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…of course, keep-fit people are no good in bed…
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...To the mother hubbard girl, whose name seemed to be Janie: ‘It becomes you, it does really, that chunk of filthy butter muslin, but then you’re the sort of girl who could get away with anything, even having one tit bigger than the other.’ He did a comic oenophil act with the bottle of Marsovin...
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The dog looked up through its hairy yashmak and farted.
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'How can slaves be sent by Allah? You all have hairless faces, the mark of the bondman.'
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‘...You know what they call you expatriates? White leeches.’
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'The Government cannot be concerned any longer with outmoded penological theories....Common criminals...can best be dealt with on a purely curative basis. Kill the criminal reflex, that’s all.'
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...he became one with his Chinese parishioners, announcing a trade as honest as that of the dentist, the seller of rice-wine, the brothel-keeper, the purveyor of quack rejuvenators and aphrodisiacs, or the vendor of shark’s-fin strips.
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Nabby Adams, supine on the bed, grunted. It was four o’clock in the morning and he did not want to be talking. He had had a confused coloured dream about Bombay, shot with sharp pangs of unpaid bills. Over it all had brooded thirst, thirst for a warmish bottle of Tiger beer. Or Anchor. Or Carlsberg. He said, 'Did you bring any beer back with you?'
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Rosemary was only a spinster in the strict sense of denotation. She was eminently, eminently nubile.
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I suppose the only real reason for travelling is to learn that all people are the same.
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an Australian….They have suffered under the yoke of the English…
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...the bathroom which Crabbe visited showed signs that Moneypenny now regarded even a lavatory as supererogatory.
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It was all a matter of a Goddess – dark, hidden, deadly, horribly desirable.
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‘it excites the pancreas to fresh efforts’
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The important thing is to get yourself born. You’re entitled to that. But you’re not entitled to life. Because if you were entitled to life, then the life would have to be quantified. How many years? Seventy? Sixty? Shakespeare was dead at fifty-two. Keats was dead at twenty-six. Thomas Chatterton at seventeen.
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‘I know what is love. Love is man and woman in bed.’
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There must always be somebody. However young or insignificant. There has to be somebody who comes from nowhere to say what others are too foolish or too frightened to say.
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'…And the rising sun shall rise yet higher, destroying with its flaming fire the evil will of the wicked West, but smiling warmly on the rest'
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…workmen who wanted (a) the white man out…,(c) sinecures
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...even the police discussed this violence as possibly coming within the scope of their terms of reference.