Trilogy Freight Quotes

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What I said to you earlier, I was angry, I was..." "Right on target." The sound he made might have been a laugh, if not so freighted with bitterness. "Only in the way that people who know one another best know how to hurt one another best," I pleaded.
Robin Hobb (Assassin's Quest (Farseer Trilogy, #3))
Most people have fantasized about danger: how they would escape, how they would fight, how they’d be too smart to be hurt. But those fantasies are nothing compared to the moment it happens. Sometimes, you can watch danger coming at you like a freight train, and all you can do is stand there. All you can do is let it overtake you.
Harley Laroux (Her Soul for Revenge (Souls Trilogy, #2))
The Camera Eye (38) sealed signed and delivered all over Tours you can smell lindens in bloom it’s hot my uniform sticks the OD chafes me under the chin only four days ago AWOL crawling under the freight cars at the station of St. Pierre-des-Corps waiting in the buvette for the MP on guard to look away from the door so’s I could slink out with a cigarette (and my heart) in my mouth then in a tiny box of a hotel room changing the date on that old movement order but today my discharge sealed signed and delivered sends off sparks in my pocket like a romancandle I walk past the headquarters of the SOS Hay sojer your tunic’s unbuttoned (f—k you buddy) and down the lindenshaded street to the bathhouse that has a court with flowers in the middle of it the hot water gushes green out of brass swanheads into the whitemetal tub I strip myself naked soap myself all over with the sour pink soap slide into the warm deepgreen tub through the white curtain in the window a finger of afternoon sunlight lengthens on the ceiling towel’s dry and warm smells of steam in the suitcase I’ve got a suit of civvies I borrowed from a fellow I know the buck private in the rear rank of Uncle Sam’s Medical Corps (serial number . . . never could remember the number anyway I dropped it in the Loire) goes down the drain with a gurgle and hiss and having amply tipped and gotten the eye from the fat woman who swept up the towels I step out into the lindensmell of a July afternoon and stroll up to the café where at the little tables outside only officers may set their whipcord behinds and order a drink of cognac unservable to those in uniform while waiting for the train to Paris and sit down firmly in long pants in the iron chair an anonymous civilian
John Dos Passos (1919 (The U.S.A. Trilogy, #2))