Word: throbs
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...creations of the Slav mind-Baba Yaga (the witch who lives in a little hut that stands on hen's legs), the Sea King (who rises from the depths to enslave human beings), Zhar-ptitsa (the Firebird), Koshchey the Deathless, who is really "little father death." These stories throb with a violence that makes the atrocities of German fairy tales seem tame. If you do not finish by morning, says the Czar curtly, assigning to the hero some impossible task, I will have you shot. A King, enraged at his wife, wishes to hang her. But his friends counsel...
...scared as hell' from the time the aircraft neared the target area until it had passed well out of range of the island's defenses." His mouth was dry ("spitting cotton"), his hands were drenched in icy sweat, his heart beat so hard he could feel its throb. Over the target "there was a strong impulse to seek the shelter of any available armor plate in the cockpit. A sensation of helplessness left a deep impression; the idea of having nothing to do but watch and wait was not appealing...
...folk music with Tin Pan Alley tunes, it warbles its way across the centuries-the voice of a canoeman floating down the Ohio, a chorus raised in an Illinois clearing, a medley of tunes on a Mississippi steamboat, a soldiers' rouse round a Civil War campfire, the guttural throb of Negro blues, the frilly ditties of the Gay Nineties, the brash rhythms of speakeasy jazz...
...Colombia's Poet-Novelist José Eustasio Rivera on the jungle: "No cooing nightingales here, no Versaillian gardens or sentimental vistas! Instead the croaking of dropsical frogs ... the aphrodisiac parasite that covers the ground with dead insects, the disgusting blooms that throb with sensual palpitations. . . . Stretched from tree to palm in long, elastic curves, like carelessly hung nets [the lianas catch] falling leaves, branches, and fruits, [hold] them for years until they sag and burst like rotten bags, scattering blind reptiles, rusty salamanders, hairy spiders . . . the comejen grub gnaws at the trees like quick-spreading syphilis . . .; everywhere...
Then Manuel Quezon's funeral procession began, to the throb of muffled drums, the cadenced music of a military band. The casket was borne on a black-wheeled artillery caisson drawn by six white horses. Behind it marched mourners and battalions from the Army, Navy and Marine Corps. The procession wound its way to the highest hill in Arlington National Cemetery, not far from the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, to a tomb beneath the grey steel mast of the U.S.S. Maine. There, to the measured boom of a 19-gun salute and the long, sweet notes of "Taps...