Inspirasi Kediri Bertutur

                                                  • "Well that's fixed," he said, putting back the receiver. "My pals at the office have got you on the Elizabeth. Been delayed by a strike at the docks. Sails tomorrow night at eight. They'll meet you in the morning at La Guardia with the tickets and you'll go on board any time in the afternoon. They picked up the rest of your things at the Astor, James. One small case and your famous golf clubs. And Washington's obliged with a passport for Tiffany. There'll be a man from the State Department at the airport. You'll both have some forms to sign. Got one of my old pals at the CIA to work it. The middays have made a big splash with the story-'Ghost Town goes West' and so on-but they don't seem to have found our friend Spang yet and your names don't figure. My boys say there's no call out for you with the cops, but one of our undercover men says the gangs are looking for you and your description's been circulated. Ten Grand attached. So it's as well you're skipping quick. Better go aboard separately. Cover up as much as you can and go down to your cabins and stay there. All hell's going to bust loose when they get to the bottom of that old mine. That'll make leastwise three corpses to nothing and they don't like that kind of score."

                                                                                                  • "No, we ain't. Mr. Sanguinetti don't need to bond no one what works for him."
                                                                                                    'Now that he's got a brother, I mean,' said Peggotty.
                                                                                                    Chapter 4 Mixed Messages.
                                                                                                    Later, a triumphant Head of S said to his Number Two: 'We nearly cooked ourselves with that last paragraph. He said it was subversion and blackmail. He got pretty sharp about it. Anyway, he approves. Says the idea's crazy, but worth trying if the Treasury will play and he thinks they will. He's going to tell them it's a better gamble than the money we're putting into deserting Russian colonels who turn double after a few months' "asylum" here. And he's longing to get at Le Chiffre, and anyway he's got the right man and wants to try him out on the job.'
                                                                                                    鈥楢ug. 11, 1882.鈥擬y dearest Leila, I doubt not that both you and your loved Mother have shed tears over sweet, sweet Margaret鈥檚 loss,鈥攐r rather, our loss,鈥攁nd that you have tenderly sympathised both with my poor Bhatija and with me. This has been a year of successive trials, not only to us but to others in the Mission field,鈥攁 time to make us search our hearts and examine our work. It seems almost as if my two Scripture texts at present are, 鈥淔aint, yet pursuing,鈥濃€攁nd 鈥淟ord, we have toiled all night, and caught nothing, yet at Thy Word we will let down the net.鈥 ...


                                                                                                    'Yes, it is, ma'am,' said Mrs. Crupp.
                                                                                                    And then, in the sniperscope, Bond saw the head of Trigger-the purity of the profile, the golden bell of hair-all laid out along the stock of the Kalashnikov! She was dead, a sitting duck! Bond's fingers flashed down to the screws, inched them round, and as yellow flame fluttered at the snout of the submachinegun, squeezed the trigger.
                                                                                                    We wandered inside, and saw Caballo had a small camp bed, a pile of trashed sports sandals, andthree or four books about Crazy Horse and other Native Americans on a shelf next to a kerosenelamp. That was it; no electricity, no running water, no toilet. Out back, Caballo had cut away thecactus and smoothed a little place to kick back after a run, smoke something relaxing, and gaze offat the prehistoric wilderness. Whatever Barefoot Ted’s heavy Heidegger word was, no one wasever more an expression of their place than Caballo was of his hut.
                                                                                                    Then he looked again at Bond and spoke very quietly, the red moustache lifting slowly from the splayed upper teeth. "I should spend the money quickly, Commander Bond," he said.

                                                                                                                                                  • Almost instinctively, Bond watched the eyes of Mr Helmut Springer from Detroit. While affirmatives in various tones of voice came from the others, Mr Springer veiled his eyes. His portentous 'You have my solemn word' rang hollow. To Bond, the candour was as false as a second-hand motor salesman's. Casually he drew a short straight minus line beside Mr Springer's name on the agenda.

                                                                                                                                                                                                  • Forgotten the Old Soldier! And in that short time!

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  • His last action was to slip his right hand under the pillow until it rested under the butt of the .38 Colt Police Positive with the sawn barrel. Then he slept, and with the warmth and humour of his eyes extinguished, his features relapsed into a taciturn mask, ironical, brutal, and cold.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  • In going through Plato and Demosthenes, since I could now read these authors, as far as the language was concerned, with perfect ease, I was not required to construe them sentence by sentence, but to read them aloud to my father, answering questions when asked: but the particular attention which he paid to elocution (in which his own excellence was remarkable) made this reading aloud to him a most painful task. Of all things which he required me to do, there was none which I did so constantly ill, or in which he so perpetually lost his temper with me. He had thought much on the principles of the art of reading, especially the most neglected part of it, the inflections of the voice, or modulation as writers on elocution call it (in contrast with articulation on the one side, and expression on the other), and had reduced it to rules, grounded on the logical analysis of a sentence. These rules he strongly impressed upon me, and took me severely to task for every violation of them: but I even then remarked (though I did not venture to make the remark to him) that though he reproached me when I read a sentence ill, and told me how I ought to have read it, he never, by reading it himself, showed me how it ought to be read. A defect running through his otherwise admirable modes of instruction, as it did through all his modes of thought, was that of trusting too much to the intelligibleness of the abstract, when not embodied in the concrete. It was at a much later period of my youth, when practising elocution by myself, or with companions of my own age, that I for the first time understood the object of his rules, and saw the psychological grounds of them. At that time I and others followed out the subject into its ramifications and could have composed a very useful treatise, grounded on my father's principles. He himself left those principles and rules unwritten. I regret that when my mind was full of the subject, from systematic practice, I did not put them, and our improvements of them, into a formal shape.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  • 'Well, Ma.'

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  •   “The journey takes three days,” the elders reminded the boys. “Four, if it’s a woman.” So naturallythe ariwará is going to look a little bushy, what with all that chopped hair jammed back on itshead; and of course it’ll be moving top speed, with only a long weekend to knock out a ton ofchores. Come to think of it, it was pretty impressive the boys managed to spot the ariwará at all;Tarahumara souls usually run so fast, all you see is swirl of dust sweeping across the countryside.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  • Beyond the frontiers the rebellions organized by the servants of the light had long since been crushed. Tibet now faced the world alone. The only hope was that, since the victory of the imperial powers seemed now certain, they would begin to quarrel with one another and use their armaments for mutual destruction. But the Russian and Chinese ruling classes now regarded Tibet with unreasoning, obsessive terror and hate. Consciously believing in their own righteousness and their social usefulness, they were at the same time unconsciously tormented by a guilt which they dared not confess to themselves, a guilt which was both social and spiritual. Against a community which had purged itself of that guilt, and demanded a world-wide purge, they felt bitter resentment and loathing. Moreover the Tibetan community had manifested strange powers which the imperialists in their own hearts knew to be the powers of light, but which consciously they condemned as diabolical. Thus their action against Tibet showed all the persistence of one who, discovering on his body the first minute pustule of some frightful disease, believes it to be the fruit of his own sin, and resolves to cut out the infected part.