again "uses the twelve-tone scale, he weaves it into a crafty harmonic design, subjects it to his moods which are for the most part restrained...
...long term. As the story ends his pardon is imminent, but the nephew-narrator will not be there to greet him; he is leaving home for good, going North to college. But John has begun to understand that his uncle's criminal outbreak was a gesture less of lust than of despair - "repeated and forever repeated, the rape of the mind by the body...
...Dante rarely met or spoke with her and she died very young. But, says Papini, Dante was no saint; there were "at least a dozen women in his life . . . there is no doubt that Dante was a sensual man." As a Catholic he was guilty of three besetting sins-lust, wrath, pride. "Dante is always a little aloof, and easily shows a surly temper. . . . [His] love is more of the head than the heart, more theological than evangelical." Of his wife Gemma and the children she bore him Papini says hardly a word. Of the divine fire that must have...
There the full splendor of the Widener Library is revealed. In an atmosphere of medieval picturesqueness sit hundreds of students at tables. Diligently they pore over their books, sitting stiffly upright, apparently prevented from relaxation by an overweening lust for knowledge. Like St. Simeon Stylites on his pillar, they have abandoned the comforts of this world in devotion to their ideal. Into this romantic dungeon the clangor and lurid brightness of external civilization do not penetrate...