V. (Perennial Classics)
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The wild, macabre tale of the twentieth century and of two men - one looking for something he has lost, the other with nothing much to lose - and "V.," the unknown woman of the title.
Hanky and Panky. “Fine,” he said. “That is Benny and I am—hyeugh, hyeugh—Pig.” “Obviously,” said Flop. But the girl/boy ratio in Washington has been estimated as high as eight to one. She grabbed Pig’s arm, looking around the room as if those other spectral sisters were lurking somewhere among the statuary. Their place was near P Street, and they had amassed every Pat Boone record in existence. Before Pig had even set down the large paper bag containing the fruits of their afternoon’s
it with the leaves of a few morning newspapers, left lying on the seats. Teledu’s comrades applauded. “Pappy,” Fat Clyde said, “you intending to go out and get juiced tonight?” “I was thinking about it,” said Pappy. “That’s what I was afraid of. Look, I know I’m out of line—” He was interrupted by a burst of merriment from the back of the bus. Teledu’s friend Lazar, whom Fat Clyde had last seen sweeping water off the 01 deck, had succeeded now in setting fire to the newspapers
couldn’t yet become serious over politics. But he had a mighty impatience with the older generation, which is almost as good as open rebellion. He became more bored with talk of Empire the further he lumbered upward out of the slough of adolescence; shunned every hint of glory like the sound of a leper’s rattle. China, the Sudan, the East Indies, Vheissu had served their purpose: given him a sphere of influence roughly congruent with that of his skull, private colonies of the imagination whose
your damnable Botticelli for me and the fattest whore in Florence, with plenty left over for her elephant of a mother to act as chaperone! How in God’s name do you intend to walk three hundred meters with that? Will it be hidden in your pocket?” “Calm, commendatore,” Signor Mantissa pleaded. “Anyone might be listening. It is a detail, I assure you. Provided for. The florist Cesare visited last night—” “Florist. Florist: you’ve let a florist into your confidence. Wouldn’t it make you
Piazza. He headed east, away from the center of town. He had to find a way out of Florence. However he came out of this, he would have to resign his commission and live from here on as a fugitive, a temporary occupant of pension rooms, a dweller in the demimonde. Marching through the dusk, he saw his fate complete, pre-assembled, inescapable. No matter how he tacked, yawed or dodged about he’d only be standing still while that treacherous reef loomed closer with every shift in course. He