He seemed to be in bad shape; he had the drunkard's habit of ducking his mouth towards the rim of his glass just before he drank, as if his hand might fail him and the drink escape.
Alec Leamas, faking things, page 60
Citeste tot...
Damn. I haven't been so friggin fraggin tired since quite a while.
I tried this evening to gather my horses, to forget everything and to start reading a book that waits me since a year ago. And finally I've started it.
Alas, I didn't take in consideration the context. I was tired, I was on the verge of falling asleep, I've finally fallen asleep with the book on my chest, while my two young forces of nature thought otherwise. They raised hell this evening, and I woke up miserably, after less than one hour, angry and sullen and red eyed.
Life is a bitch and then we're sleep deprived.
Dig this. The Looking Glass War, John Le Carre. An exquisite, vein-shattering way of describing an useless death. That's why I love Le Carre. For reminding us how meek we are, in strong, slick, slender words full of venom and truth.
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The car hit him from behind, breaking his spine. For one dreadful moment Taylor described a classic posture of anguish, his head and shoulders flung violently backwards, fingers extended. He made no cry. It was as if his entire body and soul were concentrated in this final attitude of pain, more articulate in death than any sound the living man had made.
Citeste tot...
