Igor?' said Moist. 'You have an Igor?'Oh, yes,' said Hubert. 'That's how I get this wonderful light. They know the secret of storing lightning in jars! But don't let that worry you, Mr Lipspick. Just because I'm employing an Igor and working in a cellar doesn't mean I'm some sort of madman, ha ha ha!'Ha ha,' agreed Moist.Ha hah hah!,' said Hubert. 'Hahahahahaha!! Ahahahahahahhhhh!!!!!-'Bent slapped him on the back. Hubert coughed.Sorry about that, it's the air down here,' he mumbled.

The meaning of sex is illustrated by two eponymous heroes of British history, King Edward VII (who flourished in the years before the First World War) and the King Edward variety of potato which has fed the British working class for almost as long). The potato, unlike the royal family, reproduces asexually. Every King Edward potato is identical to every other and each on has the same set of genes as the hoary ancestor of all potatoes bearing that name. This is convenient for the farmer and the grocer, which is why sex is not encouraged among potatoes.

But neither could compare with the gargantuan natural edifice that was the mountain upon which Nachtstürm Castle rose. It was a mountain made of the darkness between two lightning bolts. It was made less of earth than Stygian frost. Whole towns fell away as they ascended, as though the ranks of black and frowning conifers waged war against the humans below. Even the path – rather narrow and rarely straight – seemed less made by centuries of pilgrim feet and more by the trace of some careless demon’s claw.It was, in fact, perfect.

Saying 'I notice you're a nerd' is like saying, 'Hey, I notice that you'd rather be intelligent than be stupid, that you'd rather be thoughtful than be vapid, that you believe that there are things that matter more than the arrest record of Lindsay Lohan. Why is that?' In fact, it seems to me that most contemporary insults are pretty lame. Even 'lame' is kind of lame. Saying 'You're lame' is like saying 'You walk with a limp.' Yeah, whatever, so does 50 Cent, and he's done all right for himself.

What I still don’t get though,” ventured John. “Is why you did it?”“Did what?”“Put that dress on in the first place.”“I don’t know really,” said Dennis, a puzzled look crossing his face. “I suppose it’s because it was fun.”“Fun?” said John.“Well you know when we were younger and we used to run around the garden pretending to be Daleks or Spiderman or whatever?”“Yeah.”“It felt like that. Like playing,” said Dennis confidently.

Is this Clarissa Fray?" The voice on the other end of the phone sounded familiar, though not immediately identifiable.Clary twirled the phone cord nervously around her finger. "Yeees?""Hi, I'm one of the knife-carrying hooligans you met last night in Pandemonium? I"m afraid I made a bad impression and was hoping you'd give me a chance to make it up to-""SIMON!" Clary held the phone away from her ear as he cracked up laughing. "That is so not funny!""Sure it is. You just don't see the humor.""Jerk." Clary sighed, leaning up against the wall.

Dar eu nu sunt de la Bucureşti. În privinţa aceasta, bucureştenii sunt mai expeditivi; ei fac totul în goană ― treburi, masă, distracţii, dragoste (tot pe fugă, ca piţigoiul) şi, după socoteala lor, asta se cheamă a trăi “intens”. Noi, cei de la Iaşi, suntem de altă părere. Nouă nu ne place să ne grăbim, să dăm lucrurile peste cap, cum fac ei. Când e vorba de treabă serioasă, noi avem alt obicei: nu facem nimic.

Leaving Baumauer’s frown to reappear like a fault line, Kalist retraces his route to his desk and sits down, then leans right back in his chair, looks up at the magnificent window behind him and chants – in a whisper so low Baumauer can’t make out what he’s saying – “Bride of Beimerstetten, bride of Beimerstetten, bride of Beimerstetten, naked bride of Beimerstetten,” and he imagines a procession of proud military men blowing trumpets as they stomp through a bomb-devastated town to the tune of Handel’s Messiah.

I am willing to admit that Gerard Butler has single-handedly murdered the romantic comedy.”Gigi snickered. “Gerard Butler took the romantic comedy to an orgy, accidentally strangled it during an air game, panicked, and dumped its body in the woods.”I stared at her, gobsmacked. “That may be the funniest thing I've ever heard –” I spluttered. “How the hell do you even know what an air game is?”Gigi preened. “Just because you put the parental locks on HBO doesn’t mean I can’t get around them.

Being dropped by your stalker is pretty bad. I mean he watches you week-in, week-out for almost a year, and then you have sex and he’s like ‘wham, bam, thank you, ma’am. We no longer require your position as victim. Don’t call us; we’ll call you. It’s not you…it’s me. We’re just at different stages of our stalker/stalkee relationship. I need space.’ How pathetic are you? You’re actually ticked off that your stalker is no longer skulking around in the shadows. That’s just…pitiful.

L'Histoire est une étrange créature. Elle a le don de nous aveugler de notre propre reflet quand nous nous penchons vers ses eaux profondes et mystérieuses. Beaucoup d'entre nous s'y noient, comme Narcisse dont la fascination pour sa propre beauté était plus forte que son instinct de survie. Ceux qui ne connaissent pas l'Histoire seront peut-être condamnés à la répéter. De même que ceux qui la connaissent mais qui l'interprètent comme ça les arrange.

[About Uluru] I'm suggesting nothing here, but I will say that if you were an intergalactic traveler who had broken down in our solar system, the obvious directions to rescuers would be: "Go to the third planet and fly around till you see the big red rock. You can't miss it." If ever on earth they dig up a 150,000-year-old rocket ship from the galaxy Zog, this is where it will be. I'm not saying I expect it to happen; not saying that at all. I'm just observing that if I were looking for an ancient starship this is where I would start digging.

It is, incidentally, a favour that e-books have done for the Good Bookshop: they have made books beautiful again. A few years ago, book covers could be rather drab affairs: the title and the author's name printed over a stock photograph of something Vaguely Relevant. If you wanted to read it, you had to take it as it was. Whereas now, in these new and glorious days when the margins on physical are that little bit higher than on the electrical alternative, publishers produce exquisite bindings. Bookshops haven't been this pretty for at least a century.

It was not long after that Ganesh saw a big new notice in the shop, painted on cardboard.‘Is Leela self who write that,’ Ramlogan said. ‘I didn’t ask she to write it, mind you. She just sit down quiet quiet one morning after tea and write it off.’It read:NOTICENOTICE, IS. HEREBY; PROVIDED: THAT, SEATS!ARE, PROVIDED. FOR; FEMALE: SHOP, ASSISTANTS!Ganesh said, ‘Leela know a lot of punctuation marks.’That is it, sahib. All day the girl just sitting down and talking about these puncturation marks. She is like that, sahib.

This isn't the first time I've used this, and the test subject showed no signs of impaired cognitive ability.""Who was the test subject?" asked Aurora."I test everything out on myself before taking it into the field."She stared at him. "You zapped your own brain?""And it didn't do me any harm apart from the dizziness and the vomiting spells and the weirdly persistent ringing in my ears. Also the blackouts and the mood swings and the creeping paranoia. Apart from that, zero side effects, if you don't count the numb fingertips. Which I don't.