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MY FATHER had a face that could stop a clock. I don’t mean that he was ugly or anything; it was a phrase the ChronoGuard used to describe someone who had the power to reduce time to an ultraslow trickle.
He lived and breathed the job; words were his life and his love—he never seemed happier than when he was on the trail of a counterfeit Coleridge or a fake Fielding.
I wished I could share my own optimism.
The rather flawed climax of the book was a cause of considerable bitterness within Brontë circles. It was generally agreed that if Jane had returned to Thornfield Hall and married Rochester, the book might have been a lot better than it was.
It had been me.
I felt sure that a man of such dour demeanor must surely be very angry with me, yet when he espied me again he smiled kindly and gave me a broad wink, placing a finger to his lips to ensure my silence. I smiled back, and the rider turned to face the young woman, his brow furrowing once more into a grimace as he fell back into character.
crew cut like a tennis ball.
“The name’s Schitt,” he replied. “Jack Schitt.”
“I don’t really think—” I began, taking the leaflet anyway.
Goodness is weakness, pleasantness is poisonous, serenity is mediocrity and kindness is for losers.
the audience applauded and the curtains closed, jammed, opened slightly and closed again.
If Anton had been a baker and forgotten the yeast, nothing would have been made of it, but he would have fucked up just the same.
“Because he went for the original manuscript,” I answered, “for the maximum disruption. All copies anywhere on the planet, in whatever form, originate from that first act of creation. When the original changes, all the others have to change too. If you could go back a hundred million years and change the genetic code of the first mammal, every one of us would be completely different. It amounts to the same thing.”