Goldfinger deviated to the right. He glanced at the distant, half-hidden flag, planning his second shot. He took his five iron and hit a good, careful shot which took a bad kick short of the green and ran down into the thick grass to the left. Bond knew that territory. Goldfinger would be lucky to get down in two.
Bond had the impression that if he now came forward from his hiding place Scaramanga, like a dog, would bare his teeth in a furious snarl. He got quietly up from his knees, took out his gun, and, his eyes watching Scaramanga's hands, strolled out into the centre of the little clearing.
So who are these lucky few with well-evolved feet? Come to think of it, nobody: “Nature has notyet published her plan for the perfect modern runner’s foot,” Dr. Weisenfeld writes. “Until theperfect foot comes along, my experience has shown me that we’ve all got an excellent chance athaving some kind of injury.” Nature may not have published her blueprint, but that didn’t stopsome podiatrists from trying to come up with one of their own. And it was exactly that kind ofoverconfidence—the belief that four years of podiatric training could trump two million years ofnatural selection—that led to a catastrophic rash of operations in the ’70s.
‘Sept. 21, 1868.
He pushed me in through the open back door of the lobby block and shut and locked it behind him. The room looked just the same-the lights blazing, the radio hammering out some gay dance tune, everything winking and glittering and polished under the light. I thought of how happy I had been in that room only a few hours before, of the memories I had had in that armchair, some of them sweet, some of them sad. How small now my childish troubles seemed! How ridiculous to talk of broken hearts and lost youth when, just around the corner of my life, these men were coming at me out of the darkness. The cinema in Windsor? It was a small act in a play, almost a farce. Zьrich? It was paradise. The true jungle of the world, with its real monsters, only rarely shows itself in the life of a man, a girl, in the street. But it is always there. You take a wrong step, play the wrong card in Fate's game, and you are in it and lost-lost in a world you had never imagined, against which you have no knowledge and no weapons. No compass.
Clay Felker writes, in a yet-unreleased editorial in Esquire: "We will explore how a man can develop a more rewarding life with the women and children in his life. … I see Esquire magazine as a cheery, book filled, comfortable den, a place of wit and sparkling conversation, of goodwill and genial intelligence, where thoughtful discussions take place and wise conclusions are reached."