Db Quotes

Have a big enough heart to love unconditionally, and a broad enough mind to embrace the differences that make each of us unique.

Do you think my Cyn would like a souvenir?" he asked Duncan. Duncan leaned sideways to study the dripping organ. "probably not, My lord.

Did you ever find it?" Cyn asked. "What's that?" "Something he wouldn't give you?" "You know, Cynthia, I did. Very recently,in fact. "What was it?" "You

Cyn stopped, drawing a deep breath. "Will you answer the fucking question or not? There's more at stake here than Raphael's Dick" Duncan choked back a laugh.

In the end, those who demean others only disrespect themselves.

I have been mastered at last, sweet Cyn, helpless in the face of that most human of failings, I love you.

So that means you are almost old enough to be my grandfather." Raj laughed, Your great, great, grandfather, more likely, but whose counting?

Would it be so terrible, sweet Cyn?” he whispered. “To spend eternity at my side?” But she was too far gone in sleep, and Raphael didn't know if he wanted to hear her answer anyway.

Duncan lifted one shoulder. "You may no longer be my lord officially, Sire. But in truth, it will always be so

...Please tell me it's not like eighty degrees in Malibu." "It's not. It's raining, which means the natives are convinced the end is near and are engaged in ritual auto pileups in an attempt to appease the angry gods.

Got you something.” “A portable bath?” “Better.” I pulled out the alien doll. “Made me think of you.” “It looks like you,” she said. “I’m going to name it DB.

D.B. asked me what I thought about all this stuff I just finished telling you about. I didn't know what the hell to say. If you want to know the truth, I don't know what I think about it. I'm sorry I told so many people about it. All I know about it is, I sort of miss everybody I told about. Even old Stradlater and Ackley, for instance. I think I even miss that goddam Maurice. It's funny. Don't ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody.

He once told Allie and I that if he'd had to shoot anybody, he wouldn't've known which direction to shoot in. He said the Army was practically as full of bastards as the Nazis were.

Look at me, Sarah." She did. "What ever it is, whatever is going on...it can't be that bad. I'm a vampire sweetheart. I drink human blood on a regular basis. What can you possibly have to tell me that could top that?

Never mistake arrogance for intellect.

Raphael have kids? NO Does Cyn have kids? NO Will Raphael allow Cyn to have kids with someone else? Are you out of your mind?

What is it about her, Duncan?” he said finally. “She fights me at every turn, then nearly dies defending me. She comes more than willingly to my bed, then runs the very next morning. She wants nothing to do with me, and yet I find her... fascinating.

All Lucas had to do was exert his will and the unfaithful bastard’s heart would shrivel in his chest. But where was the fun in that?

It had been a contest between the vampire and an Uzi. The Uzi had won.

Two words came to mind as I sat back and summed him up. They were cold and blooded.

I've done nothing lately that was bad, and YOU are hardly helpless and probably not that innocent either.

How come you write the way you do?” an apprentice writer in my Johns Hopkins workshop once disingenuously asked Donald Barthelme, who was visiting. Without missing a beat, Don replied, “Because Samuel Beckett was already writing the way he does.” Asked another, smiling but serious, “How can we become better writers than we are?” “Well," DB advised, “for starters, read through the whole history of philosophy, from the pre-Socratics up through last semester. That might help.” “But Coach Barth has already advised us to read all of literature, from Gilgamesh up through last semester...” “That, too,” Donald affirmed, and twinkled that shrewd Amish-farmer-from-West-11th-Street twinkle of his. “You’re probably wasting time on things like eating and sleeping. Cease that, and read all of philosophy and all of literature. Also art. Plus politics and a few other things. The history of everything.

Cyn stepped up and grasped his sweater in her fist, pulling his face down to hers. “I love you more than life, Raphael. But I won’t be dismissed like some piece of fluff whenever it’s convenient.

And this Atlantean Destroyer is now leading the Daimons and sending them out to battle against Acheron, who is just using us and the humans as cannon fodder to protect himself? Really, Kyros, put down the crack pipe...or go write children’s fantasy novels. I’ll bet you even know exactly who conspired to kill Kennedy, huh? I’m sure the money from D.B. Cooper is what financed your stunning collection of furniture. (Danger)

Raphael came through the door like a child's nightmare, his eyes glowing an almost solid silver with wrath, his gleaming fangs fully extended, blood painting his mouth a brilliant red, dripping from his chin to shine wetly against the tattered remains of his black shirt. His huge chest was heaving with the fury of his breath, and his hands curled into claws as his gaze found her and he growled a warning. 'Release her, human.' 'Who are you? the man rasped, fear taking away his breath, coarsening his voice. 'Release her.' The man tightened his grip, 'Come closer and she dies.' Rachael's mouth widened in a terrifying smile, 'You think to bargain with me?

She knew the minute HE arrived. Felt the warm blanket of comfort reach out to her frozen soul....He made his way down the isle and sat next to her...he didn't reach out, didn't touch her...a single tear slid out from her closed lids and she blindly reached for his hand. He took her hand in more, gathering her close, arms coming around her warm and strong as her head sank down unto his shoulder and the tears finally came soaking the lapel of his wool suit. He offered her a perfectly white handkerchief...she stared at it and wondered who carries that type of thing anymore? He looked back at her and explained, "I'm old fashioned.

Don't let circumstances determine your fate. Choose your fate and mold circumstances to fit your fate of choice.

Follow your heart, but keep it on a leash.

Hatred only tarnishes the soul that carries it.

Raj!' the vampire said, 'I heard you were in town. What's up big guy?'............"'Loose the human, Kent.' Raj growled.

Will you stay?" She grew still. "Stay?" she asked, her breath warm on his torn flesh. "You mean tonight?" "I mean forever." Emma lifted her head to look at him, her eyes filling with tears. "Duncan?" He met her gaze evenly. "Stay with me, Emma. He repeated. "Be mine.

I trust you. But I'm also going with you." "Of course you are. Because, my Cyn, if the shit hits the fan--" "When the shit hits the fan." "--I trust you to be there to turn the damn fan off.

Something had happened, Something terrible, Raphael was raging, his unbound wrath waking every vampire in the building, threatening to tear the walls down around them and causing the very air to vibrate for those with senses to feel it. She'd never experienced such raw pain from one so powerful and she dreaded to discover what had caused it.

The universe stood still and the universe continued on its path, travelling through endless time.

Raphael stripped off the robe and showered quickly. Normally he wouldn't have bothered since he intended to bathe in his enemy's blood before the night was over. But he was covered in Cyn's Blood and she was his. Her BLOOD was his, and no one else's. So he let the soap and water sluice over his body, and he swore privately that the blood of those who harmed his Cyn would run like water tonight.

Here is a rewriting of the British national anthem, by 'Camille, Australia'. It is, she explains, chiefly for the benefit of Microsoft Word and Outlook Express users: Gd CTRL-S r gr8sh Qun. Long liv r nobl Qun. Gd CTRL-S the. Qun! ALT-S hr vktrES, HpE & glrES, Lng 2 rain ovR S Gd CTRL-S th. Qun!

Raj leaned over from the driver's seat to give her a quick, hard kiss. 'Don't think so hard sweetheart. I'm not dangerous.' He spun the wheel in a tight circle, taking them past the startled valets and out of the parking lot. 'Not to you anyway,' he muttered.

The empress of the perfumer's palette, jasmine must be harvested before the rising sun to retain the full force of its delicate fragrance. Fragile and fleeting, jasmine is a fair nymph of a flower with a potent perfume. A world without jasmine? Simply unimaginable. -DB

Damn it, woman, stop offering to kill me!

I don’t usually cook.” “And the world thanks you,” he murmured

Raphael shrugged away the facad of humanity that he wore like a cloak, releasing the bonds that kept his power concealed and let if low out of him like a river of molten silver. It warmed his veins and sped the pumping of his heart, pushing his lungs to expand more fully with every breath. It was a heady rush that had his lips drawing back in a vicious smile of pure exhilaration, his fangs emerging from his gums as he became the purest form of what he was....Vampire".

I believe that any form of writing exercise is good for you. I also believe that any form of tuition which helps develop your awareness of the different properties, styles, and effects of writing is good for you. It helps you become a better reader, more sensitive to nuance, and a better writer, more sensitive to audience. Texting language is no different from other innovative forms of written expression that have emerged in the past. It is a type of language whose communicative strengths and weaknesses need to be appreciated.

...What gets me about D.B., though, he hated the war so much, and yet he got me to read this book A Farewell to Arms last summer. He said it was so terrific. That's what I can't understand. It had this guy in it named Lieutenant Henry that was supposed to be a nice guy and all. I don't see how D.B. could hate the Army and war and all so much and still like a phony like that. I mean, for instance, I don't see how he could like a phony like that and still like that one by Ring Lardner, or that other one he's so crazy about, The Great Gatsby. D.B. got sore when I said that, and said I was too young and all to appreciate it, but I don't think so. I told him I liked Ring Lardner and The Great Gatsby and all. I did, too. I was crazy about The Great Gatsby. Old Gatsby. Old sport. That killed me.

I don’t mean to offend, but . . . how did you die? I mean what happened that made Raphael turn you?” Duncan smiled at her. Cyn thought it was the only time she’d really seen him smile. “You’re very straightforward, Ms. Leighton. I admire that. As to your question, I was dying, struck down with so many others during the war.” He caught her eye. “That would be the War of Northern Aggression, the Civil War I believe you call it.

Stunning" Melanin rich and honeyed, butter brown syrupy ‘Da blacker the berry, the sweeter the sweet Girl, all hues of the ebony rainbow shine Our rind so rare, age like fine wine Lips plump like cherries ready to be picked. Dey spend all kind of money tryin’ to look like ‘dis

The gardenia is an enigma, its petals dusted with the creamy white purity of innocence, but its aroma is wildly seductive. How appropriate; for in the language of flowers, the gift of gardenias conveys the message of secret love. —DB

He has the kind of density that makes me constantly guess to myself how much he’d weigh. Does muscle weigh more than fat? He’s a ton. He’s six-six, and I watched him get this tall, but it’s a surprise every time I see him. It’s the body you see on first responders. Think big-ass firemen kicking in doors, ready to save you. “How do you cope with a skeleton that big?” I ask, and he looks down at himself, mystified. “I mean, how do you coordinate all four limbs and actually ambulate around the place?” My eyes are back on his shoulders, following the round lines down, the flat sections, the dips and shadowed lines, the creases on the cotton. I can see his belt, which doesn’t know how lucky it is to be strapped around that, and a lush half inch of black underwear waistband, and my cheeks are burning and I can hear my heart and— “Eyes up, DB.” He’s busted me. Not that I was very subtle. “Me and my skeleton getaround just fine.

...her gaze settling on Bush International Airport. What is it with politicians anyway, always rushing to put their name on everything? She couldn't think of a single politician who deserved his name on a sewage treatment facility, much less an airport where everyone had to look at it all the time.

there is no pain in leaving as in being left behind

It is the transience of life which proves its inestimable worth.

Sanity is merely an insane aspiration.

And I’m a possessive fucking vampire with an aggression problem.” She

My ex was about as handy as a back pocket on a T-shirt. ~Dixie

Tread lightly, little one." He warned. "You don't want to push me. Not tonight." Her eyes darkened with anger, narrowing as she met his gaze. "Really? And why is that Raj?"..."I am tired of you thinking you have the right to control me. You are not my boyfriend, and you sure as hell are not my keeper, so from where I stand, you've got no claim on me what so ever. Like the song says, you don't want me for yourself so let me find someone else. It's shit or get off the pot time, Raj. It's now or never, Time to-" She gave a shriek as Raj swung an arm around her waist and lifted her off her feet. He threaded the fingers of one hand through her hair and pulled it aside, freeing the long line of her neck. "Then I choose now," he growled and sank his fangs into the velvet skin of her neck puncturing the fragile walls of her jugular.

She hadn’t needed him to escape that place. But rather than making him angry, it only made him proud. Proud that such a woman was his, that she loved him the way he did her. And that she needed him now.

He laughed in exultation as he came upon the house, the rush of his full power better than any human drug, the joy of its unfettered release expanding his heart with every beat, gorging his lungs with every breath.

The rose: though its petals are easily bruised, it blooms with exuberance. What power the rose possesses; the merest hint of a blossom conjures the deepest memory. At dawn, roses must be picked quickly, for they lose half their essence—the perfumer’s treasure—by the high sun of noon. —DB

We have to teach, tell, and show Black girls that they are beautiful ... that there is no standard of beauty, only defining it. And we, Black girls, define beauty, too. Our hair, shade, shape, and features are beautiful. We set trends, and the world follows.

He who is unable to accept blame or express remorse is a very small person indeed.

Think of your new position as that of a business mercenary; fighting the war for the mighty dollar – after all, it is money that holds all the real power in this world, is it not?

We are exiles in Time's abyss, strangers now in the Promised Land.

The vamps had plans to make for the trip? Well, so did she. Backups for when their plans went to hell and her plans were all they had left.

Wife number three: Lynette. She looked like a horse and kind of walked like one, too. Not surprisingly, neigh was her favorite word and seven nights a week. ~Detective Mike Malone

If only marriage licenses came with a buyer's remorse clause. ~Detective Mike Malone

she alone understood all that he was, both good and bad, and accepted him, loved him, without reservation.

And besides, his Cyn was coming for him. Dear Mathilde was about to learn just how lethal one human female could be.

He didn’t need her tears. He needed her toughness.

I was irritated that my masturbation session had been interrupted by my own inability to type.

We are a beautiful people. Even the way we face and overcome challenges is beautiful. Our beauty deserves to be elevated and celebrated.

For every monster, there’s a monster to love him.

Anthony isn’t half as shrewd as he thinks he is.” “What about Natalie?” “Natalie’s mine.” “I got that, but Anthony won’t. He seems attached.” “Then I’ll have to unattach him.

Get it all out now, she thought. Get rid of all this useless emotion, then get up, take a fucking shower, and get ready to kick some ass.

Honor is doing the right thing, when no one is looking.

His hair was fine and white, and cropped very short, like a lawn after an early frost.

The orchid, queen of exoticism, a mute observer slow to reveal the mysteries of her petals. Would that I had such patience, too. -DB

I trust you. But I’m also going with you.” “Of course you are. Because, my Cyn, if the shit hits the fan—” “When the shit hits the fan.” “—I trust you to be there to turn the damn fan off.

Any noble cause will encounter its share of setbacks. The strength of that cause is measured in how the men who fight for it respond. We refuse to give up, which is why we will prevail eventually.

You,” he snarled, closing his fingers around the front of her jacket again, pulling her against his body and up onto her toes, holding her there as he lowered his mouth to hers. But Sid wasn’t ready to kiss and make up, so she bit his lip angrily. “Look,” she snapped, trying without success to push him away. “I get the whole alpha male, vampire lord-of-all-he-surveys thing, okay? I kind of even like it in the bedroom. But out in the real world, you are not the boss of me. I don’t forfeit my brain just because we have sex. And I’ll do whatever I think necessary to get my story. Besides, it’s not like most of what I do is dangerous. I’m not exactly Woodward and Bernstein material. But I’m not stupid either. I don’t take unnecessary risks, and I’m careful with the risks I do take.” Aden was eyeing her with very little expression on his face, which made it difficult to tell how he was receiving her liberated woman speech. Whatever his reaction was, however, it didn’t extend to his body which was hard and ready to fuck, and no question about it. “Kind of like it?” he asked finally, a corner of his mouth curling upward with amusement as he focused on the one part of her speech that she’d thought he’d have no problem with. “I think I can do better than that.

DB: There's a lot of talk about terrorism. In fact, it's become almost an obsession for the media in the United States. But it's a very narrow definition of terrorism. AR: Yes. It completely ignores the economic terrorism unleashed by neoliberalism, which devastates the lives of millions of people, depriving them of water, food, electricity. Denying them medicine. Denying them education. Terrorism is the logical extension of this business of the free market. Terrorism is the privatization of war. Terrorists are the free marketeers of war - people who believe that it isn't only the state that can wage war, but private parties as well. If you look at the logic underlying an act of terrorism and the logic underlying a retaliatory war against terrorism, they are the same. Both terrorists and governments make ordinary people pay for the actions of their governments. Osama bin Laden is making people pay for the actions of the US state, whether it's in Saudi Arabia, Palestine, or Afghanistan. The US government is making the people of Iraq pay for the actions of Saddam Hussein. The people of Afghanistan pay for the crimes of the Taliban. The logic is the same. Osama bin Laden and George Bush are both terrorists. They are both building international networks that perpetrate terror and devastate people's lives. Bush, with the Pentagon, the WTO, the IMF, and the World Bank. Bin Laden with Al Qaeda.

Are you okay?” I want to grab him by the shoulders and check for physical damage. I’ll crack open his chest to check how bad his heart looks. “Me?” He thinks for a second. “Everyone just asks if she’s okay.” “Yeah, because she’s just lost you . Are you okay? Do I need to go and beat the shit out of her?” I notice one of the cabinets above me is ajar. For something to do, I put a hand up to close it. When my fingers hook into the tiny handle, the web-thin hinge breaks. Now I’m standing here with a broken door in my hand. I lean it against my leg and try to look cool, but I’m practically auditioning for SmackDown. Unwillingly, he laughs. I am going to beat Megan with this door until she realizes what a fuckup she’s made. He knows exactly what I’m thinking. “You’re always so vicious, DB.

Exactly. In the same way that I haven’t forgotten what David Benioff and D.B. Weiss did to us on May 19, 2019.” I waved my index finger between us. “Didn’t Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, First of Her Name deserve better than that?” I paused, just to let it seep in. “Didn’t we, Rosie?

Fuck." Colin looked away. "Mac wasn't who I thought he was. He turned out to be about as low as a man can get. But he was a good soldier, too. And once an honorable man. It's hard. Feelings can't change on a dime, you know?" "I do. Sometimes people disappoint us, but that doesn't change our memories of them.

You do not get to say good-bye to me like this. You do not get to say good-bye at all. You promised me you would come back, and that does not mean I get your ashes in a fucking box, do you hear me? No one gets to kill you but me, and I swear, Raphael, I will stake you myself if you let them kill you." One corner of his sensuous mouth curved up in amusement at the illogical threat, and she growled, actually growled at him. Which only made him smile harder. "Perhaps I simply wanted to take comfort in the sweet and silky flesh of my mate before going into battle." Cyn gave him a doubtful look, but she smiled. "In that case, you have the wrong woman." Raphael wrapped both arms around her and rolled them again, putting him once more on top. "I have exactly the woman I want, lubimaya. There is no other.

Life is filled with challenges, blessing and the awareness that in life there are no guarantees. But one thing I’m sure of, is that for me, I’d rather die regretting the things I’ve done, then to regret the things I didn’t do, but could have. So with this my new motto, I’ve decided to pursue what has lain quiescent in the back of my mind so now I write.

One didn’t discuss plans for a coup while standing in the elevator, no matter who owned the building.

Christ, they would fuck each other to death at this rate. And what a way to go.

With your pleasant smile And your dropout style, D.B. Cooper, where did you go?

So much for sensitivity training,

There won’t be any horizontal refreshments served around here. ~Shannon

I know a lot of people think I’m a bitch, but that’s just personality. I have the full complement of human empathy, and I’m not looking forward to what I have to do tonight.

He wasn’t fucking her, wasn’t even making love to her. No, he was saying good-bye because he didn’t expect to survive tomorrow night.

He looks big and tough, but he needs someone to hold him, too.

Because the truth of it was, she was either going to save Raphael . . . or die trying.

Christian shrugged. “I’m a charming guy.” Marc scoffed loudly. “Show some respect, asshole. I’m your Sire.” “Right,” Marc said, his expression shifting to one of mocking attention.

Sleep in a room with ambient noise.

I am ready to depart," Ken'ichi agreed, pushing away from the counter. Elke rolled her eyes at him, then looked at Cyn. "What he meant to say was, 'Hell, yeah, let's go fuck up a geek!

Since I overheard him saying those ugly and prejudiced things about me, to our boss no less, his name has been on my black list. And you know how seriously I take that. That shit is carved on stone.” I punched my palm with my other hand to be clear. “Have I forgiven Zayn Malik?” Rosie shook her head, snickering. “Oh, Lord knows you haven’t.” “Exactly. In the same way that I haven’t forgotten what David Benioff and D.B. Weiss did to us on May 19, 2019.” I waved my index finger between us. “Didn’t Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, First of Her Name deserve better than that?” I paused, just to let it seep in. “Didn’t we, Rosie?” “Okay, I’m going to take your side on that one,” she admitted. “But—” “No buts,” I stopped her, holding a hand in the air. “Aaron Blackford is on my black list, and he will stay there. Full stop.

He was almost at his door when Vik’s earsplitting shriek resounded down the corridor. Tom was glad for the excuse to sprint back toward him. “Vik?” He reached Vik’s doorway as Vik was backing out of it. “Tom,” he breathed, “it’s an abomination.” Confused, Tom stepped past him into the bunk. Then he gawked, too. Instead of a standard trainee bunk of two small beds with drawers underneath them and totally bare walls, Vik’s bunk was virtually covered with images of their friend Wyatt Enslow. There were posters all over the wall with Wyatt’s solemn, oval face on them. She wore her customary scowl, her dark eyes tracking their every move through the bunk. There was a giant marble statue of a sad-looking Vik with a boot on top of its head. The Vik statue clutched two very, very tiny hands together in a gesture of supplication, its eyes trained upward on the unseen stomper, an inscription at its base, WHY, OH WHY, DID I CROSS WYATT ENSLOW? Tom began to laugh. “She didn’t do it to the bunk,” Vik insisted. “She must’ve done something to our processors.” That much was obvious. If Wyatt was good at anything, it was pulling off tricks with the neural processors, which could pretty much be manipulated to show them anything. This was some sort of illusion she was making them see, and Tom heartily approved. He stepped closer to the walls to admire some of the photos pinned there, freeze-frames of some of Vik’s more embarrassing moments at the Spire: that time Vik got a computer virus that convinced him he was a sheep, and he’d crawled around on his hands and knees chewing on plants in the arboretum. Another was Vik gaping in dismay as Wyatt won the war games. “My hands do not look like that.” Vik jabbed a finger at the statue and its abnormally tiny hands. Wyatt had relentlessly mocked Vik for having small, delicate hands ever since Tom had informed her it was the proper way to counter one of Vik’s nicknames for her, “Man Hands.” Vik had mostly abandoned that nickname for “Evil Wench,” and Tom suspected it was due to the delicate-hands gibe. Just then, Vik’s new roommate bustled into the bunk. He was a tall, slim guy with curly black hair and a pointy look to his face. Tom had seen him around, and he called up his profile from memory: NAME: Giuseppe Nichols RANK: USIF, Grade IV Middle, Alexander Division ORIGIN: New York, NY ACHIEVEMENTS: Runner-up, Van Cliburn International Piano Competition IP: 2053:db7:lj71::291:ll3:6e8 SECURITY STATUS: Top Secret LANDLOCK-4 Giuseppe must’ve been able to see the bunk template, too, because he stuttered to a stop, staring up at the statue. “Did you really program a giant statue of yourself into your bunk template? That’s so narcissistic.” Tom smothered his laughter. “Wow. He already has your number, man.” Vik shot him a look of death as Tom backed out of the bunk.

So, having at last met a foe I could not defeat, I fled,” he said in disgust. “Rather than face you in my weakness, I thought to leave you behind, to forget about you, which I thought was surely possible. After all, how could one human overwhelm me with feelings in such a short period of time?” He smiled bitterly, shaking his head at his own foolishness. “You told me once I haunted your dreams,” he said softly. “With you gone, I have lived for those moments stolen from your sleep. I wanted you to remember me so that no other man could touch you the way I had. The very possibility drove me mad. When I learned you’d gone to Texas, my first thought was to destroy Jabril Karim before his eyes could so much as look upon you, lest he even think to take you for his own.” A cloud covered the moon high above, hiding his face until only the silver gleam of his eyes was visible as he met her gaze. “I have been mastered at last, sweet Cyn, helpless in the face of that most human of failings. I love you.

The book I was reading was this book I took out of the library by mistake. They gave me the wrong book, and I didn't notice it till I got back to my room. They gave me Out of Africa, by Isak Dinesen. I thought it was going to stink, but it didn’t. It was a very good book. I’m quite illiterate, but I read a lot. My favorite author is my brother D.B., and my next favorite is Ring Lardner. My brother gave me a book by Ring Lardner for my birthday, just before I went to Pencey. It had these very funny, crazy plays in it, and then it had this one story about a traffic cop that falls in love with this very cute girl that's always speeding. Only, he's married, the cop, so he can't marry her or anything. Then this girl gets killed, because she's always speeding. That story just about killed me. What I like best is a book that’s at least funny once in a while. I read a lot of classical books, like The Return of the Native and all, and I like them, and I read a lot of war books and mysteries and all, but they don’t knock me out too much. What really knocks me out is a book that, when you’re all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn’t happen much, though. I wouldn’t mind calling this Isak Dinesen up. And Ring Lardner, except that D.B. told me he’s dead. You take that book Of Human Bondage, by Somerset Maugham, though. I read it last summer. It’s a pretty good book and all, but I wouldn’t want to call Somerset Maugham up. I don’t know. He just isn’t the kind of a guy I’d want to call up, that’s all. I’d rather call old Thomas Hardy up. I like that Eustacia Vye.