Word: stare
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...strikes ground, a cheerful gnome starts off belly flopper down the hill to school. A tall pine stands out in the pasture with the blackness of a widow in her weeds. There is the delicate, syncopated tinkle as a Morgan in a red cutter swerves through town. The mountains stare down upon the valleys grown old, and spare, and bleak over night. Young boughs trail their white burden on the road way. In the woods, where the sun falls, snow slides off the needles and drops with a soft thud. A tiny rabbit scurries off on hastily remembered business...
...California that was still bristling with forty-niners looked askance at Harte, with his foppish dress, his over-genteel manners. Harte returned the snobbish stare. With the flowing mustaches of his day, a leonine head of hair, an aquiline nose that hinted, without betraying his Jewish ancestry, Harte was a fine figure of a literary man. In later years it was reported that he had lived a rough and minerish life. Biographer Stewart doubts it, thinks Harte's devilishness was mostly in printing offices. As long as Harte kept culling posies from the rhetorical anthology he considered good writing...
...gather. The men stand, hands in pockets, derbies askew, smoking casually out of the side of their mouths. The women in impossible hats nudge each other and giggle. Little boys wiggle in and out among the legs of bystanders seeking a place of vantage near the paving. They all stare with English impassivity out upon the cobbles, waiting. Then, from a distance, drifts up the music of a band and someone shouts, "Hits 'im, hits the king...
...hard. Simplicist Sherwood Anderson has been puzzling his head for years over the U. S. scene. In short stories, novels and autobiography he has struggled to focus what he sees into genuine art; occasionally he has succeeded. Lately he has taken to visiting factories, watching with his trou bled stare the unselfconscious machines, the unquestioning workers. Perhaps Women, a fragmentary notebook, is the result of these brooding visitations. Not the arguable art of economics but human beings, their daft ways, their queer needs, are what fascinate Sherwood Ander son. What Anderson thinks is wrong with...
East of Third Avenue, Manhattan's 107th Street is a live and crawling thing. Sometimes, late at night, it is almost still. But even when the wretched houses stare poker-faced at nothing in the dark, fetid street there is still a strong sense of the hot, swart, teeming Italians inside. In the winter, 107th Street is piled with refuse and dirty snow. In the summer the sun beats down until it bubbles the tar. Thick, bad odors cling in the crannies, clutch at the passerby...