Inspirasi Kediri Bertutur

                                                                  • 'Dog?' he says. 'What dog?'
                                                                    Colonel Wisewell, commanding the defences of the city, realised the nature of his problem. He had got to hold the lines of Washington, cost what it might, until the arrival of the troops from Grant. He took the bold step of placing on the picket line that night every man within reach, or at least every loyal man within reach (for plenty of the men in Washington were looking and hoping for the success of the South). The instructions usually given to pickets were in this instance reversed. The men were ordered, in place of keeping their positions hidden and of maintaining absolute quiet, to move from post to post along the whole line, and they were also ordered, without any reference to the saving of ammunition, to shoot off their carbines on the least possible pretext and without pretext. The armories were then beginning to send to the front Sharp's repeating carbines. The invention of breech-loading rifles came too late to be of service to the infantry on either side, but during the last year of the War, certain brigades of cavalry were armed with Sharp's breech-loaders. The infantry weapon used through the War by the armies of the North as by those of the South was the muzzle-loading rifle which bore the name on our side of the Springfield and on the Confederate side of the Enfield. The larger portion of the Northern rifles were manufactured in Springfield, Massachusetts, while the Southern rifles, in great part imported from England, took their name from the English factory. It was of convenience for both sides that the two rifles were practically identical so that captured pieces and captured ammunition could be interchanged without difficulty.

                                                                                                                                  • 'Oh, I know. Yes, he was pretty horrible. He had such dreadful teeth.'
                                                                                                                                    All speculation, however, on the possible future developments of my father's opinions, and on the probabilities of permanent co-operation between him and me in the promulgation of our thoughts, was doomed to be cut short. During the whole of 1835 his health had been declining: his symptoms became unequivocally those of pulmonary consumption, and after lingering to the last stage of debility, he died on the 23rd of June, 1836. Until the last few days of his life there was no apparent abatement of intellectual vigour; his interest in all things and persons that had interested him through life was undiminished, nor did the approach of death cause the smallest wavering (as in so strong and firm a mind it was impossible that it should) in his convictions on the subject of religion. His principal satisfaction, after he knew that his end was near, seemed to be the thought of what he had done to make the world better than he found it; and his chief regret in not living longer, that he had not had time to do more.
                                                                                                                                    "Well there is one thing, James." Mary Goodnight looked down her pretty nose. "Matron says you can leave at the end of the week, but that there's got to be another three weeks' convalescence. Had you got any plans where to go? You have to be in reach of the hospital."
                                                                                                                                    I have never written three novels in a year, but by following the plan above described I have written more than as much as three volumes; and by adhering to it over a course of years, I have been enabled to have always on hand — for some time back now — one or two or even three unpublished novels in my desk beside me. Were I to die now there are three such besides The Prime Minister, half of which has only yet been issued. One of these has been six years finished, and has never seen the light since it was first tied up in the wrapper which now contains it. I look forward with some grim pleasantry to its publication after another period of six years, and to the declaration of the critics that it has been the work of a period of life at which the power of writing novels had passed from me. Not improbably, however, these pages may be printed first.
                                                                                                                                    I thought it was very strange that she should ask me, and answered, 'Nothing.' I turned over on my face, I recollect, to hide my trembling lip, which answered her with greater truth. 'Davy,' said my mother. 'Davy, my child!'


                                                                                                                                    The disturbance was brief. Within a few centuries it was over. There emerged a world the geography of which was largely unfamiliar and its climate temporarily moister; for much of the ocean had been boiled into the sky, and immense tracts of hot lava had appreciably raised the average temperature, so that the moisture in the air did not at all quickly condense. Mankind was reduced to a remnant living in the less devastated corners of the lands. Material civilization was destroyed, and men were forced to resort once more to primitive agriculture. The factories for the making of sub-atomic machinery were all destroyed, and most of the generators themselves. Experts of all kinds were decimated. Precious skills were lost. Laboratories, libraries, the records of human culture, were nearly all burnt or submerged under the new seas or the floods, of lava.
                                                                                                                                    "Are you the biggest theatrical agent in the world?" I said. He returned my gaze evenly.
                                                                                                                                    This was sounding better all the time. “You really think I can do it?”
                                                                                                                                    Lord L? was more delighted with him than ever; and while he so felt, unconsciously looked towards Julia. He accounted, however, for so doing, by again recurring to the subject of her preservation from a fate of which he himself, he said, knew not half the horror till his last conversation with his daughter. And his lordship here mentioned, in strong terms, the repugnance evinced by Julia, to the addresses of her cousin. In fact, it was to take an opportunity of impressing this particular on his auditor, that Lord L? had drawn him aside. Then after renewing with becoming seriousness, his expressions of grateful obligation towards our hero, his lordship added, with an air of pleasantry, “Were I a monarch, Fitz-Ullin, I should say: ask what thou wilt, even unto the half of my kingdom, and I will give it thee!” Our hero,[306] instead of smiling, as might have been expected, turned deadly pale. This, however, was unperceived by Lord L?, who, returning towards the ladies arm in arm with Fitz-Ullin, stopped, perhaps unconscious of the association of ideas which had guided his steps before Julia, and, taking her hand kindly, said, “I don’t think, my child, you have half thanked your preserver!” She replied by looking up in the face, first of her father, and then of Fitz-Ullin, with the gentlest and sweetest expression possible. Yet, strange to say, the immediate effect on our hero was evidently painful. Dinner was announced at the moment, and Lord L?, making over the hand he still held to Fitz-Ullin, offered his own arm to Lady Oswald, and led her towards the dining-room. The arrangement was quite a matter of course, yet both Julia and our hero coloured.

                                                                                                                                                                                                  • Lord Palmerston,..... 1882

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  • When Major Smythe had finished telling his story, Bond said unemotionally, "Yes, that's more or less the way I figured it."

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  • She was introduced as Miss Dartle, and both Steerforth and his mother called her Rosa. I found that she lived there, and had been for a long time Mrs. Steerforth's companion. It appeared to me that she never said anything she wanted to say, outright; but hinted it, and made a great deal more of it by this practice. For example, when Mrs. Steerforth observed, more in jest than earnest, that she feared her son led but a wild life at college, Miss Dartle put in thus:

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  • He took a shower and shaved. Breakfast was brought by Peter. 'Any more news about this poor guide?'

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  • "I heard the lieutenant in charge of the Mountie party shout, 'It's the law! Get 'em up!' And then there was a mixture of single shots and bursts from the chopper"- he grinned-"sorry, sub-machine-gun, and, somebody screamed. Then the lieutenant shouted, 'Get that man!' and the next moment the lock blew off the door beside me and a man charged in. He held a smoking machine-gun tight against the hip, which is the way to use them, and he whirled from right to left in the bed-sitter, looking for Boris. I knew it was Uhlmann, the ex-Gestapo man. One's had to get to know the smell of a German, and of a Russian for the matter of that, in my line of work, and I had him in my sights. I shot at his gun and blasted it out of his hands. But he was quick. He jumped behind the open door. The door was only a thin bit of wood. I couldn't take a chance on him having another gun and firing first, so I sprayed a wide Z of bullets through the wood, bending my knees lower as I did so. Just as well I did this, because he fired a quick burst that nearly parted my hair when I was almost on my knees. But two of my bullets had got him, in the left shoulder and right hip as it turned out, and he crashed down behind the door and lay quiet.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  • 'But what I want you to be, Trot,' resumed my aunt, '- I don't mean physically, but morally; you are very well physically - is, a firm fellow. A fine firm fellow, with a will of your own. With resolution,' said my aunt, shaking her cap at me, and clenching her hand. 'With determination. With character, Trot - with strength of character that is not to be influenced, except on good reason, by anybody, or by anything. That's what I want you to be. That's what your father and mother might both have been, Heaven knows, and been the better for it.'

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  • James Bond was beginning to sweat. He had got absolutely nowhere and the bidding must surely be coming to an end. The auctioneer repeated the bid.