Can you define “plan” as “a loose sequence of manifestly inadequate observations and conjectures, held together by panic, indecision, and ignorance”? If so, it was a very good plan.
Check out that one at the end. He’s taken the form of a footstool. Weird…but somehow I like his style.””That is a footstool.
Ah, two firm friends, reunited at last! There should be sweet violin music playing for us, but I’ll settle for the screams of the dying.
And then, as if written by the hand of a bad novelist, an incredible thing happened.
If anyone else asked that question, O He Who Is Terrible and Great, I would have said they were an ignorant fool; in you it is a sign of the disarming simplicity which is the fount of all virtue.
Literature offers the thrill of minds of great clarity wrestling with the endless problems and delights of being human. To engage with them is to engage with oneself, and the lasting rewards are not confined to specific career paths.
It was Nathaniel’s boundless capacity for stating the obvious that made him so charmingly human.
I wanted to wake you straightaway, but I knew I had to wait several hours to ensure you were safely recovered.””What! How long has it been?””Five minutes. I got bored.
The Amulet of Samarkand. It was Simon Lovelace’s. Now it is yours. Soon it will be Simon Lovelace’s again. Take it and enjoy the consequences.
To my astonishment I saw him standing at a table with Kitty Jones. It was the Kitty Jones bit that was astonishing. Not the table. Though it was very nicely polished.
I—though forced through lack of space to assume the form of a stoic guinea pig crouched between the girl’s shoe and the glove compartment—was my usual dignified self.
In my youth, I was always one for the dramatic entrance. Now, in keeping with my character, I gravitate more toward the subtle and refined. Okay, with the occasional feathered serpent thrown in.
Ambition is all very well, my lad, but you must cloak it.
Lockwood gave a sudden exclamation; when I looked at him, his eyes were shining. ‘On second thoughts, we can scrap my last suggestion,’ he said. ‘Stuff the mingling. Who wants to do that? Boring. George – this library. Where is it?
There was a profound silence, abruptly broken by an enormously loud rumble from George’s stomach. Plaster didn’t actually fall from the ceiling, but it was close.
Really?””No. I’m being ironic. Or is it sarcastic? I can never remember.””Irony’s cleverer, so you’re probably being sarcastic.