Inspirasi Kediri Bertutur

                                          • Bond said quietly, "I'm from the C.I.D. Can we have a talk? Perhaps you'd like to check my credentials first. My name's James Bond. But you'll have to go direct to Sir Ronald Vallance or his P.A. I'm not directly on the strength at Scotland Yard. Sort of liaison job."
                                            BOND FOLLOWED Colonel Smithers to the lift. While they waited for it, Bond glanced out of the tall window at the end of the passage. He was looking down into the deep well of the back courtyard of the Bank. A trim chocolate-brown lorry with no owner's name had come into the courtyard through the triple steel gates. Square cardboard boxes were being unloaded from it and put on to a short conveyor belt that disappeared into the bowels of the Bank.

                                                                                  • JAMES BOND smiled at this dramatic utterance. 'A collector of death? You mean he kills people?'
                                                                                    James Bond got to his feet. "Well, I'll be getting back to Kingston." He held up a hand. "No, don't bother. I'll find my way to the car." He looked down at the older man. He said abruptly, almost harshly-perhaps, Major Smythe thought, to hide his embarrassment-"It'll be about a week before they send someone out to bring you home." Then he walked off across the lawn and through the house, and Major Smythe heard the iron whirr of the self-starter and the clatter of the gravel on the unkempt drive.

                                                                                    鈥楳iss Tucker reached Amritsar on the 1st Nov. 1875. The warm[213] kiss with which she greeted her sister-Missionaries showed the affectionate nature; and it was not long before we felt that we had in her, not only a fellow-worker, but a loving and true friend. At her own request the formal 鈥淢iss鈥 was soon dropped, and she was always addressed as 鈥淎untie.鈥 The family of adopted nephews and nieces, beginning with three or four, gradually widened, till it finally embraced more than twenty members. Nor was this relationship a mere formality. It represented on her part a very special share in the sympathetic interest extended to all fellow-Missionaries, and on their side a reverential love and esteem, which in many cases could not have been deeper, had the tie been one of natural kinship.
                                                                                    On the third draw, Du Pont had improved his hand to the extent that he now needed only one of five cards to go down and out and catch his opponent with a handful of cards which would all count against him. As if Goldfinger knew the danger he was in, he went down for fifty and proceeded to make a canasta with three wild cards and four fives. He also got rid of some more melds and ended with only four cards in his hand. In any other circumstances it would have been ridiculously bad play. As it was, he had made some four hundred points instead of losing over a hundred, for, on the next draw Mr Du Pont filled his hand and, with most of the edge taken off his triumph by Goldfinger's escape, went down unseen with the necessary two canastas.


                                                                                    The first use I made of the leisure which I gained by disconnecting myself from the Review, was to finish the Logic. In July and August, 1838, I had found an interval in which to execute what was still undone of the original draft of the Third Book. In working out the logical theory of those laws of nature which are not laws of Causation, nor corollaries from such laws, I was led to recognize kinds as realities in nature, and not mere distinctions for convenience; a light which I had not obtained when the First Book was written, and which made it necessary for me to modify and enlarge several chapters of that Book. The Book on Language and Classification, and the chapter on the Classification of Fallacies, were drafted in the autumn of the same year; the remainder of the work, in the summer and autumn of 1840. From April following to the end of 1841, my spare time was devoted to a complete rewriting of the book from its commencement. It is in this way that all my books have been composed. They were always written at least twice over; a first draft of the entire work was completed to the very end of the subject, then the whole begun again de novo; but incorporating, in the second writing, all sentences and parts of sentences of the old draft, which appeared as suitable to my purpose as anything which I could write in lieu of them. I have found great advantages in this system of double redaction. It combines, better than any other mode of composition, the freshness and vigour of the first conception, with the superior precision and completeness resulting from prolonged thought. In my own case, moreover, I have found that the patience necessary for a careful elaboration of the details of composition and expression, costs much less effort after the entire subject has been once gone through, and the substance of all that I find to say has in some manner, however imperfect, been got upon paper. The only thing which I am careful, in the first draft, to make as perfect as I am able, is the arrangement. If that is bad, the whole thread on which the ideas string themselves becomes twisted; thoughts placed in a wrong connexion are not expounded in a manner that suits the right, and a first draft with this original vice is next to useless as a foundation for the final treatment.
                                                                                    She put her hand over his.
                                                                                    One man followed them. He was never seen in Leadville again either. It was the Tarahumara’sstrange new friend, Shaggy—soon to be known as Caballo Blanco, lone wanderer of the HighSierras.
                                                                                    'Did you get nothing, Traddles, after all?'
                                                                                      9"Time is precious." "Time costs money." "Don'tI waste my time." Time has become an increasinglysought-after commodity. We budget our time, make itstand still, slow it down or speed it up, lose sense of itand distort it; we even buy timesaving devices. Yet timeis one of the few things we can't save—it is foreverunfolding.

                                                                                                                          • Bond knew it was time to go. He got up. "Thank you very much, sir," he said. "And I'm glad about the girl."

                                                                                                                                                                  • Bond closed his eyes and mentally explored his body. The worst pain was in his wrists and ankles and in his right hand where the Russian had cut him. In the centre of the body there was no feeling. He assumed that he had been given a local anaesthetic. The rest of his body ached dully as if he had been beaten all over. He could feel the pressure of bandages everywhere and his unshaven neck and chin prickled against the sheets. From the feel of the bristles he knew that he must have been at least three days without shaving. That meant two since the morning of the torture.

                                                                                                                                                                                                          • Certain facts abut Andy Warhol's early life remain a mystery because he has always objected to questions that he considers irrelevant to an understanding of him as an artist. It is known that he was born somewhere in Pennsylvania, sometime between 1927 and 1931, to a family of immigrants from Czechoslovakia named Warhola.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          • Chapter 26

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  • Da giebt es einen guten Klang.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          • WESTSIDER HAROLD KENNEDY