Harlequin Quotes

Only love of a good woman will make a man question every choice, every action. Only love makes a warrior hesitate for fear that his lady will find him cruel. Only love makes a man both the best he will ever be, and the weakest. Sometimes all in the same moment. -Wicked

[Myrnin to Claire about their costumes of Pierrot and Harlequin, respectively] "Don't they teach you anything in your schools?" "Not about this." "Pity. I suppose that's what comes of your main education flowing from Google.

You take insult where none is intended, but if you will find insult where none is meant, then perhaps I should try harder to insult on purpose.

She should have remembered that people have given everything they own, everything they are, to be taken care of, and to have their pain gone. It's the lure of cults: the promise of a good family; it's what people think love is, but love isn't absence of pain, it's a hand to hold while you're going through it.

The rule is that if they have a weapon and want to take you someplace else, it is so they can kill you slower--Peter

Under the pink Harlequin sunglasses strawberry dangling charms, and sugar-frosted eyeshadow she was really almost beautiful.

In chains and darkness, wherefore should I stay, And mourn in prison, while I keep the key.

Repent, Harlequin," said the Ticktock Man. "Get stuffed," the Harlequin replied.

I don't do doomed.

I watch my heart disappearing into her rosebud mouth. My Valentine's jest somehow seems less funny.

I am alone. They have gone into the house for breakfast, and I am left standing by the wall among the flowers. It is very early, before lessons. Flower after flower is specked on the depths of green. The petals are harlequins. Stalks rise from the black hollows beneath. The flowers swim like fish made of light upon the dark, green waters. I hold a stalk in my hand. I am the stalk. My roots go down to the depths of the world, through earth dry with brick, and damp earth, through veins of lead and silver. I am all fibre. All tremors shake me, and the weight of the earth is pressed to my ribs. Up here my eyes are green leaves, unseeing.

Oui , but if all the men in your life are happy, you are happier, and it makes my life easier." - Jean-Claude

If I express an interest in Giotto and yarn bombing, Bach and Lady Gaga, I am well-rounded. But if I read Thomas Mann and Harlequin…I must be slipping.

The finished clock is resplendent. At first glance it is simply a clock, a rather large black clock with a white face and a silver pendulum. Well crafted, obviously, with intricately carved woodwork edges and a perfectly painted face, but just a clock. But that is before it is wound. Before it begins to tick, the pendulum swinging steadily and evenly. Then, then it becomes something else. The changes are slow. First, the color changes in the face, shifts from white to grey, and then there are clouds that float across it, disappearing when they reach the opposite side. Meanwhile, bits of the body of the clock expand and contract, like pieces of a puzzle. As though the clock is falling apart, slowly and gracefully. All of this takes hours. The face of the clock becomes a darker grey, and then black, with twinkling stars where numbers had been previously. The body of the clock, which has been methodically turning itself inside out and expanding, is now entirely subtle shades of white and grey. And it is not just pieces, it is figures and objects, perfectly carved flowers and planets and tiny books with actual paper pages that turn. There is a silver dragon that curls around part of the now visible clockwork, a tiny princess in a carved tower who paces in distress, awaiting an absent prince. Teapots that pour into teacups and minuscule curls of steam that rise from them as the seconds tick. Wrapped presents open. Small cats chase small dogs. An entire game of chess is played. At the center, where a cuckoo bird would live in a more traditional timepiece, is the juggler. Dress in harlequin style with a grey mask, he juggles shiny silver balls that correspond to each hour. As the clock chimes, another ball joins the rest until at midnight he juggles twelve balls in a complex pattern. After midnight, the clock begins once more to fold in upon itself. The face lightens and the cloud returns. The number of juggled balls decreases until the juggler himself vanishes. By noon it is a clock again, and no longer a dream.

It is a terrifying thing when the animals laugh at the hunter. Take a tip from Harlequin and the Joker. If you imitate a fool well, you are not likely to be fooled by others. To be it bluntly, albeit unorginally: "A fool who knows he is a fool is indeed a wise man.

It’d been a long time since they’d been together, but as close as they were physically, they’d never been so far apart in every other way.

Why let them order you about? Why let them tell you to hurry and scurry like ants or maggots? Take your time! Saunter a while! Enjoy the sunshine, enjoy the breeze, let life carry you at your own pace! Don't be slaves of time, it's a helluva way to die, slowly, by degrees...down with the Ticktockman!

We are liable to miss the best of life if we do not know how to tingle, if we do not learn to hoist ourselves just a little higher than we generally are in order to sample the rarest and ripest fruit of art which human thought has to offer.

The clown figure has had so many meanings in different times and cultures. The jolly, well-loved joker familiar to most people is actually but one aspect of this protean creature. Madmen, hunchbacks, amputees, and other abnormals were once considered natural clowns; they were elected to fulfill a comic role which could allow others to see them as ludicrous rather than as terrible reminders of the forces of disorder in the world. But sometimes a cheerless jester was required to draw attention to this same disorder, as in the case of King Lear's morbid and honest fool, who of course was eventually hanged, and so much for his clownish wisdom. Clowns have often had ambiguous and sometimes contradictory roles to play. ("The Last Feast Of The Harlequin")

Sometimes waiting makes the culmination that much sweeter.

That's the joy of a harlequinade, after all, isn't it? We change our costumes. We change our roles.

He wasn't aware of it but when he smiled he looked like an amiable bear. When he didn't smile he didn't look amiable

to read or not to read... that is a silly question

If the sun rises tomorrow, we’ll watch it together.

Revenge was always the easy part; the hard part was living with it afterward.

I’m okay.” Zayne staggered to his feet. “I can fight.” “I sure hope so.” Roth lifted his arm and Bambi came off his skin, coiling on the floor between us. “Because if you’re just going to lay there and bleed, you suck.” Armentrout, Jennifer L. (2014-03-01). White Hot Kiss (The Dark Elements Book 1) (p. 368). Harlequin. Kindle Edition.

And so it goes. And so it goes. And so it goes. And so it goes goes goes goes goes tick tock tick tock tick tock and one day we no longer let time serve us, we serve time and we are slaves of the schedule, worshipers of the sun's passing, bound into a life predicated on restrictions because the system will not function if we don't keep the schedule tight.

Look at the harlequins! [...] All around you. Trees are harlequins, words are harlequins. So are situations and sums. Put two things together—jokes, images—and you get a triple harlequin. Come on! Play! Invent the world! Invent reality!

I sighed. “There’s this big exam in bio on Monday.” Lie. “And since there haven’t been any demon attacks lately...” Lie. “I was hoping I could spend the night at Stacey’s house on Saturday to study.” Lie. Lie. Lie. Armentrout, Jennifer L. (2014-03-01). White Hot Kiss (The Dark Elements Book 1) (p. 280). Harlequin. Kindle Edition.

I will attire my Jane in satin and lace, and she shall have roses in her hair and I will cover the head I love best with a priceless veil.' 'And then you won't know me, sir, and I shall not be your Jane Eyre any longer, but an ape in a harlequin's jacket, -a jay in borrowed plumes. I would as soon see you, Mr. Rochester, tricked out in stage-trappings, as myself clad in a court-lady's robe; and I don't call you handsome,sir, though I love you most dearly: far too dearly to flatter you. Don't flatter me.

As I drifted along with my bodiless invisibility, I felt myself more and more becoming an empty, floating shape, seeing without being seen and walking without the interference of those grosser creatures who shared my world. It was not an experience completely without interest or even pleasure. The clown's shibboleth of "here we are again" took on a new meaning for me as I felt myself a novitiate of a more rarified order of harlequinry. ("The Last Feast Of The Harlequin")

It may be a crush, or hero worship (...), it may not be love, but if you've never felt anything stronger, how do you tell the difference?

Romance From The Heart!

You're a nonconformist.” “That didn’t used to be a felony.” “It is now. Live in the world around you.

So put your costume on, honey! Ruby said. Set Harlequin free! That party monster of yours is screaming to come out. Let the monster out!

Romance novels constitute 46 percent of all mass market paperbacks sold in the United States, and according to Harlequin, over half its customers buy an average of 30 novels a month

Heart isn’t something you find in soap operas and Harlequin novels. It’s that pure essence–sheltered deep inside–that occasionally makes its way to the surface. Give heed lest it ever trend to waste.

Jelly beans! Millions and billions of purples and yellows and greens and licorice and grape and raspberry and mint and round and smooth and crunchy outside and soft-mealy inside and sugary and bouncing jouncing tumbling clittering clattering skittering fell on the heads and shoulders and hardhats and carapaces of the Timkin works, tinkling on the slidewalk and bouncing away and rolling about underfoot and filling the sky on their way down with all the colors of joy and childhood and holidays, coming down in a steady rain, a solid wash, a torrent of color and sweetness out of the sky from above, and entering a universe of sanity and metronomic order with quite-mad coocoo newness. Jelly beans!

Close your mouth Lily, you look like a codfish." "I can't help it. This place looks like something out of medieval times. I'm surprised there aren't rushes on the floor or half-dressed serving wenches carrying trenchers of food." "Read Harlequin much?" "Shut up. There's nothing wrong with romance novels. You could learn something from them you know." Sean's mouth curved into a slow, seductive grin. He let his fingers drift casually along the side of her arm, deliberately grazing the edge of her breast. "Could I now?

Goodbye, control," Maggie muttered, her hands trembling with a mix of excitement and nerves. "Hello, fantasy.

It's these darn barbecues. It's so hard to stand and hold on to a plate full of food, a drink and your dignity at the same time

Mills & Boon and Harlequins are like colourful jelly beans, you can't get enough of...

She tells me life is a story. We can make it a Harlequin romance, a mistery, a memoir. We can make it pamphlet-size or an ongoing series. "I want mine to be exceptional", she says.

Here are the ten most common professions of the hero, derived from the titles of more than 15,000 Harlequin romance novels: Doctor Cowboy Boss Prince Rancher Knight Surgeon King Bodyguard Sheriff

All you have to do is circulate and listen. If you know what they’re talking about, join in. If you don’t know what they’re talking about, then ask questions,’ he relayed as if it was really that simple. ‘People don’t mind being asked questions. In fact, they like to show off their knowledge. What they don’t like is someone pretending to know what they’re talking about when they don’t.

The good thing about being with a woman who has amnesia is that the conversation gets to be all about you

Why can I remember eggplant, when I can't remember my own name?!

You need to acquire a lover, Madam President.

Hell's only the flip side of Paradise. Sometimes it's hard to differentiate between the two.

The wheel of fortune that had once raised her so high had taken her into the utter depths.

In the Queen’s dream she ran hazily through an emerald mist. Behind her trailed caricatures of elves. Their bodies were shadows, long and twisted. Just one of their strides covered two of hers. They were like harlequins, and their smiles gleamed white as they fired arrows that left bare trails in the Nixus. She looked over her shoulder just as an arrow sliced at her face and severed locks of her scarlet hair. Her bones made an unpleasant jolt as the Queen hit what felt like a wall. A great shadow towered over her, its face a porcelain white mask. Unlike the elves, however, the figure did not smile. Claws plucked her from the fog as if she were a child’s toy, and the shadow's mask flipped open, revealing a familiar face.

Here’s the deal. Willi’s bought the rights to a paperback best-seller called The White Slaver. It’s a piece of formulized shit written for illiterate fourteen-year-olds and the kind of lobotomized housewife that lines up to buy the new Harlequin romances each month. Jack-off material for intellectual quadriplegics. Naturally it sold about three million copies. We

Every author believes, when his first book is published, that those that acclaim it are his personal friends or impersonal peers, while its revilers can only be envious rogues and nonentities.

My God, I hate you! ’ she flung at him. ‘Do you really?’ Andreas sneered, and his face was savage. ‘Well, I’ve got news for you, my darling. What you feel for me is lukewarm compared to what I feel for you.

There was music from my neighbor's house through the summer nights. In his blue gardens men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars. At high tide in the afternoon I watched his guests diving from the tower of his raft, or taking the sun on the hot sand of his beach while his two motor-boats slit the waters of the Sound, drawing aquaplanes over cataracts of foam. On week-ends his Rolls-Royce became an omnibus, bearing parties to and from the city between nine in the morning and long past midnight, while his station wagon scampered like a brisk yellow bug to meet all trains. And on Mondays eight servants, including an extra gardener, toiled all day with mops and scrubbing-brushes and hammers and garden-shears, repairing the ravages of the night before. Every Friday five crates of oranges and lemons arrived from a fruiterer in New York--every Monday these same oranges and lemons left his back door in a pyramid of pulpless halves. There was a machine in the kitchen which could extract the juice of two hundred oranges in half an hour if a little button was pressed two hundred times by a butler's thumb. At least once a fortnight a corps of caterers came down with several hundred feet of canvas and enough colored lights to make a Christmas tree of Gatsby's enormous garden. On buffet tables, garnished with glistening hors-d'oeuvre, spiced baked hams crowded against salads of harlequin designs and pastry pigs and turkeys bewitched to a dark gold. In the main hall a bar with a real brass rail was set up, and stocked with gins and liquors and with cordials so long forgotten that most of his female guests were too young to know one from another. By seven o'clock the orchestra has arrived, no thin five-piece affair, but a whole pitful of oboes and trombones and saxophones and viols and cornets and piccolos, and low and high drums. The last swimmers have come in from the beach now and are dressing up-stairs; the cars from New York are parked five deep in the drive, and already the halls and salons and verandas are gaudy with primary colors, and hair shorn in strange new ways, and shawls beyond the dreams of Castile. The bar is in full swing, and floating rounds of cocktails permeate the garden outside, until the air is alive with chatter and laughter, and casual innuendo and introductions forgotten on the spot, and enthusiastic meetings between women who never knew each other's names. The lights grow brighter as the earth lurches away from the sun, and now the orchestra is playing yellow cocktail music, and the opera of voices pitches a key higher. Laughter is easier minute by minute, spilled with prodigality, tipped out at a cheerful word. The groups change more swiftly, swell with new arrivals, dissolve and form in the same breath; already there are wanderers, confident girls who weave here and there among the stouter and more stable, become for a sharp, joyous moment the centre of a group, and then, excited with triumph, glide on through the sea-change of faces and voices and color under the constantly changing light. Suddenly one of the gypsies, in trembling opal, seizes a cocktail out of the air, dumps it down for courage and, moving her hands like Frisco, dances out alone on the canvas platform. A momentary hush; the orchestra leader varies his rhythm obligingly for her, and there is a burst of chatter as the erroneous news goes around that she is Gilda Gray's understudy from the FOLLIES. The party has begun.

What had I believed at ten? Anything I wanted. Any tale to make the day more fun, the night more alarming. In giant pigs rooting beneath the streets. In the corpse-eaters who pulled black carts by night, hunting children out past curfew.

Piazza del Popolo presented a spectacle of gay and noisy mirth and revelry. A crowd of masks flowed in from all sides, emerging from the doors, descending from the windows. From every street and every corner drove carriages filled with clowns, harlequins, dominoes, mummers, pantomimists, Transteverins, knights, and peasants, screaming, fighting, gesticulating, throwing eggs filled with flour, confetti, nosegays, attacking, with their sarcasms and their missiles, friends

Here’s the deal. Willi’s bought the rights to a paperback best-seller called The White Slaver. It’s a piece of formulized shit written for illiterate fourteen-year-olds and the kind of lobotomized housewife that lines up to buy the new Harlequin romances each month. Jack-off material for intellectual quadriplegics. Naturally

I hate these affairs", he'd told her once, tearing up an engraved invitation to an exclusive charity ball. "They're the worst kind of discrimination. An invitation doesn't really mean that you're invited; it means that a whole lot of people aren't

I recall how I suspected at the time that my young friend was indulging in her first bout of calf love.

What do you say to furthering our cousinly relationship by a drive in the Park this afternoon?

The ferocity of her passion was what he'd been waiting for night after torturous night. He wanted her to hunger the way he hungered. To need like he needed.

Motherhood doesn't have a nationality

Books aren't made of pages and words.Tehy are made of hopes,dreams and possibilities.

In this world I would rather live two days like a tiger than a hundred years like a sheep.

Books aren't made of pages and words.They are made of hopes,dreams and possibilities.

You said that once before. Actually - a slow smile curved his mouth - that's one of the reasons I came today. I'm ready to give you a lesson in loving me.

Even that exquisite hunger he aroused at her, fiercely sweet as it might be, posed a threat to her sanity.

Hope and perseverance—that’s what I learned from books.

Pierrot. How . . . odd for you. You’re much more the Harlequin, I should think.’’ ‘‘I’ve always thought that Pierrot was the secretly dangerous one,’’ Myrnin said. ‘‘All that innocence must hide something.’’ Bishop laughed. ‘‘I’ve missed you, fool.’’ ‘‘Truly? Odd. I haven’t missed you at all, my lord.’’ That stopped Bishop’s laughter in its tracks, and Claire felt the fear close around her, like suffocating cold. ‘‘Ah, I remember now why you ceased to amuse, Myrnin. You use honesty like a club.’’ ‘‘I thought it more like a rapier, lord.

When I was a kid, I just read and read. We were lucky enough to have gone to England and had a whole bunch of Penguin Puffins books, like The Land of Green Ginger by Noel Langley, which is hilarious. I would love to be able to write a book like that, but I don't know that I have a humorous bone in my body when it comes to writing. Once on a Time by A.A. Milne. I read a lot of old, old fantasy stuff. The Carbonelbooks by Barbara Sleigh. Then when I got a little older I loved Zilpha Keatley Snyder. I was a big fan of romance and when I got a little bit older I would read a Harlequin romance or a Georgette Heyer novel and then David Copperfield, and then another genre book and then Irving Stone's The Agony and the Ecstasy. I was that kind of reader. One book that I loved was I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith. I loved voice and that book had it in spades. And then of course I grew into loving Jane Eyre.

Cambridge by moonlight was light blue and brownish black. There was no mist here and a great vault of clear stars hung over the city with an intent luxurious brilliance. It was the sort of night when one knows of other galaxies. My long shadow glided before me on the pavement. Although it was not yet eleven o'clock the place seemed empty and I moved through it like a mysterious and lonely harlequin in a painting: like an assassin.

What kind of books are you reading?” He laughed. “I’ve never heard of any great literature with the premise of ‘easy girl becomes sex slave to powerful man.’ Put down the Harlequins and learn about real life, Lola. I neither want nor need you to do any sexual favors for me.” “I …” I mumbled, flabbergasted at his words. “I don’t read Harlequins.” “Good. I wouldn’t want you to go getting any dreams in your head about this situation. I know how you girls are.

Between bad ideas of gender neutrality and even worse ideas of the innocence of pornography, we reach the world so vividly described by so many dissatisfied women today, one where men act like stereotypical women, and retreat from real relationships into a fantasy life via pornography (rather than Harlequin novels), and where women conversely act like stereotypical men, taking the lead in leaving their marriages and firing angry charges on the way, out of frustration and withheld sex.

A multitude of harlequin lifeforms bobbed and twirled and played in the depths of the Atlantic. Pink cucumbers with thorny backs. Algae. Starfish. Annelids with simple brains and a hundred toes. Sponges—like yellow, swollen hands—sucked in water and pushed out oxygen. Most amusing were the mysterious buggers who had no likeness on the previous earth; tiny beasts with exotic exoskeletons engraved with deep grid-like patterns, snails with horns, and slithering plants that looked like magenta weeping willows.

Children are imprinted with the lessons of life from their earliest years. They learn from their parents how to give and receive love. It is the necessary lesson which they must learn if they are to do more than exist in an emotional vacuum inhabited only by themselves.

In the modern world it is not bricks and roads, cannon and swords that define power. No; it is paper. Books of law, deeds of ownership, writs of forbiddance and permission. Titles of lordship, directives of the king's sub-Ministry for Associated Trade. Memoranda from that last desk alone could sink and shake kingdoms, decide the fates of thousands across the sea. Ink runs thicker than blood. Paper: more powerful than an army or the pox.

Don't come back till you have him!" the Ticktockman said, very quietly, very sincerely, extremely dangerously. They used dogs. They used probes. They used cardioplate crossoffs. They used teepers. They used bribery. They used stiktytes. They used intimidation. They used torment. They used torture. They used finks. They used cops. They used search&seizure. They used fallaron. They used betterment incentive. They used fingerprints. They used the Bertillon system. They used cunning. They used guile. They used treachery. They used Raoul Mitgong, but he didn't help much. They used applied physics. They used techniques of criminology. And what the hell: they caught him.

Shut up.” She put her finger to his lips, and his voice choked off. She said slowly, “I’ve learned I can live without you.” Kasimir’s heart cracked inside his chest. He’d lost her. She was going to send him away, back into the bleak winter. “But I’ve also learned,” Josie whispered, “that I don’t want to.” Her brown eyes were suddenly warm, like the sky after a sudden spring storm. “I tried to stop loving you. But once I love someone, I love for life.” Her lips lifted in a trembling smile. “I’m stubborn that way.

I swear, Papa, I'd give my virtue if it would get my novels published,' she exclaimed in vexation. 'I'm certain we've tried everything else.

Was tomorrow going to see the end of her long-guarded virginity?

The real world isn't like one of those lending library novels that you ladies read--and write--so avidly.

...ever since she had read the girl's novel, a piece of artistry that struck her as wish-fulfilment at its most blatant...

It might not be so unpleasant, you know, to do me one or two favours in exchange for becoming a famous authoress.

...it would seem that whoever did write this book knows you very well. You appear in it, sir. As...as the hero.

I believe that books must go through a fairly slow birthing process...

...Great-Uncle Powell, an archaeologist, had spent most of his time digging about in foreign parts.

Father, I am an alien.

Her actions were instinctive—her hands reaching up to run feverishly over his stiffly held shoulders, then up his corded neck towards his suddenly taut face muscles. His mouth gasped open when she began to trace his lips boldly with her fingers. She didn’t hesitate, daringly inserting them into his mouth, sliding them back and forth along his wet tongue in an echo of what his body was doing inside hers. ‘Ethan,’ she moaned in her mad passion for him. ‘Oh, Ethan…’ He froze for a second, then shuddered violently, a raw, animal sound punched from his lungs.

The necklace, Marcos,” she said firmly, leveling the gun at his heart once more. “I’ll take it now.” “It’s not here, querida. You waste your time.” Francesca lowered the gun to point at his groin. “Killing you would be too good. Perhaps I will simply have to deprive the female world of your ability to make love ever again. I am quite a good shot, I assure you.” She’d learned out of necessity. And though she never wanted to harm another human being, she had no compunction about making this man think she would do so if it meant she could save Jacques. His voice dropped to a growl. A hateful, angry growl. “You won’t get away with this. Whoever you are, Frankie, I will find you. I will find you and make you wish you’d never met me.” Her heart flipped in her chest. She ignored it. “I already wish that. Now give me the jewel before you lose the ability to ever have children.” Bitterness twisted inside her as she said those words. Ironic to threaten someone with something she would never wish on another soul. But she had to be hard, cold, ruthless – just like he was. He stared at her in impotent fury, his jaw grinding, his beautiful black eyes flashing daggers at her. Very slowly, he reached up with one hand and slipped his bowtie free of its knot. Then he jerked it loose and let it fall.

The street-crowd below held no one of interest. They bored me. They bored God. Surely they bored themselves. The beggars were dull, the passerby grey, the lounging riffraff leaned bereft of lazy charm. If any possessed magic, they kept it hidden. If they thirsted for miracles, they settled for drinking brown fog flavored with smoke, with a chaser of dust and horse-shit. Every tenth breath spitting it to the cobbles with a wet "splat".

La confianza es un camino de dos direcciones... Todas las fortunas tienen sus límites. Hay cosas más importantes en la vida que un trozo de cristal. Las palabras, por dulces que fueran, no suavizaban la pérdida. El pasado es como un mal sueño. No se llega a olvidar del todo, pero con el tiempo pierde intensidad. las cosas no te consuelan cuando tienes miedo, ni te escuchan cuando necesitas hablar con alguien. Las cosas nunca me han hecho feliz.

You think you really hate me that much?" he taunted, finding my hand and pushing the knife he held into my grip. I watched him in fear as he turned the blade in our combined grip and pressed it against his throat before removing his hand and just staring down at me. "So do it, then. Take your vengeance and rid the world of a monster while you're at it. My heart only beats for you anyway so if you want to carve it from my chest then you can. It's yours whatever way you want it.

It's a simple domestic tale, about a girl who has problems getting married, and how she deals with her relations and friends. Miss Dalrymple has quite an eye for character; I'd swear some of her people must be drawn from life, and it's no wonder she wants to remain anonymous.

And lastly were the single women. They would run the gamut from somewhat pretty to somewhat plain, dreadful, incurable diseases that had relegated them to lives of obscurity and boredom. They were hardly unattractive, each having something special to offer, but their figures and faces were more real than the latest Hollywood celebrity gracing the magazine cover at their local supermarket checkout. Outcasts in a non-substantive culture which worshipped only facade, they were hoping for the romance found in the pages of the Harlequins and Harold Robbins novels they read in their bedrooms, a pint of ice cream at their side. Their bedroom was their sanctuary, a place where they could dream of being taken and loved, worshipped and lusted after. If they were lucky, they would take home from Cozumel a sweet memory they would make last a lifetime. Evidence that they had lived. If they were unlucky, they would cross paths with a swarthy local Lothario or worse, a butch cruising for the vulnerable. The unsafe mix of inexperience and loneliness would lead them to acts so shameful and degrading they would never be able to enjoy the innocence of another Harlequin.

LONG, LONG AGO IN the Incubation Period of Man—long before booking agents, five-a-days, theatrical boarding houses, subway circuits, and Variety—when Megatherium roamed the trees, when Broadway was going through its First Glacial Period, and when the first vaudeville show was planned by the first lop-eared, low-browed, hairy impresario, it was decreed: “The acrobat shall be first.” Why the acrobat should be first no one ever explained; but that this was a dubious honor every one on the bill—including the acrobat—realized only too well. For it was recognized even then, in the infancy of Show Business, that the first shall be last in the applause of the audience. And all through the ages, in courts and courtyards and feeble theatres, it was the acrobat—whether he was called buffoon, farceur, merry-andrew, tumbler, mountebank, Harlequin, or punchinello—who was thrown, first among his fellow-mimes, to the lions of entertainment to whet their appetites for the more luscious feasts to come. So that to this day their muscular miracles are performed hard on the overture’s last wall shaking blare, performed with a simple resignation that speaks well for the mildness and resilience of the whole acrobatic tribe.

He closed the distance between them, slipped an arm around her waist beneath the blanket. His fingers traced her jaw, slid into the hair at her nape. “You are a fascinating woman, Paige. No wonder Russell chose you for this task. Or did you volunteer?” With a tug, she was flush against him. The blanket fell away as she let it go to press her hands against his chest. Paige closed her eyes. His naked chest. His skin was hot beneath her hands, silky and hard, and she wanted to pet him like a cat. How could she possibly find him sexy at a time like this? “Let me go,” she breathed. “Before you’ve done what you came to do?” “I didn’t come here to do anything.” “What did Russell offer you?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” “Were you supposed to seduce me? Supposed to leave me sated and exhausted in bed while you went through my papers?” His head dipped toward her. “Because I have to say, Paige, that I am very disappointed in your technique thus far. But I find I am quite willing to allow you to complete your mission. She knew she should pull away when his lips touched hers, but it was physically impossible. Not because he held her too tightly, but because her body was zinging with sparks that she didn’t want to end…

Really, the insufferable conceit of the man. How dared he have the unutterable gall to know how her knees weakened at the sight of him, how she felt full of life and spirit when he was with her, how his very touch sent fire coursing through her veins in a way she hadn't known existed outside the pages of lending-library novels!

The finished clock is resplendent. At first glance it is simply a clock, a rather large black clock with a white face and a silver pendulum. Well crafted, obviously, with intricately carved woodwork edges and a perfectly painted face, but just a clock. But that is before it is wound. Before it begins to tick, the pendulum swinging steadily and evenly. Then, then it becomes something else. The changes are slow. First, the color changes in the face, shifts from white to grey, and then there are clouds that float across it, disappearing when they reach the opposite side. Meanwhile, bits of the body of the clock expand and contract, like pieces of a puzzle. As though the clock is falling apart, slowly and gracefully. All of this takes hours. The face of the clock becomes a darker grey, and then black, with twinkling stars where the numbers had been previously. The body of the clock, which has been methodically turning itself inside out and expanding, is now entirely subtle shades of white and grey. And it is not just pieces, it is figures and objects, perfectly carved flowers and planets and tiny books with actual paper pages that turn. There is a silver dragon that curls around part of the now visible clockwork, a tiny princess in a carved tower who paces in distress, awaiting an absent prince. Teapots that pour into teacups and minuscule curls of steam that rise from them as the seconds tick. Wrapped presents open. Small cats chase small dogs. An entire game of chess is played. At the center, where a cuckoo bird would live in a more traditional timepiece, is the juggler. Dressed in harlequin style with a grey mask, he juggles shiny silver balls that correspond to each hour. As the clock chimes, another ball joins the rest until at midnight he juggles twelve balls in a complex pattern. After midnight the clock begins once more to fold in upon itself. The face lightens and the clouds return. The number of juggled balls decreases until the juggler himself vanishes. By noon it is a clock again, and no longer a dream. A

It takes the better part of those months for Herr Thiessen to complete the clock. He works on little else, though the sum of money involved makes the arrangement more than manageable. Weeks are spent on the design and the mechanics. He hires an assistant to complete some of the basic woodwork, but he takes care of all the details himself. Herr Thiessen loves details and he loves a challenge. He balances the entire design on that one specific word Mr. Barris used. Dreamlike. The finished clock is resplendent. At first glance it is simply a clock, a rather large black clock with a white face and a silver pendulum. Well crafted, obviously, with intricately carved woodwork edges and a perfectly painted face, but just a clock. But that is before it is wound. Before it begins to tick, the pendulum swinging steadily and evenly. Then, then it becomes something else. The changes are slow. First, the color changes in the face, shifts from white to grey, and then there are clouds that float across it, disappearing when they reach the opposite side. Meanwhile, bits of the body of the clock expand and contract, like pieces of a puzzle. As thought clock is falling apart, slowly and gracefully. All of this takes hours. The face of the clock becomes a darker grey, and then black, with twinkling stars where the numbers had been previously. The body of the clock, which has been methodically turning itself inside out and expanding, is now entirely subtle shades of white and grey. And it is not just pieces, it is figures and objects, perfectly carved flowers and planets and tiny books with actually paper pages that turn. There is a silver dragon curls around part of the now visible clockwork, a tiny princess in a carved tower who paces in distress awaiting an absent prince. Teapots that our into teacups and minuscule curls of steam that rise from them as the seconds tick. Wrapped presents open. Small cats chase small dogs. An entire game of chess is played. At the center, where a cuckoo bird would live in a more traditional timepiece, is the juggler. Dressed in harlequin style with a grey mask, he juggles shiny silver balls that correspond to each hour. As the hour chimes, another ball joins the rest until at midnight he juggles twelve balls in a complex pattern. After midnight the clock begins once more to fold in upon itself. The face lightens and the colds return. The number of juggled balls decreases until the juggler himself vanishes. By noon it is a clock again, and no longer a dream.