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Bond always mistrusted short men. They grew up from childhood with an inferiority complex. All their lives they would strive to be big -- bigger than the others who had teased them as a child. Napoleon had been short, and Hitler.

Their miserable life together. The pretentious ritual which meant that they saw each other only as miraculous lovers, priests and ministrators of their love, a love supposedly unchanged since those first heady days. The farcical game of seeing each other only as beautiful and nauseatingly noble, without blot or stain, always freshly bathed and always pretending to be driven by identical desires.

The fervor of their first night had led them here, to a dirty little cinema where he sat prosaically sucking mints, feeling sick at heart, dismally sucking mints and listening while his lovely girl, once so wild, so crazy, talked shyly about a second-rate film, visibly awkward and ill at ease, his darling morbidly self-conscious, his darling girl, and refusing to admit it.

Nonstop tenderness cloyed and was unmanly, and women did not care for it. They needed rapture, they cried out for the roller-coasters and toboggans of passion, delicious shifts from misery to joy, they wanted anguish, sudden bliss, waiting, hope and despair, the whole damned passion-shoot with its grisly bevy of alarums and theatrical life-goals.

The lord will do right to make her earth move and roughly use her during her night of love divine. For in this life there is no other truth than bareback riding. All else is tinsel and taradiddle. For a man's life lasts no longer than the blink of an eye and is followed by everlasting putrefaction, and with each day that passes you take one more step toward that hole in the ground...

The lord will do right to make her earth move and roughly use her during her night of love divine. For in this life there is no other truth than bareback riding. All else is tinsel and taradiddle. For a man's life lasts no longer than the blink of an eye and is followed by everlasting putrefaction, and with each day that passes you take one more step toward that hole in the ground....

I realize that everything I've written is intended to make me out to be intelligen and charming, to please you, kind sir. Poor, pathetic me. I feel so sorry for myself. But it doesn't matter at all, as long as you love me. But you must feel sorry for me too, for I am utterly at your mercy. I write to you too much, I love you too much.

'Let me look at you,' she said, and she drew back to see all of him, checked every feature and smiled, oh perfect teeth of youth. She must weight sixty kilos, of which forty are water, he thought. I am in love with forty kilos of water, he thought.

The attraction of cruelty is squalid, for it is the egg of power. Whoever is cruel is sexually potent, capable of making others suffer but also, so says the innermost self, of giving joy. A lord who exudes the merest whiff of brimstone attracts them, and a dangerous smile makes them feel deliciously flustered. They adore men with a satanic cut to their jib. To them, the devil himself is enticing.

"I enjoyed her company immensely." "I'm sure you did," said M. Deume. (But he hadn't at all: she was one of those forceful women, very superior, and besides she'd prattled on about music no one else had heard of. Ah, this looks like a useful wedge, just the right thickness.)

Back in her room as she stood at the foot of her bed, he found her so touching in repentance that he folded her in his arms. Feeling her breasts firm against him, he whispered in her ear. She got into bed and closed her eyes so that she would not see himtaking off his pyjamas. He turned back the bedcover, lay down beside her, and gave two sneezes. Here we go, she thought. Woof-woof time.

Now go away please because I'm about to get out of the bath and I don't want to be seen, bye-bye Eric, just between ourselves you are a bit of a fool all you can say is yes Madame, so go away, you're a silly young man. I'm going to dress gorgeously for my very own, my private pleasure.

In truth, ever since a heavy door, down there at Fontevrault [Prison], had shut behind him, ever since a man in uniform had called out: "Good luck" to him, ever since he had started walking straight ahead, aimlessly, he hah had no more ties, everything had been a free gift, the days no longer counted, nothing counted except the magnificent present humming with sunshine.

Besides, you can't walk right up to your past, tap it on the chest and tell it to "fess up." It has reason to be evasive and not want to talk about he whole thing, which for most of us has been a shitstorm.

Besides, you can't walk right up to your past, tap it on the chest and tell it to "fes up." It has reason to be evasive and not want to talk about he whole thing, which for most of us has been a shitstorm.

Back at Knossos Mickey and I were talking to some friends in a safe house when three German sergeants lurched in slightly tipsy from celebrating Easter.... A deluge of wine covered up this contretemps, followed by attempts, bearishly mimicked by our guests to teach them to dance a Cretan pentozali in which we all joined.

The road was all but empty; people do not travel much in these latter days unless, like me, they are wanderers by habit and profession.

He watched her hand in her ticket and go through the door to the jetway. She didn't look back and there was a whisper in the back of his mind telling him he might never see her again. But he shut it off and walked back through the nearly deserted airport. Most of the slot machines stood mute and ignored. Bosch felt a deep sense of loneliness engulf him.

On asked why her dead husband used Preparation H: You know, it shrinks the swelling. Well, you put it under your eyes and the bags from all that hard living get shrunk too.... If he was going to Las Vegas to be with some young girl, I think he would have done this."

On asked why her dead husband used Preparation H: ou know, shrinks the swelling. Well, you put it under your eyes and the bags from all that hard living get shrunk too.... If he was going to Las Vegas to be with some young girl, I think he would have done this."

[Las Vegas] shared a kinship with Los Angeles; both were places desperate people ran to. Often when they ran from Los Angeles they came here. It was the only place left. Beneath the veneer of glitz and money and energy and sex beat a dark heart. No matter how hard they tried to dress her up with neon and family entertainment, she was still a whore.

So it is always, said the Basket Woman, that which is large grows less, and my people, which were great, have dwindled away.

It is only in the last four or five cenuries that music has existed as an independent and self-sufficient art. Why it ever emerged from its preharmonic childhood is a mystery; and why, considering the fact that the vast majority of human beings are now seen to be capable of appreciating the most elaborate forms of music, why the art did not grow up much earlier is a still greater mystery.

"Is God the Father writing me?" Mathinna excitedly asked Lady Jane when on going to the beach at Sandy Bay for a picnic she had seen seagull tracks in the sand, thinking perhaps Towterer was sending her some message. Lady jane had laughed and Mathinna realized that was was written in the world mattered not, but what was written on paper mattered immensely.

She was seven years old, he earth was still new and extraordinary in its delights, the earth still ran up through her feet to her head in the sun, and it was as possible to be exhilarated by running as it was to be terrified by the reason she had to run and not stop running.

I always say that I only wish to have three sorts of people as my friends, those who are very rich, those who are very witty, and those who are very beautiful.

Ah, Richard! With the eyes of heavy mind
I see thy glory like a shooting star
Fall to the base earth from the firmament;
Thy sun sits weeping in the lowly west,
Witnessing storms to come, woe and unrest;
Thy friends are fled to wait upon thy foes,
And crossly to thy good all fortune goes.

No one owns a spy ... they just pay his salary. I work for the government because I think this is a good place to live, but6 that doesn't mean I'll be used as a serf by a self-centred millionaire. What's more ... don't give me that "fatal" stuff because I've taken a postgraduate course in fatality.

The man who really thinks he has an idea will always try to explain that idea. The charlatan who has no idea will always confine himself to explaining that it is much too subtle to be explained. The first idea may really be very outree or specialist; it may really be very difficult to express to ordinary people. But because the man is trying to express it, it is most probable that there is something in it, after all.

You may, if you like, call the ants a democracy as you may call the bees a despotism. But I fancy that the architectural ant who attempted to introduce an art nouveau style of ant-hill would have a career as curt and fruitless as the celebrated bee who wanted to swarm alone.