Inspirasi Kediri Bertutur

                                                  • Major Smythe, questing for his prey along the reef, wondered what exactly those last words of the Bond man had meant. Inside the Pirelli his lips drew mirthlessly back from the stained teeth. It was obvious, really. It was just a version of the corny old act of leaving the guilty officer alone with his revolver. If the Bond man had wanted to, he could have telephoned Government House and had an officer of the Jamaica Regiment sent over to take Major Smythe into custody. Decent of him, in a way. Or was it? A suicide would be tidier, save a lot of paperwork and taxpayers' money.
                                                    'The rooks - what has become of them?' asked Miss Betsey.

                                                                                                  • 'I am Fraulein Irma Bunt. Personal secretary to the Count. Good afternoon. I hope you had a happy flight.'
                                                                                                    He knew as well as I did that it was just as likely, at that time of year, I was going down there whaling; but I felt complimented, too.
                                                                                                    So somebody from the Spangled Mob was on board and travelling with them. Who? Where?
                                                                                                    When the snow was too deep, Zatopek would jog in the tub on top of his dirty laundry, getting aresistance workout along with clean tighty whities. As soon as it thawed enough for him to getoutside, he’d go nuts; he’d run four hundred meters as fast as he could, over and over, for ninetyrepetitions, resting in between by jogging two hundred meters. By the time he was finished, he’ddone more than thirty-three miles of speedwork. Ask him his pace, and he’d shrug; he never timedhimself. To build explosiveness, he and his wife, Dana, used to play catch with a javelin, hurling itback and forth to each other across a soccer field like a long, lethal Frisbee. One of Zatopek’sfavorite workouts combined all his loves at once: he’d jog through the woods in his army bootswith his ever-loving wife riding on his back.
                                                                                                    One coffin stood open, its lid up against the wall and its side hinged down. This seemed to be the one destined for Bond.


                                                                                                    Tiger hissed impatiently, 'Really, Bondo-san. I am much disappointed in you. You fail test after test. I sincerely hope you will show improvement during the rest of our journey. Now eat up and stop being squeamish. This is a very great Japanese delicacy.'
                                                                                                    "All right. Let's go. And keep close to me, whatever they do or say."
                                                                                                    Tiger grunted. He looked back and then issued rapid instructions to the driver. The driver said, 'Hai!' briskly, and the corporal at his side unbuttoned the holster of his M-14 automatic. Tiger flexed his powerful fingers.

                                                                                                    As the door closed behind Bond with a pressurized sigh, the golden gun halted in midwhirl and sighted on Bond's stomach. "Fellows," said Scaramanga, mock boisterous, "meet my personal assistant, Mr. Mark Hazard, from London, England. He's come along to make things run smoothly over this weekend. Mark, come over and meet the gang and pass round the canapes." He lowered the gun and shoved it into his waistband.

                                                                                                                                                  • Chapter 16

                                                                                                                                                                                                  • Then, by degrees, an established sorrow was at home among us. My brother was an invalid, and the horrid word, which of all words were for some years after the most dreadful to us, had been pronounced. It was no longer a delicate chest, and some temporary necessity for peculiar care — but consumption! The Bruges doctor had said so, and we knew that he was right. From that time forth my mother’s most visible occupation was that of nursing. There were two sick men in the house, and hers were the hands that tended them. The novels went on, of course. We had already learned to know that they would be forthcoming at stated intervals — and they always were forthcoming. The doctor’s vials and the ink-bottle held equal places in my mother’s rooms. I have written many novels under many circumstances; but I doubt much whether I could write one when my whole heart was by the bedside of a dying son. Her power of dividing herself into two parts, and keeping her intellect by itself clear from the troubles of the world, and fit for the duty it had to do, I never saw equalled. I do not think that the writing of a novel is the most difficult task which a man may be called upon to do; but it is a task that may be supposed to demand a spirit fairly at ease. The work of doing it with a troubled spirit killed Sir Walter Scott. My mother went through it unscathed in strength, though she performed all the work of day-nurse and night-nurse to a sick household — for there were soon three of them dying.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  • 'No, sir, by about a hundred miles. We can only make the coast north of there.'

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  • "The West Side, as far as I'm concerned, has more good restaurants than any other place on earth, though I have not been to Paris," says Asimov, who hates flying. He made a trip to Europe last year on the Queen Elizabeth II — and came back on the return voyage. "It wasn't a vacation," he says. "I gave two talks each way and I wrote a book."

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  • There was no immediate answer, but presently I heard my name again, in a tone so very mysterious and awful, that I think I should have gone into a fit, if it had not occurred to me that it must have come through the keyhole.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  • 'It warn't for long as I felt that; for she was found. I had on'y to think as she was found, and it was gone. I doen't know why I do so much as mention of it now, I'm sure. I didn't have it in my mind a minute ago, to say a word about myself; but it come up so nat'ral, that I yielded to it afore I was aweer.'

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  • He looked up at Mathis to see how bored he was getting with these introspective refinements of what, to Mathis, was a simple question of duty.