Cape Flats Quotes

We've searched our database for all the quotes and captions related to Cape Flats. Here they are! All 12 of them:

Like Harry Potter’s cape?” I said. “Yes.” Matthias’s grey eyes gave me a flat look, his voice heavy on the sarcasm. “Just like that. You’re such a moron.
A. Kirk (Demons in Disguise (Divinicus Nex Chronicles, #3))
Martha’s Vineyard had fossil deposits one million centuries old. The northern reach of Cape Cod, however, on which my house sat, the land I inhabited—that long curving spit of shrub and dune that curves in upon itself in a spiral at the tip of the Cape—had only been formed by wind and sea over the last ten thousand years. That cannot amount to more than a night of geological time. Perhaps this is why Provincetown is so beautiful. Conceived at night (for one would swear it was created in the course of one dark storm) its sand flats still glistened in the dawn with the moist primeval innocence of land exposing itself to the sun for the first time. Decade after decade, artists came to paint the light of Provincetown, and comparisons were made to the lagoons of Venice and the marshes of Holland, but then the summer ended and most of the painters left, and the long dingy undergarment of the gray New England winter, gray as the spirit of my mood, came down to visit. One remembered then that the land was only ten thousand years old, and one’s ghosts had no roots. We did not have old Martha’s Vineyard’s fossil remains to subdue each spirit, no, there was nothing to domicile our specters who careened with the wind down the two long streets of our town which curved together around the bay like two spinsters on their promenade to church.   NORMAN MAILER, from Tough Guys Don’t Dance
Michael Cunningham (Land's End: A Walk in Provincetown (Crown Journeys))
One of them was a young fellow of about twenty-seven, not tall, with black curling hair, and small, grey, fiery eyes. His nose was broad and flat, and he had high cheek bones; his thin lips were constantly compressed into an impudent, ironical—it might almost be called a malicious—smile; but his forehead was high and well formed, and atoned for a good deal of the ugliness of the lower part of his face. A special feature of this physiognomy was its death-like pallor, which gave to the whole man an indescribably emaciated appearance in spite of his hard look, and at the same time a sort of passionate and suffering expression which did not harmonize with his impudent, sarcastic smile and keen, self-satisfied bearing. He wore a large fur—or rather astrachan—overcoat, which had kept him warm all night, while his neighbour had been obliged to bear the full severity of a Russian November night entirely unprepared. His wide sleeveless mantle with a large cape to it—the sort of cloak one sees upon travellers during the winter months in Switzerland or North Italy—was by no means adapted to the long cold journey through Russia, from Eydkuhnen to St. Petersburg.
Fyodor Dostoevsky (The Idiot)
I hopped over a little flower border. The blooms--ghostly white in the soft glow from the lamps around the park’s circumference--ran up the brick walkway and gripped the stone lip of the fountain. I opened my mouth, leaned in, and took a deep gulp. And heard hooves. Boots. “You, there, girl! Halt!” Who in the universe ever halts when the enemy tells them to? Of course I took off in the opposite direction, as fast as I could: running across grass, leaping neatly tended flowers. But the park was a circle, which made it easy for the riders to gallop around both ways and cut me off. I stopped, looked back. No retreat. Meanwhile another group came running across the lawns, swords drawn. I backed up a step, two; looked this way and that; tried to break for it in the largest space, which of course was instantly closed. There must have been a dozen of them ringing me, all with rapiers and heavier weapons gleaming gold tipped in the light from the iron-posted glowglobes and the windows of the houses. “Report,” someone barked; and then to me, “Who are you? Don’t you know there is a sunset curfew?” “Ah, I didn’t know.” I smoothed my skirts nervously. “Been sick. No one mentioned it…” “Who are you?” came the question again. “I just wanted a drink. I was sick, I think I mentioned, and didn’t get any water…” “Who are you.” This time it wasn’t even a question. The game was up, of course, but who said I had to surrender meekly? “Just call me Ranisia.” I named my mother, using my hardest voice. “I’m a ghost, one of Galdran Merindar’s many victims.” Noises from behind caused the ring to tighten, the weapons all pointing a finger’s breadth from my throat. My empty hands were at my sides, but these folks were taking no chances. Maybe they thought I was a ghost. No one spoke, or moved, until the sound of heels striking the brick path made the soldiers withdraw silently. Baron Debegri strode up, his rain cape billowing. Under his foppish mustache his teeth gleamed in a very cruel grin. He stopped within a pace of me, and with no warning whatever, backhanded me right across the face. I went flying backward, landing flat in a flower bed. The Baron stepped onto my left knee and motioned a torch bearer over. He stared down at the half-healed marks on my ankle and laughed, then jerked his thumb in a gesture of command. Two soldiers sprang to either side of me, each grabbing an arm and pulling me to my feet. “What have you to say now, my little hero?” the Baron gloated. “That you are a fool, the son of a fool, and the servant of the biggest--“ He swung at me again, and I tried to duck, but he grabbed me by the hair and then hit me. The world seemed to explode in stars--for a long time all I could do was gasp for breath and fight against dizziness. When I came out of it, someone was binding my hands; then two more someones grabbed my arms again, and I was half carried back to the street. My vision was blurry. I realized hazily that a gem on his embroidered gloves must have cut my forehead, for a warm trickle ran nastily down the side of my face, which throbbed even worse than my ankle. I got thrown over the back of a horse, my hands and feet bound to stirrups. From somewhere I heard Debegri’s harsh voice: “Lift the curfew, but tell those smug-faced Elders that if anyone harbored this criminal, the death penalty still holds. You. Tell his lordship the Marquis that his aid is no longer necessary, and he can return to Remalna-city, or wherever he wants.” Quick footsteps ran off, and then the Baron said, “Now, to Chovilun. And don’t dawdle.” Chovilun… One of the four Merindar fortresses. I closed my eyes.
Sherwood Smith (Crown Duel (Crown & Court, #1))
He was lying on his side, and the water pressed against his face forced him to turn his head and try to raise himself a couple of inches without losing track of where he was cutting the suit. His new position was too awkward to allow him to work efficiently, so he took a deep breath and lay flat again, torquing the blade around his calf, to keep cutting away the trapped suit mate rial. His lungs screamed for air, but he ignored his body's needs, working with preternatural calm despite the danger. He tried yanking himself free, but the tough plastic cloth wouldn't tear. He tried again with the same results. Now he had to breathe, so he heaved himself upright to clear his helmet of water, but there was too much pressure. The helmet wouldn't drain. Cabrillo's lungs convulsed, allowing a trickle of bubbles to es cape his lips. It was like suppressing a cough, and the correspond ing pain in his chest was an unnecessary reminder that his brain was starving for oxygen. He was already becoming light-headed. He pulled savagely at the suit and felt it tear slightly, but it wouldn't give completely. Juan tried to force himself to calm down, but survival instincts were overwhelming any sense of logic.
Clive Cussler (Plague Ship (Oregon Files, #5))
And you were one of the lucky ones?” Brooklyn asked. “Yeah, I was one fucky motherlucker, I mean lucky motherflucker, no, motherfl-” My foot slipped on a step and I started tumbling down the stairs, rolling ass over head, my cape slapping me in the face before I hit the bottom level flat on my back. “Ow,
Caroline Peckham (Paradise Lagoon (The Harlequin Crew #4))
Telstar was slightly bigger than a beach ball—about three feet in diameter—and as heavy as a man—170 pounds. After it was assembled in a laboratory in Hillside, New Jersey, then tested at Murray Hill and Bell Labs’ Whippany, New Jersey, facility, it was transported to Cape Canaveral, Florida, for a Delta-Thor rocket launch scheduled for the second week of July 1962. Though it was spherical in shape, Telstar’s surface had seventy-two flat facets, giving it the appearance of a large, bizarrely decorated gemstone. In the end, though, it served as an almost perfect example of Pierce’s contention that innovations tend to happen when the time is right. Indeed, Telstar was not one invention but rather a synchronous use of sixteen inventions patented at the Labs over the course of twenty-five years. “None of the inventions was made specifically for space purposes,” the New York Times pointed out. On the other hand, only all of them together allowed for the deployment of an active space satellite.
Jon Gertner (The Idea Factory: Bell Labs and the Great Age of American Innovation)
HE HAD BEEN trained in a hidden monastery by the ninjas of Xi’en. He had studied yoga and meditation under an Avrantic guru. His strength, stamina and ability to withstand pain were legendary. He was as silent as a shadow of a black cat in the night, as deadly as a cobra’s fang. He moved like a panther, taut and sinuous. He could climb up rock-faces with his bare hands and stay underwater for hours without breathing. His skill and luck at love and cards was legendary, and he had almost beaten the Civilian at chess once. He was wondering what to wear. When in doubt, Black is the answer, the dance teacher in Ektara had said. He dressed, swiftly. It had been a long time since he had worn the original costume. Black silk clothes, padded boots. The cloth around the face, with slits for his eyes. The fire-resistant Xi’en lava-worm black silk cape. Of course, disguises and camouflage were fun, and often necessary, but this was his favourite. He strapped on his Necessity Belt. He had been all around the world and seen many beautiful things, but this was the finest example of vaman craftsmanship he had ever seen. He opened a trunk under his bed and started thinking about his assignment. His fingers, trained by years of practice, began sliding things into the right pockets on his belt. Into the little sheaths went the darts, the crossbow bolts and the blackened throwing knives. With practiced ease his fingers found the little pouches, side by side, one after the other, for the wires, the brass knuckles, the vial of oil, the sachet of poisonous powder and the shuriken, the little blackened poisoned-tipped discs the ninjas used. On his back was the slim bag that contained a little black chalk, his stamp and his emergency scarab. If he was killed or captured, it would fly to the Civilian. The message inside said Killed or captured. Sorry. He slung a pouch over his shoulder. It contained his blowpipes, ropes, strangling cords and cloth-covered grappling hooks. Over his other shoulder went the light and specially constructed crossbow. The flat bag filled with what he called his ‘special effects’ went on his back. He felt a little naked. He strapped on little black daggers in sheaths to his left arm and outer thighs. He tapped his left foot thrice on the floor and felt the blade slide to the front of the boot. He tapped again and it slid back to the heel. (...) He slipped on his gloves. Finally, he picked up the sheath that contained his first love. It was the one love he’d always been faithful to, the long, curved, deadly and beautiful Artaxerxian dagger that glittered and shone even in the candlelight as he pulled it out and held it lovingly. It was the only weapon he had never blackened. The Silver Dagger. He attached it to the Necessity Belt. Now he was dressed to kill.
Samit Basu (The Simoqin Prophecies (GameWorld Trilogy, #1))
trained and ready to fight. “I now have a really intensive faith in the First Division. They are 1,000 percent better than they were…. They are young but are hard and fit. Please remember that I am thinking of you and Sonny all the time.” He swung a leg over the side of the Reina del Pacifico and with a gymnast’s grace scrambled down the net to the waiting boat below.   Chaos awaited him on the beaches near Arzew. An unanticipated westerly set had pushed the transports and landing craft off course. Dozens of confused coxswains tacked up and down the coast in the dark, looking for the right beaches. Most of the soldiers carried more than 100 pounds of equipment; one likened himself to a medieval knight in armor who had to be winched into the saddle. Once ashore, feeling the effect of weeks aboard ship with a poor diet and little exercise, they staggered into the dunes, shedding gas capes, goggles, wool undershirts, and grenades. Landing craft stranded by an ebb tide so jammed the beaches that bulldozers had to push them off, ruining their propellers and rudders. The flat-bottomed oil tankers that were supposed to haul light tanks onto the beach instead ran aground 300 feet from shore; engineers spent hours building a causeway through the surf.
Rick Atkinson (An Army at Dawn: The War in Africa, 1942-1943)
I wanted to let you to know that I agree to the match and I will marry you.” He couldn’t suppress a chuckle at her regal demeanor. “Well, I should certainly hope so as our engagement is a foregone conclusion. The contracts have already been drawn up.” Ian reached to touch her silken hair, unable to resist her. Her eyes narrowed as she rose from her seat. “I would have you know, Your Grace, that it was not a ‘foregone conclusion.’ In fact, I was not going to marry you at all! I have been doing everything I can to avoid becoming leg-shackled to you and I was going to run away!” His jaw clenched. Ian had hoped to dispel her feelings that he was a monster and apparently had failed far worse than he had ever anticipated. “And just where were you planning to run to?” he asked icily, unwilling to acknowledge the pain in his heart. Angelica did not flinch at his tone. Her skirts rustled as she paced the room. “I would have used the money I made from my stories to rent a flat somewhere in the city and support myself with short stories until I finished a novel. I heard that the lady who wrote Pride and Prejudice made one hundred forty pounds.” “That would not be enough to buy your pretty gowns,” he mocked, his temper rising at her sheer ignorance and ingratitude. “Gowns can go to the devil!” she retorted, cheeks growing pink in indignation. She looked down at her pale-blue satin opera gown as if offended by the shimmering elegance adorning her exquisite form. “Besides, they are not sensible garb for an author, I should say.” The way Angelica glibly spoke of living in squalor and subjecting herself to the sordid dangers of London rather than being his duchess made him clench his fists. Did she really think he was a fate worse than death? Or was she truly that naive? “What play are we going to see?” she asked in a blatant attempt to change the subject. Ian did not intend to let her off that easily. Inspiration struck him. Oh, he would take her to a “play” for certain. A play that she would never forget. “Something pitiful and tragic,” he said with an evil smile. It was high time his bride received a taste of reality. “I think you will be quite affected.” Her eyes narrowed in suspicion at his tone but she nodded in assent, ever displaying her indomitable courage. “I will get my cape.” “Put on a sensible pair of boots as well.” Ian’s heart twisted with bitterness. He would show her a fate worse than death. ***
Brooklyn Ann (Bite Me, Your Grace (Scandals with Bite, #1))
But I could not help being struck by the discovery how far more he had altered in relation to myself. This man, excellent, cultivated, whom I was far from annoyed at meeting, I could not bring myself to understand how I had been able to invest him long ago in a mystery so great that his appearance in the Champs-Elysées used to make my heart beat so violently that I was too bashful to approach his silk-lined cape, that at the door of the flat in which such a being dwelt I could not ring the bell without being overcome by boundless emotion and dismay; all this had vanished not only from his home, but from his person, and the idea of talking to him might or might not be agreeable to me, but had no effect whatever upon my nervous system.
Marcel Proust (In Search Of Lost Time (All 7 Volumes) (ShandonPress))
The Mariner’s Officers Club was a classy place and much the same as the one I had heard about in Cape Town. Complete with “linen service” it was about as good as it gets. The Monkey Gland Steak… Not to worry, it’s only a name; no monkeys are a part of this tangy sauce that is a delicious blend of fruit and splices. The sauce can also be used as a marinade. As far as I know it is not on the market but can be made by frying minced onions, garlic and ginger in coconut oil until the onions are translucent. Pour this over your favorite steak or hamburger for an exciting taste treat. From here we took a taxi to the Smuggler’s Inn which was in a British Colonial Style building on Point Road. Although the area that the nightclub was in was considered part of the red light district it was a popular Avant guarde area where the younger in crowd of Durban would go. With upbeat music in the days prior to rock & roll it was a lot of fun. The bottom end of Point Road Mahatma Gandhi Road at night was always a hive of activity with Smugglers leading the way as an offbeat entertainment center. Before returning to Kerstin’s flat we had the driver take us to the end of the point where we could find the newest nightclubs with strip shows, music, dancing. We even witnessed a slug fest between some guys, known as a raut. For us it was a hoot and lots of fun but I’m certain that they were black & blue for days. Kerstin told me that many of the participants of these fights could be expected to show up at Dr. Acharya’s practice the following Monday. Returning to her apartment we enjoyed the rest of the evening in bed. At six o’clock the taxi I had called was waiting curbside. I considered how lucky I was to have connected with Kerstin but I still didn’t know much about her. Why did this beautiful girl come into my life? It was a mystery without an answer!
Hank Bracker