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.
affair; how could we have avoided them! Yet it seemed always that I was just missing him. First in Florence, then in Paris just before the war, as if I’d been condemned to wait until he reached his supreme moment, his peak of virtù: Fiume!” “In Florence . . . we . . .” quizzical, weak. She leaned forward, as if hinting she’d like to be kissed. “Don’t you see? This siege. It’s Vheissu. It’s finally happened.” Abruptly then occurred one of those ironic reversals in which the weakling
mood. “Roon, let’s go to Lenox. I can’t last the weekend. Don’t tell me any woman trouble. I got enough for both of us.” “Why not. Out to the boondocks. Green hills. Well people.” “Come on. There is a little girl I have to get out of this town before she flips from the heat. Or whatever it is.” It took them a while. They drank beer till sunset and then headed up to Winsome’s where they swapped the Triumph for a black Buick. “It looks like a staff car for the Mafia,” said McClintic.
huddled behind the windscreen as if expecting it to vanish at any moment. “There’s no one else on the road.” “At the speed she’s going she’ll lose us soon enough,” Demivolt chirruped, all breezy. “Relax, Sidney.” They moved southwest into Floriana. Ahead Veronica Manganese’s Benz had vanished in a gale of cinders and exhaust. “Ambush,” Stencil suggested. “They’re not that sort.” After a while Demivolt turned right. They worked their way thus round Marsamuscetto in near-darkness.
at the coffee, observing his frolicking companion. Aïeul could hear drops of rain pattering on the pith helmet. At length Fat seemed to awake: arose, leaving a piastre and a millième on the table (avare!) and nodded to the other, who now stood watching him. The square was empty except for Mohammed Ali and the horse. (How many times had they stood this way: dwarfed horizontal and vertical by any plaza or late-afternoon? Could an argument from design be predicated on that instant only, then
pornographic movies. He’d get this evil smile on his face, as if he were viewing or possibly committing reel on reel of depravities. The bilges of the radio shack of USS Scaffold—Pig’s ship—were jammed solid with Pig’s lending library, amassed during the ship’s Mediterranean travels and rented out to the crew at 10 cents per book. The collection was foul enough to make Pig Bodine a byword of decadence throughout the squadron. But no one suspected that Pig might have creative as well as custodial