Inspirasi Kediri Bertutur

                                          • There came an angry murmur from round the table. "Why shouldn't we . . . ? Why shouldn't they . . . ?" The voice of Gengerella dominated the others. He shouted, "Who in hell said we weren't to make money? Isn't that one of the objects of The Group? I ask you again, Mr. Hendriks, as I asked you six months ago, who in hell is it among your so-called superiors who wants to keep the price of raw sugar down? For my money, the most interested party in such a gambit would be Soviet Russia. They're selling goods to Cuba, including, let me say, the recently abortive shipment of missiles to fire against my country, in exchange for raw sugar. They're sharp traders, the Reds. In their doubledealing way, even from a friend and ally, they would want more sugar for fewer goods. Yes? I suppose," the voice sneered, "one of your superiors, Mr. Hendriks, would not by any chance be in the Kremlin?"
                                            Frequently a person's emotions and intentions aremisunderstood by those around them. For instance, awoman at one of my seminars discovered that sheunconsciously used a tone of voice that was incongruentwith her words. "No, I'm not confused, I'm interested,"she would insist when tested. And again, "No, I'mnot sad, I'm relaxed." This went on and on until shecame to the verge of tears and said, "Now I know why mykids are always saying, 'Mom, how come you get mad atus all the time?' And I'm not mad at them. Sometimes I'mjust excited."The same woman also told us that her coworkersaccused her of sarcasm but that, to her, nothing couldbe further from the truth. In fact, sarcasm is simplywords said with conflicting voice tone. It is structuredso the person on the receiving end will believe what'sinferred by the tonality. Suppose you let your teamdown and somebody is heard to quip, "That was brilliant,"with a tonality that communicates annoyance.

                                                                                    • Certain luxury foods, and every villager demanded his share of luxury, had to be procured from the local or national factory, and some specially choice articles from foreign lands. But any village with any pretension to taste and local pride could produce characteristic local variants of the essential synthetic ‘meats’, ‘breads’, ‘cheeses’, ‘fruits’, and drinks. Many an isolated homestead, if its food-making was managed with intelligence and artistry, could produce a simple but elegant meal to delight the most fastidious traveller.
                                                                                      There was a lovely garden to Mr. Spenlow's house; and though that was not the best time of the year for seeing a garden, it was so beautifully kept, that I was quite enchanted. There was a charming lawn, there were clusters of trees, and there were perspective walks that I could just distinguish in the dark, arched over with trellis-work, on which shrubs and flowers grew in the growing season. 'Here Miss Spenlow walks by herself,' I thought. 'Dear me!'
                                                                                      After alluding to the manner of her earlier English life, and contrasting it with the manner of her existence at Batala, where 鈥榯wo chairs were placed on two sides of a table in a large and almost unfurnished room,鈥 Mr. Clark continues: 鈥楳iss Tucker ate very little. She always told us to tell her beforehand if we were going to see her, in order that she might have something to place before us. There was then no railway; and everything had to be brought from Amritsar once or twice a week. The bread often became very hard. She sometimes said, 鈥淒o try this piece; it seems a little softer.鈥 Her guests were thinking all the time of her tender gums, and of her teeth which were no longer young.鈥橖br> 'Of course, Tiger. My country has not been occupied for many centuries. The imposition of a new culture on an old one is something we have not suffered. I cannot imagine my reactions in the same circumstances. Much the same as yours, I expect. Please go on with your story.' Bond reached for the sake flask. It stood in a jar of warm water being heated over a slow flame from a charcoal burner. He filled his glass and drank. Tiger Tanaka rocked two or three times on his buttocks and the sides of his feet. He resumed.


                                                                                      As pleasing to itself, for eating good,
                                                                                      One other case occurred during my conduct of the Review, which similarly illustrated the effect of taking a prompt initiative. I believe that the early success and reputation of Carlyle's French Revolution, were considerably accelerated by what I wrote about it in the Review. Immediately on its publication, and before the commonplace critics, all whose rules and modes of judgment it set at defiance, had time to preoccupy the public with their disapproval of it, I wrote and published a review of the book, hailing it as one of those productions of genius which are above all rules, and are a law to themselves. Neither in this case nor in that of Lord Durham do I ascribe the impression, which I think was produced by what I wrote, to any particular merit of execution: indeed, in at least one of the cases (the article on Carlyle) I do not think the execution was good. And in both instances, I am persuaded that anybody, in a position to be read, who had expressed the same opinion at the same precise time, and had made any tolerable statement of the just grounds for it, would have produced the same effects. But, after the complete failure of my hopes of putting a new life into radical politics by means of the Review, I am glad to look back on these two instances of success in an honest attempt to do mediate service to things and persons that deserved it.
                                                                                      'I couldn't say.' Goldfinger walked away from Bond towards his ball. Bond's drive was out of sight, over the ridge that bisected the fairway. It wouldn't be more than fifty yards from the pin. Bond thought he knew what would be in Goldfinger's mind, what is in most golfers' minds when they smell the first scent of a good lead melting away. Bond wouldn't be surprised to see that grooved swing quicken a trifle. It did. Goldfinger hooked into a bunker on the left of the green.
                                                                                      The other man sat quiet while Tiffy came out from behind the counter. She came over to the table and placed the tin tray with the bottles and glasses in front of Bond. She didn't look at Scaramanga. Scaramanga uttered a harsh bark of laughter. He reached inside his coat and took out all alligator-skin billfold. He extracted a hundred-dollar bill and threw it on the table. "No hard feelings, cool cat. You'd be okay if you didn't always keep your legs together. Go buy yourself some more birds with that. I like to have smiling people around me."
                                                                                      'Sister Clarissa,' said Miss Lavinia. 'Perhaps we needn't mind that now.'

                                                                                                                              • “Oh! whence is the stream of years, and whither

                                                                                                                                                                        • After the asparagus, Bond had little appetite for the thin slivers of pineapple. He tipped the last of the ice-cold champagne into his glass. He felt wonderful. The effects of the benzedrine and champagne had more than offset the splendour of the food. For the first time he took his mind away from the dinner and his conversation with M. and glanced round the room.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                  • TO MRS. J. BOSWELL.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            • 'Mr. Wickfield's at home, ma'am,' said Uriah Heep, 'if you'll please to walk in there' - pointing with his long hand to the room he meant.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      • 鈥業 expect to find some of the flock very troublesome folk; but that is what Missionaries must expect. These big brown families have[353] their prodigals and sloths and backsliders. What is to be expected from those who have had so little light for generation after generation? We should hail every symptom of improvement. The European idea of a Missionary standing under a tree, preaching,鈥攁nd numbers listening, understanding, and welcoming the Word of Life,鈥攊s often a fancy picture, or gives a most imperfect view of the truth. The seeking to win souls is but one part of the real work.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          • Chapter 10 “The Small House at Allington”