Word: weep
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...year. As the hour nears, the streets from Mecca to Marrakech grow strangely quiet. Groups of spade-bearded sheiks repair conspiratorially to their salons; workers jam the coffeehouses, and nomads huddle like crapshooters in their tents. As they listen to Um Kalthoum's tremulous voice, old men weep, women writhe on the floor, and the hashish smokers-whose purchases soar to monthly peaks just before the broadcasts-drift into glaze-eyed reverie...
...area eight miles square. Negroes stopped automobiles driven by whites and beat the occupants. Small gangs pillaged scores of shops. They hurled fire bombs, rocks and chunks of masonry at the firemen who responded to the alarms. As Molotov cocktails burst in one drugstore window, a Negro woman emerged, weep ing. "Why would they do this to their own people?" she asked. "The world's gone...
...since Aeschylus, the number of dramatic geniuses could be counted on one and a half hands. The theater does not live on its masterpieces but between them. Man created the theater in his own image, and it wears two masks and a thousand faces. The mask of tragedy says weep-and bear it. The mask of comedy says grin-and bear it. The theater is witness and partner to man's endurance. Tawdry or frivolous, gallant, polemical or profound, the theater is the place where man speaks to man about man in his living presence...
...best savored in the small lantern-lit taverns tucked away in the cobblestone alleys of old Lisbon. There, in an atmosphere drenched with pathos and the aroma of musky wine and spicy sausages, the black-draped fadistas cry out in voices quavering with anguish. Against a back ground of weeping guitars, they sing of sin and love gone wrong, of wasted lives and impending doom. Fado means destiny, and its baleful laments are more than the fatalistic Portuguese can bear: old men weep and women grow faint, all revelling in the joys of suffering...
...this renowned intellectual prig came to terms with her natural feelings and at the end allowed herself tears at a Catholic funeral, without even sneering at the priest beyond pointing out that he had trousers on under his chasuble. It acknowledges: "I did not understand that one might sincerely weep for a relative . . . if I met a woman of fifty overcome with sadness because she had lost her mother, I thought her neurotic." Then her rage against the fact of death asserts itself. "There is no such thing as a natural death . . . you do not die of being born...