回忆挑战私服|kediribertutur

Inspirasi Kediri Bertutur

                                                                        • Bond was waiting for her on the jetty. It was the first day she had been away from him and he had missed her painfully. They talked happily as they walked hand-in-hand along the foreshore among the nets and boats, and the people smiled to see them, but looked through them instead of greeting them for had not the priest decreed that their gaijin here did not officially exist? And the priest's edict was final.
                                                                          One universal glow had covered her face and neck at his first approach, while she could have cried with vexation at the exposure. “You do not misunderstand me, I hope,” he said, perceiving her pitiable agitation. “You must, I think,” he continued, “be able to comprehend for what purpose I have requested this interview. You must have expected that I could not see Lord Surrel’s importunate attentions, and remain passive.”


                                                                                                                                                • Harry Heathcote of Gangoil, 1874 450 0 0
                                                                                                                                                  Bond walked back and laid the pistol down in front of Scaramanga, who gave Bond a long, inquisitive look and slid it back into his waistband. He said flatly, "We must have a shooting match one of these days, mister. How about it? Twenty paces and no wounding?"
                                                                                                                                                  'How much flying can you do at that altitude? You must be using up fuel pretty fast.'

                                                                                                                                                   


                                                                                                                                                  The most successful of his five books, What Every Child Would Like
                                                                                                                                                  This knowledge did not seem to weigh heavily on men. Each generation faced it and accommodated themselves to it. But its presence in the background of every mind changed the temper of the race into something very different from that of the age before the forwards had made their strange discovery. Then, the prospect of limitless human advancement had bred a certain complacency; now, the expectation of endless progress was succeeded by the possibility of sudden destruction, and by the frail hope of utterly new horizons. The mental climate of the race therefore changed to an intenser appreciation of its ordinary mundane life, compact of personal joys and sorrows, and at the same time a more constant loyalty to the spirit. No doubt the ordinary man, intent on his private affairs, gave little conscious thought to the prospect of the race, which, he felt, would probably last out his time anyhow. But in his phases of contemplation the sense of fleetingness would enter deeply into his mind, so that at all times the physical features of the planet, the woods, the hills, the sea, affected him with an added poignancy. The customs of daily life, such as dressing and eating, the technique of his work, the little common acts of friendliness, the intonations of familiar voices, all these became more dear because more precarious, because balanced from day to day on the brink of the unknown. At the same time the standard of personal conduct was seemingly raised by the sense that the species as a whole had accepted the challenge to live beyond its normal nature.
                                                                                                                                                  Marc-Ange got slowly up from his chair and came round and poured out more whisky for himself and for Bond. He said, 'Forgive me. I am a poor host. But the telling of this story, which I have always kept locked up inside me, to another man, has been a great relief.' He put a hand on Bond's shoulder. 'You understand that?'
                                                                                                                                                  It had been decided by the Board of Management, somewhat in opposition to my own ideas on the subject, that the Fortnightly Review should always contain a novel. It was of course natural that I should write the first novel, and I wrote The Belton Estate. It is similar in its attributes to Rachel Ray and to Miss Mackenzie. It is readable, and contains scenes which are true to life; but it has no peculiar merits, and will add nothing to my reputation as a novelist. I have not looked at it since it was published; and now turning back to it in my memory, I seem to remember almost less of it than of any book that I have written.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                        • TO MRS. HAMILTON.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                • MY aunt clapped her hands, and we all started up as if we were possessed.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        • Doctor No said, in the same soft resonant voice, "You are right, Mister Bond. That is just what I am, a maniac. All the greatest men are maniacs. They are possessed by a mania which drives them forward towards their goal. The great scientists, the philosophers, the religious leaders-all maniacs. What else but a blind singleness of purpose could have given focus to their genius, would have kept them in the groove of their purpose? Mania, my dear Mister Bond, is as priceless as genius. Dissipation of energy, fragmentation of vision, loss of momentum, the lack of follow-through-these are the vices of the herd." Doctor No sat slightly back in his chair. "I do not possess these vices. I am, as you correctly say, a maniac-a maniac, Mister Bond, with a mania for power. That"-the black holes glittered blankly at Bond through the contact lenses-"is the meaning of my life. That is why I am here. That is why you are here. That is why here exists."

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                • 'Oh, DON'T!' pleaded Dora. 'Please!'

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        • Nash obviously felt it was his turn again. He fished in his pocket and produced a newspaper cutting. It was the front page of the Corrière della Sera. He handed it to Bond. `Seen this, old man?' The eyes blazed and died.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                • Major Dexter Smythe, O.B.E., Royal Marines (Retd.), was the remains of a once brave and resourceful officer and of a handsome man who had had the sexual run of his teeth all his life, particularly among the Wrens and Wracs and ATS who manned the communications and secretariat of the very special task force to which he had been attached at the end of his service career. Now he was fifty-four and slightly bald, and his belly sagged in his Jantzen trunks. And he had had two coronary thromboses, the second (the "second warning" as his doctor, Jimmy Greaves, who had been one of their high poker game at Prince's Club when Dexter Smythe had first come to Jamaica, had half jocularly put it) only a month before. But, in his well-chosen clothes, with his varicose veins out of sight, and with his stomach flattened by a discreet support belt behind an immaculate cummerbund, he was still a fine figure of a man at a cocktail party or dinner on the North Shore. And it was a mystery to his friends and neighbors why, in defiance of the two ounces of whiskey and the ten cigarettes a day to which his doctor had rationed him, he persisted in smoking like a chimney and going to bed drunk, if amiably drunk, every night.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        • 'I'm sorry,' she said, 'I just thought . . . I was just trying . . .'