Donovan Sharpe Quotes

I have spent these last two days in concentrated introspection," said Cutie, "and the results have been most interesting. I began at the one sure assumption I felt permitted to make.I, myself, exist, because I think-" Powell groaned, "Oh, Jupiter, a robot Descartes!" "Who's Descartes?" demanded Donovan. "Listen, do we have to sit here and listen to this metal maniac-" "Keep quiet, Mike!" Cutie continued imperturbably, "And the question that immediately arose was: Just what is the cause of my existence?" Powell's jaw set lumpily. "You're being foolish. I told you already that we made you." "And if you don't believe us," added Donovan, "we'll gladly take you apart!" The robot spread his strong hands in a deprecatory gesture, "I accept nothing on authority. A hypothesis must be backed by reason, or else it is worthless - and it goes against all the dictates of logic to suppose that you made me." Powell dropped a restraining arm upon Donovan's suddenly unched fist. "Just why do you say that?" Cutie laughed. It was a very inhuman laugh - the most machine-like utterance he had yet given vent to. It was sharp and explosive, as regular as a metronome and as uninflected. "Look at you," he said finally. "I say this in no spirit of contempt, but look at you! The material you are made of is soft and flabby, lacking endurance and strength, depending for energy upon the inefficient oxidation of organic material - like that." He pointed a disapproving finger at what remained of Donovan's sandwich. "Periodically you pass into a coma and the least variation in temperature, air ressure, humidity, or radiation intensity impairs your efficiency. You are _makeshift_. "I, on the other hand, am a finished product. I absorb electrical energy directly and utilize it with an almost one hundred percent efficiency. I am composed of strong metal, am continuously conscious, and can stand extremes of environment easily. These are facts which, with the self-evident proposition that no being can create another being superior to itself, smashes your silly hypothesis to nothing.

And when Prohibition came along, Dr. Sharpe’s Shakti Tonic took off like a rocket, mostly due to its hefty eighteen percent alcohol content.

Maddie!” His mom came rushing in from the kitchen. “What’s wrong?” “Where’s Maddie?” Panic already clogged his throat. Charlotte’s eyes widened. “She said she was going to see you at the bar.” “And she hasn’t come back?” “No,” she said, shaking her head “Did something happen?” “I’ve got to find her.” Charlotte put her hand on his arm. “What happened?” He stiffened and looked down into his mother’s eyes. They were filled with concern, with loss and sorrow. They were sad, troubled eyes. He took a deep breath and said, “We got in a fight. I told her to leave.” “Oh, Mitchell,” she said, whisper soft. “I have to find her, Mom.” His voice shook. “She can’t be gone—all her stuff is here.” “You’ll find her. Everything is going to be all right.” It didn’t ease his anxiety. “What if she went home?” His mother’s fingers trembled on his arm. “Then you’ll go get her.” His throat grew so tight that he thought he might choke. “What if she won’t come back?” “You’ll find a way to make it work. I promise.” “How do you know?” Her eyes grew bright and she blinked rapidly. In thirty-four years, he’d never once seen his mom shed a tear, even at her parents’ funerals. “Because you love her and she loves you.” He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even breathe. He managed a sharp nod. She gave him a watery smile. “Now go and do whatever you can to fight for her.” “I will,” he croaked out. Maddie Donovan was a woman worth fighting for, and he’d move heaven and hell to get her back. His

Yank grunted. “That sums it up.

yacht club. She wore a pumpkin-colored jacket and had long brown

By D. Donovan, Senior Reviewer, Midwest Book Review "Historical fiction readers are in for a treat with When I Was Better, a love story set in Hungary and Canada which follows the journey of István and Teréza, who flee the Nazi and Soviet invasions and the Hungarian Revolution to finally make their home in Winnipeg in the 1960s. Maps and a cast of characters portend an attention to details that history buffs will appreciate, but the lively chapter headings that begin with "This is What Dying Feels Like" are the real draw, promising inviting scenarios that compel readers to learn more about the characters' lives and influences. Few other books about immigrant experience hold the descriptive power of When I Was Better: "Her world had transformed into a place of gestures and facial expressions, making her feel more vigilant now than she had ever been under Communism. No one understood her but Zolti. Already she ached for her language and the family she left behind." Rita Bozi's ability to capture not just the history and milieu of the times, but the life and passions of those who live it is a sterling example of what sets an extraordinary read apart from a mundane narration of circumstance and history. Her ability to depict the everyday experiences and insights of her protagonist bonds reader to the subject in an intimate manner that brings not just the era, but the psychology of its participants to life through inner reflection, influence and experience, and even dialogue: “Four lengths of sausage, please?” Teréza watched as the man pulled two small lengths from the hook and wrapped them in course paper. “I beg your pardon, sir, but would you kindly add in two more lengths?” “We got an aristocrat here? If you take four lengths, what d’you imagine the workers are gonna eat at the end of the day?” The account of a seven-year separation, Budapest and Winnipeg cultures and contrasts, and refugee experiences brings history to life through the eyes of its beholders. That which doesn't kill us, makes us stronger. This saying applies especially strongly to When I Was Better 's powerful story, highly recommended for historical fiction readers and library collections interested in powerfully compelling writing packed with insights: “Why is it so agonizing to be truthful?” István asked, not expecting an answer. “It depends on what truth you’re about to reveal. And how you expect it to be received. If you’re expecting an execution, you have two choices. Die for what you believe in or lie to save your life.” “So in the end, it all comes down to values.” István reached for the martini, took another sip. Bela smiled. “Without truth, there’s no real connection. The truth hurts, but love eventually heals what hurts.”" "With sharp insight and the gifts of a natural, Bozi's novel brilliantly chronicles the plight of an entire generation of Hungarians through the intimate portrait of two lovers tested by the political and personal betrayals that ripped through the heart of the twentieth century.

For decades, you get up every morning knowing who you are, what you’re expected to do that day. Maybe you like the accolades that come with the job, but it’s the routines, the boundaries and the sense of accomplishment you miss when the work’s not there any longer.

you in love with Theo?” “Oh God! I'm completely, utterly, nutso in love with that man! But how do I let go of the rope? How do I loosen my grip and fall into the water if I can't even see what's down in there? Piranhas? Sharp rocks? Toxic waste? I don't even know how deep the water is! I could snap my neck like a twig!" Doris raised an eyebrow. "That was quite a metaphor.