By John D. MacDonald
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There is something impressive and awe-inspiring about the resiliency of the human body. I couldn't treat their bodies without learning about their minds, the way they thought. Bitterness and envy and greed. Dirty little machinations to gain this advantage and that. And their sorry little god was and is money. "I was fortunate enough to make a great deal of money in land. I had captured their god. To their way of thinking, once the god has been chained, you put him to work for you. And he faithfully brings in your three per cent or your eight per cent, depending on the risk of the work you assign him to.
Harry made another drink. He felt restless. He tried to take a nap. He gave up and went down onto the dock. He took the aqua shirt off and sat near her in the sunshine. Maybe she was right about getting a tan. His skin was dead white. His ribs showed. There was a small mat of black hair on his chest. He sat hugging his knees. His shoulder blades stuck out in an angular way. There were two deep dimples on the back of his left shoulder, the scars of bullet wounds. She lay on her back with her eyes shut.
I don't dig this Bartok. " "Make music into arithmetic. like a roof where a bunch of icicles hang off. They're all different lengths, and different sizes, but they're all icicles. There isn't anything to melt them. I don't mean music has to be schmaltzy. " Or--"Maybe I can see what this Hemingway is doing, Doctor Paul. He could take the very same scene and by describing it a different way each time he could make you feel different each time, make you feel like the people in the scene feel. " Or--"The thing I like best in the books and in the poetry and in the music is when all of a sudden something comes up that makes you feel all prickly, the back of your neck and the backs of your hands, and you can't breathe deeply.