Word: sackclothed
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...rifles issue orders. Wielding 3-ft. wooden switches, they herd the people into neat rows at the rear of a large earthen courtyard. In 30 minutes more than 2,000 people are seated on the ground while others stream in: nomad women wrapped in black shawls, grandmothers in tattered sackcloth, lone children naked but for a makeshift shirt. At one point the crowd seethes forward. Guards, screaming, strike the women on their bare backs. Discipline, of a sort, is restored...
Then everything started coming up robins in springtime. Mel Brooks, looking to produce films other than his own, saw Eraserhead and determined that Lynch should direct The Elephant Man. The film, cued by the parable of physical deformity as a kind of saint's sackcloth, embellished by Lynch's phantasmagoric direction and anchored by John Hurt's delicate performance as John Merrick, won the director big-studio notice. He could do anything now -- anything but turn Frank Herbert's daunting science fantasy into a movie Dino De Laurentiis would like. "I sold out on Dune," Lynch says today...
From the moment Gary Hart punctuated his withdrawal speech last May with a defiant "Hell, no!," the Democratic Party should have seen it coming. Why would Hart have donned sackcloth on national television in September and admitted marital infidelity, unless he felt a compelling political need to get the Monkey Business off his back? At 51, Hart is too ambitious, too driven and, yes, too arrogant to be satisfied with speaking to impressionable sophomores in half-empty auditoriums, just another penitent on the lecture circuit. With the Iowa caucuses and the New Hampshire primary two months away, Hart was still...
...public revelation Monday of drug use by several Patriots players has cast a macabre gloom over every player, coach, manager, and fan of the Patriots. A cocaine sackcloth has been drawn over what was, only 10 short days ago, the most hyped team in the hype-filled history of Boston sports...
...operate by the laws of a romantic poet-packing in all the vivid details, then going for broke. He was a prodigious sufferer. He managed to embrace all the guilt there was to religion, all the shame there was in sex. He dressed in his own kind of sackcloth-sneakers, work pants, sweat-stained shirt. He allowed his teeth to rot. When anger and frustration built up in him, he would smash his fist into the nearest wall or bloodily shatter the glass he was holding. "Nearly all the time," he wrote after one bender, "I am incompetent for work...