Inspirasi Kediri Bertutur

                                                                • "Not so fast, my friend. First of all, who are you and what's your business?"
                                                                  She looked like a very sunburned female wardress. She had a square, brutal face with hard yellow eyes. Her smile was an oblong hole without humour or welcome, and there were sunburn blisters at the left corner of her mouth which she licked from time to time with the tip of a pale tongue. Wisps of brownish grey hair, with a tight, neat bun at the back, showed from under a skiing hat with a yellow talc visor that had straps which met under her chin. Her strong, short body was dressed in unbecomingly tight vorlage trousers topped by a grey wind-jacket ornamented over the left breast with a large red G topped by a coronet. Irma la not so Douce, thought Bond. He said, 'Yes. It was very pleasant.'

                                                                                                                              • On the parking lot the smell of the swamps was very strong. While it was still comparatively cool, he decided to walk farther. He soon came to the end of the young shrubs and guinea grass the landscaper had laid on. Behind these was desolation-a great area of sluggish streams and swampland from which the hotel land had been recovered. Egrets, shrikes, and Louisiana herons rose and settled lazily, and there were strange insect noises and the call of frogs and gekkos. On what would probably be the border of the property, a biggish stream meandered towards the sea, its muddy banks pitted with the holes of land crabs and water rats. As Bond approacned, there was a heavy splash and a man-sized alligator left the bank and showed its snout before submerging. Bond smiled to himself. No doubt, if the hotel got off the ground, all this area would be turned into an asset. There would be native boatmen, suitably attired as Arawak Indians, a landing stage, and comfortable boats with fringed shades from which the guests could view the "tropical jungle" for an extra ten dollars on the bill.
                                                                                                                                Well, to be fair, Bramble hadn’t really figured that one out yet, either. As biologists, he and DavidCarrier could decipher how the machine was designed, but they needed an anthropologist todetermine what that design could actually do. “I knew a lot about evolution and a little aboutlocomotion,” Lieberman says. “Dennis knew a shitload about locomotion, but not so much aboutevolution.”
                                                                                                                                Kissy said, 'Not much longer. And you have rowed well.' She gestured to the right, to where the rest of the Ama fleet was spread out over the ocean. 'With us, it is first come first served with the sites we choose. Today we can get out as far as a shoal most of us know of, and we shall have it to ourselves. There the seaweed is thick on the rocks and that is what the awabi feed on. It is deep, about forty feet, but I can stay down for almost a minute, long enough to pick up two, three awabi if I can find them. That is just a matter of luck in feeling about with the hands among the seaweed, for you rarely see the shells. You only feel them and dislodge them with this,' she tapped her angular pick. 'After a while I shall have to rest. Then perhaps you would like to go down. Yes? They tell me you are a good swimmer and I have brought a pair of my father's goggles. These bulbs at the sides,' she showed him, 'have to be squeezed to equalize the pressure between the glasses and the eyes. You will perhaps not be able to stay down long to begin with. But you will learn quickly. How long will you be staying on Kuro?'
                                                                                                                                The guard let go of Bond's arms. Bond turned and looked into the broad yellow face below the crinkly hair. There was a hint of curiosity and pleasure in the liquid brown eyes. The man stood holding the door handle. He said, "Well, this is it, bud. You're at the starting gate. You can either sit here and rot or find your way out on to the course. Happy landings."


                                                                                                                                It was an excellent, uninspiring shot. Bond knew that Goldfinger would be capable of repeating the same swing with different clubs again and again round the eighteen holes.
                                                                                                                                The prize, when you achieve rapport, is the otherperson's positive acceptance. This response won't be inso many words, but it will signal something like this:
                                                                                                                                So now my eyes filled with tears-not because of Derek, but because of the sweet pain of boy and girl and sunshine and first love with its tunes and snapshots and letters "Sealed With A Loving Kiss." They were tears of sentiment for lost childhood, and of self-pity for the pain that had been its winding sheet, and I let two tears roll down my cheeks before I brushed them away and decided to have a short orgy of remembering.
                                                                                                                                She laughed. 'The maid on this floor has become a friend.
                                                                                                                                It was cold up there at ten thousand feet or more, and Oberhauser had got into the hut and was busy preparing a fire. Major Smythe controlled his horror at the sight. "Oberhauser," he said cheerfully, "come out and show me some of the sights. Wonderful view up here."

                                                                                                                                                                                            • I have in a previous chapter said how I wrote Can You Forgive Her? after the plot of a play which had been rejected — which play had been called The Noble Jilt. Some year or two after the completion of The Last Chronicle, I was asked by the manager of a theatre to prepare a piece for his stage, and I did so, taking the plot of this novel. I called the comedy Did He Steal It? But my friend the manager did not approve of my attempt. My mind at this time was less attentive to such a matter than when dear old George Bartley nearly crushed me by his criticism — so that I forget the reason given. I have little doubt but that the manager was right. That he intended to express a true opinion, and would have been glad to have taken the piece had he thought it suitable, I am quite sure.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          • The romantic little hotel is on the site of Port Royal at the tip of the Palisadoes. The proprietor, an Englishman who had once been in Intelligence himself and who guessed what Bond's job was, was glad to see him. He showed Bond to a comfortable air-conditioned room with a view of the pool and the wide mirror of Kingston Harbour. He said, "What is it this time? Cubans or smuggling? They're the popular targets these days."

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      • Away from the club house, to which only a thin trickle of smart-looking people were making their way, he got into the usual mountain-top crowd - people swarming out of the cable-head, skiers wobbling or schussing down the easy nursery slopes on the plateau, little groups marshalled under individual teachers and guides from the valley. The terrace of the public restaurant was already crowded with the underprivileged who hadn't got the money or the connexions to join the club. He walked below it on the well-trampled snow and stood among the skiers at the top of the first plunging schuss of the Gloria run. A large notice-board, crowned with the G and the coronet, announced GLORIA ABFAHRT! Then below, ROT - FREIE FAHRT. GELB - FREIE FAHRT.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    • The shades of sorrow fell;—

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  • "Just notes to remember them by."

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                • Whatever. As far as Fisher was concerned, they could call him Dr. Dumbass, as long as they gotserious once the race started. The Pescador squeezed his team into the Chevy and hit the gas forColorado.