Bangkok Nights Quotes

Suppose neutral angels were able to talk, Yahweh and Lucifer – God and Satan, to use their popular titles – into settling out of court. What would be the terms of the compromise? Specifically, how would they divide the assets of their early kingdom? Would God be satisfied the loaves and fishes and itty-bitty thimbles of Communion wine, while Satan to have the red-eye gravy, eighteen-ounce New York Stakes, and buckets of chilled champagne? Would God really accept twice-a-month lovemaking for procreative purposes and give Satan the all night, no-holds-barred, nasty “can’t-get-enough-of-you” hot-as-hell-fucks? Think about it. Would Satan get New Orleans, Bangkok, and the French Riviera and God get Salt Lake City? Satan get ice hockey, God get horseshoes? God get bingo, Satan get stud poker? Satan get LSD; God, Prozac? God get Neil Simon; Satan Oscar Wilde?

The only thing I know about books, is that they should be like a woman's dress: long enough to cover the subject and short enough to be interesting. I read people.

Like raindrops, beautiful women were every-where. Like raindrops, only a few ever landed on you. They would either soak into your constitution or drip away into that puddle of other former love disasters drying out; dying in the Bangkok sun. Red Night Zone - Bangkok City

Lumpini Park at night: love at its cheapest, but the incidence of HIV is said to be over 60 per cent. In the darkness: furtive movement on benches and on the grass, muted moans and whispers, rustlings of large animals in heat, the intensity of the atomic fusion of sec and death (highly addictive, they say).

The hotel was guest-friendly with hourly rates and had enough room to swing a cat, if it were a small cat and you wanted to swing it.

On the basis of an offhand comment Aida made about curry, I spent weeks reconstructing a recipe by the world's best Indian chef, twenty-two spices compressed into a thumb-sized cookie that liquefied against the roof of the mouth. I candied summer's last fruits and presented them, tournéed to jewel-like facets, on a length of velvet. I was all night tinkering with a pad thai, wanting Aida to experience, as I had in an alley of old Bangkok, this precise magic of sugar and lime, that species of anchovy.

The Bangkok Comfort Zone - that strip running between Patpong, Soi Cowboy and Nana - was a huge bank of ice, thick as a glacier. Only you had to be around years and years to see and feel the deep chill, and by the time you had it was too late, the glacier had already dragged you under. Then you could never escape the gravity of the place that pulled them back from all over the world. Comfort Zone ice like a narcotic made you feel invincible. Zone veterans lived inside a solid block of ice. Zone workers, who were teenagers in chronological years, were soon aged inside the ice. The night ice crystals formed a thick fog over the Zone veterans and workers, creating an ice bridge; these ice people knew they could no longer live outside the Comfort Zone. They looked as normal as anyone else on the street because no one can see the ice, it's carried inside, around the heart. Calvino had gone through the event horizon of the Comfort Zone, and lived in the Zone's ice age for so long that it had become a habit. Addiction, baby. He had become Zone dead like the others

from, The Siamese Collectors: He needed a jolt. A drastic change. An explosion of old habits. He wanted to drop a hot grenade into his broken life. So he cooked up Barcelona and Madrid, Paris, Hong Kong and sent flurries of e-mails with resumes. And finally, when the only offer arrived in a beaten yellow envelope bearing exotic stamps, his father insisted he take it. At first he refused. Thailand to him was third rate, tainted by ideas of the Golden Triangle, white slavery, sleazy tourists and terrorism. But he only had two choices and neither he nor his father lingered when action was needed. So they said a quick goodbye on the porch, blinking at the crisp noon sun and sweating as the taxi idled. His father said, “Don’t worry. I won’t tell them anything.” His plane arrived sometime in the middle of the night. A lone policeman dipped in leather boots and wearing a motorcycle helmet with a loose chinstrap stood guard in the Bangkok airport. Treece slipped his passport into a pocket and watched a dark-eyed Thai girl half-asleep on her arm inside a little glass money exchange booth. A moment later in the open lobby, he nodded to a man behind a walrus tooth moustache holding a piece of cardboard that said: Mike Treece.

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Bangkok She continued her pacing, so as not to draw attention. The word was code, taken from the rock musical Chess, and the song “One Night in Bangkok.

Khun Mae went to bed past midnight. After a few minutes, her mouth opened. Her hair was a dark cloud on the pillow. Up and up, she drifted above her bed, through the white mosquito nets, until she was as light as a sea bird. She drifted through the open flap of her window, into the balmy night air. Through the rainstorm, she flew, over the city of Bangkok and its blurry lights, until the stars themselves guided this bird on her journey into the mountains, and above Tham Luang cave.

Khun Mae went to bed past midnight. After a few minutes, her mouth opened. Her hair was a dark cloud on the pillow. Up and up, she drifted above her bed, through the white mosquito nets, until she was as light as a sea bird. She drifted through the open flap of her window, into the balmy night air. Through the rainstorm, she flew, over the city of Bangkok and its blurry lights, until the stars themselves, guided this bird on her journey into the mountains, and above Tham Luang cave.

Khun Mae went to bed past midnight. After a few minutes, her mouth opened. Her hair was a dark cloud on the pillow. Up and up, she drifted above her bed, through the white mosquito nets, until she was as light as a sea bird. She drifted through the open flap of her window, into the balmy night air. Through the rainstorm, she flew, over the city of Bangkok and its blurry lights, until the stars themselves, guided this bird on her journey into the mountains, and above Tham Luang cave.

I suppose,’ Andy said, ‘the only danger is if you get too used to it. If you get so used to it you can’t make do without the little services and luxuries––getting laid at lunchtime or being run through the bath and wanked off when you feel like sobering up. Or just being able to have a different girl every night of the week without having to be a full-time ass man to carry it through…

My grandfather said the sfumato described a psychological and spiritual transition between states of being. This transition was infinite and that’s why we, living in the finite, didn’t understand it. Some called it the Void. But that wasn’t sfumato. We chased the Smoky Dragon. We rode the dragon. We were the dragon. Finite time was our dance audition. Eternity was opening night.