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His heart beating faster, his throat drying, Nabby whispered to the driver, ‘Not so bloody fast.’ ‘Tuan?’ ‘All right, all right.’ One of these days he must really get down to the language. There never seemed to be the time, somehow....
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'Prison religion'...
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...a victim of bad medicine, bad air, bad food, farcical education, a despicable popular culture.
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I decide that the East has definitely spoiled me for women.
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'But what happens when you die?' 'You’re finished with,' Enderby said promptly. 'Done for. And even if you weren’t – well, you die then, gasp your last, then you’re sort of wandering, free of body. You wander around and then you come in contact with a sort of big thing. What is this big thing? God, if you like.'
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There was a silence. Outside, and most unfortunately, a boy could be heard calling to another boy: ‘Piss off, Cowie.’ Stern looks were fixed on Woolton.
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The East would always present that calm face of faint astonishment, unmoved at the anger, not understanding the bitterness.
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She gave the lie to the European superstition - chiefly a missionary superstition - that the women of the East are downtrodden.
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The Christian ecumenical movement will have reached its limit, meaning that Catholicism will have turned into Protestantism and Protestantism into agnosticism....But Islam will not have lost any of its rigour....Supernature abhors a supervacuum. With the death of institutional Christianity will come the spread of Islam.
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It had, perhaps, not been a very edifying life. On the booze in England, in India, in Malaya… And then a couple of gins for breakfast and then the first beers of the day in a kedai … He had been driven out of that Eden…because of his sinful desire to taste what was forbidden.
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…no European whore’s mock-respectability.
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…English translation of the Koran. I wonder how, with such a repetitive farrago of platitudes, expressing so self-evident a theology and an ethic so puerile, Islam can have spread as it has.
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I was only the returned Oriental eccentric, drunk at that…
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'It was not seemly to raise your flags on the minarets.'
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…a man who sold meat but knew nothing of the poetry of the slaughterhouse…. Ted Arden was no ice-cream butcher.
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It was the afternoon of my eighty-first birthday, and I was in bed with my catamite when Ali announced that the archbishop had come to see me.
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Rosemary’s reputation was known; he would, by obscure logic, become retrospectively a cuckold.
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Edwin, so much himself a sham, felt a sort of kinship with the sham pleasures of Tottenham Court Road and Oxford Street as they travelled painfully towards Soho.
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He would milk the white man....The white man had more money than sense.
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Well-fed and liquored, I responded with ardour.
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Around them the gawping locals sat, amazed with an amazement that never grew less…
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'…Just you bloody hypocrites with your four wives and your ten thousand houris in heaven?…'
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‘…I prefer to think of young women less as human beings than as pimply parcels of televisual reflexes.’
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The West is eveningland, the East morningland.