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We cringe while administering the medications, yet we advocate for finding the right one.
These days, we cringe beneath the shadow and roar of every low-flying passenger plane.
As Flora's father, the "local artist," fingers Theresa's thigh, we cringe.
We cringe at the sentimentality of Romola's ending, and understand why she never flourished as a novelist.
West flags up his own self-satisfied, laboured jokes in an increasingly nasal flow: he whinges, we cringe.
Haneke is obsessed by that spectacle, and by the helpless reflex that compels us to keep watching, even as we cringe at what we see.
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We cringed at Norman Mailer's testosterone-heavy males tamely "fugging" at the brute world.
We cringed at the shotgun-like sound of branches snapping from the weight of the ice.
A stray piece of paper floated down from the sky, and we cringed.
Over the months that she had been front page news, we cringed when the writer Diana Trilling compared her to an unwritten Anna Karenina or Madame Bovary.
He was alarmingly unself-conscious and would make comments about fellow diners in cafes, barely lowering his voice, as we cringed in embarrassment.
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Justyna Jupowicz-Kozak
CEO of Professional Science Editing for Scientists @ prosciediting.com