Short Bedding Advertisement Quotes

But she would not have slept for anything. Tilting her head she could see the red moon and the stars rising and lowering over the uneven road. The car rushed between rows of sloping pines whose trunks were barred with white paint, and past an army of advertisements for gasoline, Chianti, and men’s hats. Once in a while they passed through a village whose main and single street shone like a fair with a confusion of neon lights, and in whose unadorned cafés children, too late out of bed, slept on their mothers’ laps. As clearly as if it were day she could picture the symmetrical Tuscan landscape that extended on either side. She had made this journey from Florence a dozen times before without ever finding it too short, but tonight the numbered notices of decreasing kilometres seemed to be posted at every turn. She wanted to go on for ever - but wanted it intensely, as if it were a possibility - and wondered whether she had ever been as happy as this.

There's a beep. And, in that fraction of a second, I see it all → . . Me in bed, covered in lipstick and talcum powder; falling down the coach aisle; smashing into a hat-stall; climbing under a table; thirty hands in the air; spinning under a spotlight; jumping in the snow; a ponytail, cut off; sitting on a catwalk; standing on a doorstep; my first kiss, on a television set. I see a Japanese fish market and an octopus; a sumo stage; a glass box and a hundred dolls; a shining lake; a zebra crossing; a brand-new sister. I see New York and a governess; a fairground ride; a planetarium; a party; Brooklyn Bridge. Toilet paper and Icarus; dinosaur biscuits; posters; Marrakesh and a monkey; parties of stars. Picnics and coffee; an advertising agency; a doppelganger; an Indian elephant and firework clouds of paint; a cafe, filled with pink. I see Sydney and diving and a fashion show that glittered with gold. In short: I see a whole world, opening behind me. And a new world, opening in front. A world that I fit into perfectly.

Helen spent three days in Rhys Winterborne’s room, babbling incessantly while he lay there feverish and mostly silent. She became heartily tired of the sound of her own voice, and said something to that effect near the end of the second day. “I’m not,” he said shortly. “Keep talking.” The combination of Winterborne’s broken leg, the fever, and the enforced bed rest had made him surly and ill tempered. It seemed that whenever Helen wasn’t there to entertain him, he vented his frustration on everyone within reach, even snapping at the poor housemaid who came in the morning to clean and light the grate. After having run through childhood anecdotes, detailed histories of the Ravenel family, and descriptions of all her tutors, favorite pets, and the most picturesque walks around Eversby, Helen had gone in search of reading material. Although she had attempted to interest Winterborne in a Dickens novel, he had rejected it categorically, having no interest in fiction or poetry. Next Helen had tried newspapers, which had been deemed acceptable. In fact, he wanted her to read every word, including the advertisements. “I’m amazed that you’re willing to read to him at all,” Kathleen said when Helen told her about it later. “If it were me, I wouldn’t bother.