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They are all part of the Bite Back Series, though two novellas are spin-offs. If money were no object, what kind of car would you get? (3) Saigon: The Reach of Lies—the first book in a new companion series which will be published . We recently adopted a Chow-chow/Husky mix from our local shelter.
Table of contents
Thus a man looking through a tremendous telescope does not see the cirri of an Indian summer above his charmed orchard, but does see, as my regretted colleague, the late Professor Alexander Ivanchenko, twice saw, the swarming of hesperozoa in a humid valley of the planet Venus. They were still up to their waists in its prudery and prejudice. They clung to tradition as a vine still clings to a dead tree. In their letters they addressed perfect strangers by what was Mountain gorges seemed to have been ransacked for echoes; these were subjected to a special treatment on a basis of honey and rubber until their condensed accents could be synchronized with the labial movements of serial photographs on a moon-white screen in a velvet-dark hall.
I remember the sun-splashed garden chairs under the apple tree, and a bright copper-colored setter, and a fat, freckled boy with a book in his lap, and a handy-looking apple that I picked up in the shadow of a hedge. But the future has no such reality as the pictured past and the perceived present possess ; the future is but a figure of speech, a specter of thought. A thin veneer of immediate reality is spread over natural and artificial matter, and whoever wishes to remain in the now, with the now, on the now, should please not break its tension film.
Max Brand Book List - FictionDB
Otherwise the inexperienced miracle-worker will find himself no longer walking on water but descending upright among staring fish. The tap expostulated, letting forth a strong squirt of rusty water before settling down to produce the meek normal stuff—which you do not appreciate sufficiently, which is a flowing mystery, and, yes, yes, which deserves monuments to be erected to it, cool shrines!
A knife and a brass sharpener have thoroughly worked upon it and if it were necessary we could trace the complicated fate of the shavings, each mauve on one side and tan on the other when fresh, but now reduced to atoms of dust whose wide, wide dispersal is panic catching its breath but one should be above it, one gets used to it fairly soon there are worse terrors.
Now let us not lose our precious bit of lead while we prepare the wood. This particular pine! It is cut down. Only the trunk is used, stripped of its bark. We hear the whine of a newly invented power saw, we see logs being dried and planed.
We recognize its presence in the log as we recognized the log in the tree and the tree in the forest and the forest in the world that Jack built. We recognize that presence by something that is perfectly clear to us but nameless, and as impossible to describe as a smile to somebody who has never seen smiling eyes. Thus the entire little drama, from crystallized carbon and felled pine to this humble implement, to this transparent thing, unfolds in a twinkle. Alas, the solid pencil itself as fingered briefly by Hugh Person still somehow eludes us!
One should follow her, it would be a good lesson—follow her instead of going to gape at a waterfall: good lesson for the old man. With an oath and a sigh Hugh retraced his steps, which was once a trim metaphor, and went back to the shop. For optical and animal reasons, sexual love is less transparent than many other much more complicated things.
Like many a young man of dark genius who feels in a wad of bills all the tangible thickness of immediate delights, he had no practical sense, no ambition to make more money, and no qualms about his future means of subsistence these proved negligible when it transpired that the cash had been more than a tenth of the actual inheritance. What they do with the other, much greater, portion, how and where their real fancies and feelings are housed, is not exactly a mystery - there are no mysteries now - but would entail explications and revelations too sad, too frightful, to face.
Animality and Children’s Literature and Film
My job! I can commit to memory a whole page of the directory in three minutes flat but am incapable of remembering my own telephone number. I can compose patches of poetry as strange and new as you are, or as anything a person may write three hundred years hence, but I have never published one scrap of verse except some juvenile nonsense at college. Using ink and aquarelle I can paint a lakescape of unsurpassed translucence with all the mountains of paradise reflected therein, but am unable to draw a boat or a bridge or the silhouette of human panic in the blazing windows of a villa by Plam.
I can levitate one inch high and keep it up for ten seconds, but cannot climb an apple tree. I have fallen in love with you but shall do nothing about it. In short I am an all-round genius. Julia giggled, preparing for a delectable evening. No matrimonial agency could have offered its clients such variations on the theme of one virgin. One might have said to fat, vulgar Madame Chamar: how dare you exhibit your child to sensitive strangers? Take those pictures away, you stupid nudist! The charm of the Past Tense lay in its secrecy.
Knowing Julia, he was quite sure she would not have told a chance friend about their affair—one sip among dozens of swallows.
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Once already he had made Jack show her his implement but she had stamped her foot and made them behave themselves. She was ready to be ultramodern, socially and sexually, but this was offensive, and vulgar, and as old as Greece. A shiver of tenderness rippled her features, as a breeze does a reflection.
Her eyelashes were wet, her shoulders shook in his clasp. That kiss, and not anything preceding it, was the real beginning of their courtship. Major surgery offered one of the most useful means of draining off the destructive urge: a respected though not always lucky practitioner had admitted privately how difficult he found it to stop himself from hacking out every organ in sight during an operation.
Per contra, something he said by chance, not planning the pang and the poetry, some trivial phrase, would prompt suddenly a hysterically happy response on the part of that dry-souled, essentially unhappy woman. Conscious attempts failed. The most ardent addresses he could think up—my princess, my sweetheart, my angel, my animal, my exquisite beast—merely exasperated her. He tried to kiss the hem of her skirt or bite the crease of her trouserleg, her instep, the toe of her furious foot—and as he groveled, his unmusical voice muttering maudlin, exotic, rare, common nothings and everythings, into his own ear..
It all made him ashamed of himself but he could not stop and she could not understand, for at such times he never came up with the right word, the right waterweed. Armande had many trying, though not necessarily rare, traits, all of which he accepted as absurd clues in a clever puzzle. For example, he told himself that she refused to strip because she was shy of her tiny pouting breasts and the scar of a ski accident along her thigh.
Silly Person! What luck that Mr. Romeo still gripped and twisted and cracked that crooked cricoid as X-rayed by the firemen and mountain guides in the street. Superman carrying a young soul in his embrace! For a moment he wondered what his wife was doing there, prone on the floor, her fair hair spread as if she were flying. Then he stared at his bashful claws.
In that House I shall be proofread by cherubim—or misprinted by devils, depending on the department my poor soul is assigned to. Actually, they ripped me open, cast one horrified look at my decayed fegato, and without touching it sewed me up again. As you know—as everybody, even Marion, knows—he gnawed his way into all my affairs, crawling into every cranny, collecting every German-accented word of mine, so that now he can boswell the dead man just as he had bossed very well the living one.
My wretched liver is as heavy as a rejected manuscript; they manage to keep the hideous hyena pain at bay by means of frequent injections but somehow or other it remains always present behind the wall of my flesh like the muffled thunder of a permanent avalanche which obliterates there, beyond me, all the structures of my imagination, all the landmarks of my conscious self.
Total rejection of all religions ever dreamt up by man and total composure in the face of total death! If I could explain this triple totality in one big book, that book would become no doubt a new bible and its author the founder of a new creed. It was either raining or pretending to rain or not raining at all, yet still appearing to rain in a sense that only certain old Northern dialects can either express verbally or not express, but versionize, as it were, through the ghost of a sound produced by a drizzle in a haze of grateful rose shrubs.
One should bear in mind, however, that there is no mirage without a vanishing point, just as there is no lake without a closed circle of reliable land. It is generally assumed that if man were to establish the fact of survival after death, he would also solve, or be on the way to solving, the riddle of Being. Alas, the two problems do not necessarily overlap or blend. The purpose of prisons is certainly not to cure a killer, nor is it only to punish him how can one punish a man who has everything with him, within him, around him?
To put it concisely a killer who sees himself as a victim is not only a murderer but a moron. Now flames were mounting the stairs, in pairs, in trios, in redskin file, hand in hand, tongue after tongue, conversing and humming happily. Rings of blurred colors circled around him, reminding him briefly of a childhood picture in a frightening book about triumphant vegetables whirling faster and faster around a nightshirted boy trying desperately to awake from the iridescent dizziness of dream life. I was rewarded at last, upon choosing one, by the sight of what might be described as the dot of an exclamation mark leaving its ordinary position to glide down very fast - a jot faster than the thaw-drop it raced.
The lean ghost, the elongated umbra cast by a parking meter upon some damp snow, had a strange ruddy tinge; this I made out to be due to the tawny red light of the restaurant sign above the sidewalk. And then, holding that limp notebook as if it were a kind of passport to a casual Elysium where pencil points do not snap and a dreamy young beauty with an impeccable complexion winds a lock of her hair on a dreamy forefinger, as she meditates over some celestial test.
Her coily hairdo, on a part-and-bun basis, might have looked feral and bizarre had it not been thoroughly domesticated by its own soft unkemptness at the vulnerable nape. I have always wished to stand genealogy on its head, and here I have an opportunity to do so, for it is the last scion, Cynthia, and Cynthia alone, who will remain of any importance in the Vane dynasty. Seen Through a Windshield - a windshield partly covered with rime, with a brilliant trickle from an imaginary car roof across its transparent part and, through it all, the sapphire flame of the sky and a green-and-white fir tree.
Contrary to Cynthia, he cared nothing for the thrill of obscure predictions; all he sought was the freak itself, the chance that mimics choice, the flaw that looks like a flower; and Cynthia, a much more perverse amateur of misshapen or illicitly connected words, puns, logogriphs, and so on, had helped the poor crank to pursue a quest that in the light of the example she cited struck me as statistically insane.
Finally, with a great crash and all kinds of shudderings and jiglike movements on the part of the table, Leo Tolstoy visited our little group and, when asked to identify himself by specific traits of terrene habitation, launched upon a complex description of what seemed to be some Russian type of architectural woodwork "figures on boards — man, horse, cock, man, horse, cock" , all of which was difficult to take down, hard to understand, and impossible to verify.
I looked with the apprehension of solitude at the two kinds of darkness in the two rows of windows: the darkness of absence and the darkness of sleep. The silence, too, was suspiciously compact as if deliberately forming a black backdrop for the nerve flash caused by any small sound of unknown origin.
I thumbed a mental ride with a very remote automobile but it dropped me before I had a chance to doze off. Who knows, if recorded and then run backward, those bird sounds might not become human speech, voiced words, just as the latter become a twitter when reversed?