Βιβλία σαν το «Texas»

They had taken no more than a dozen steps away from the cottages when a musket barrel came smashing through an unbroken window in one of the cottages ahead. The door flew open, three more muskets poked out. The muskets boomed, killing two of the surprised soldiers a yard to Orry’s left.

The Devil is not the Prince of Matter; the Devil is the arrogance of the spirit, faith without smile, truth that is never seized by doubt. The Devil is grim because he knows where he is going, and, in moving, he always returns whence he came.

Chapter 1The Otis elevator climbing the south pillar of the Eiffel Tower was overflowing with tourists. Inside the cramped lift, an austere businessman in a pressed suit gazed down at the boy beside him. “You look pale, son. You should have stayed on the ground.”“I’m okay . . .” the boy answered, struggling to control his anxiety. “I’ll get out on the next level.” I can’t breathe.The man leaned closer. “I thought by now you would have gotten over this.” He brushed the child’s cheek affectionately.The boy felt ashamed to disappoint his father, but he could barely hear through the ringing in his ears. I can’t breathe. I’ve got to get out of this box!The elevator operator was saying something reassuring about the lift’s articulated pistons and puddled-iron construction.

Η πολυτέλεια ήταν ένα χυδαίο βάρος. Η πρόσβαση σε νέες εμπειρίες δεν ήταν κάτι που το μοναχικό πνεύμα του λαχταρούσε. Η πολιτική και το κυνήγι της εξου­ σίας δεν ασκούσαν καμία γοητεία στο αντικοινωνικό μυαλό του. Τα παιχνίδια στρατηγικής, όπως το σκάκι ή το μπριτζ, ποτέ δεν τον ενδιέφεραν. Αν τον ρωτούσαν, ο Μπέντζαμιν θα δυσκολευόταν ενδεχομένως να εξηγήσει τι ακριβώς τον έλκυε στον κόσμο της οικονομίας. Ήταν, σίγουρα, η πολυπλοκότη­ τά του, αλλά και το γεγονός ότι έβλεπε το κεφάλαιο ως έναν ασηπτικό ζωντανό οργανισμό. Κινούνταν, καταβρόχθιζε, ανα­ πτυσσόταν, αναπαραγόταν, έφθινε και μπορούσε να χαθεί. Αλλά ήταν καθαρός από μικρόβια. Τούτο του έγινε ακόμα πιο ξεκάθαρο με τον καιρό.

What do you think spies are: priests, saints, and martyrs? They’re a squalid procession of vain fools, traitors too, yes; pansies, sadists and drunkards, people who play cowboys and Indians to brighten their rotten lives. Do you think they sit like monks in London balancing the rights and wrongs? I’d have killed Mundt if I could, I hate his guts; but not now. It so happens that they need him. They need him so that the great moronic mass that you admire can sleep soundly in their beds at night. They need him for the safety of ordinary, crummy people like you and me.

Always it brought softly to him strange, sweet tidings of far-off things. It blew from a place that was old and whispered of youth. It blew down the grooves of time. It brought a story of the passing hours. It breathed low of fighting men and praying women. It sang clearly the song of love. That ever was the burden of its tidings—youth in the shady woods, waders through the wet meadows, boy and girl at the hedgerow stile, bathers in the booming surf, sweet, idle hours on grassy, windy hills, long strolls down moonlit lanes—everywhere in far-off lands, fingers locked and bursting hearts and longing lips—from all the world tidings of unquenchable love.