The book started well enough, young chap at Cambridge Fry's alma mater immersed in the history of Hitler, working towards spending his life at Cambridge in a paid capacity, is having a tough time with his hard-nosed scientist girlfriend who finally leaves him I found her more interesting than our hero, stronger, and more capable of carrying a story, and was sorry to see her go. To put yourself into the mind of a Nazi. God knows what kind of bribery and badness they got up to. The writing is pretty fast moving -- heaps of details that make me feel like he's writing for a film, plus some sections where it's written like a film dialogue not really sure why he's used this. We walked backwards away from each other as academics do. I imagine there is page numbering? Or, to be more painfully truthful, it is my field of least incompetence. It means that it is my job to tell you the true story of what never happened.
I mean face it dear, a lesser woman would have thrown up. Death and corruption filled the air. An unquestionable improvement, one would reason--and so an earnest history grad student and an aging German physicist idealistically undertake to bring this about by preventing Adolf's conception. Perhaps I wanted to provoke him into failing me. Feathers and claws and fur. I loved history at school so I fell in love with this book pretty much straight away.
Cursed with enough of divine fire to recognise it in others, but not enough to create anything myself. History, I found, was safer ground for me: I didn't love Rasputin or Talleyrand or Charles the Fifth or Kaiser Bill. Even movies, which I love more than anything, more than life itself, they even do it with movies these days. I had suspected for a long time that he disapproved of me. Bending double to hold the rescued pages against my chest, I staggered from one whirl of paper to the next, clutching and clawing like a herring gull.
Great fuck, child, even Mills and Boon would blush at the prospect. I put it down here. Soon you will have to change your name from Young to Old. A lot of people take her for an Italian or a Spaniard. Good+ in Wraps: shows indications of moderate use: slight spine lean and the backstrip shows a few hairline creases; light wear to extremities; moderate rubbing and very faint soiling to wrapper covers; the pages have tanned somewhat, due to aging. Hysterical schoolboy wank, for sure, an attitude compounded of nothing but egotism, vanity and cowardice.
How desperately she wanted them. Wherever he walked, the wind dropped before him. You reboard the next train to Cambridge reborn as a dude with attitude. This wise-arse was bearded, favouring the Tolstoy model over the BranaghShakespearean, and continued to step serenely through the car-park picking up the loose pages that lay down and played dead at his bidding. It wasn't really a mocking gaze. There was a group in London who had somehow found out the subject of my thesis and sent me samples of their 'literature' that had me and Jane straight on the phone to the police. Jane called her lab The Kitchen; the coming together of stainless steel and glass with coloured organic goo and bright liquids brought out the little boy in me, the helpful, heel-kicking son who liked to watch his mother beating the batter and rolling the dough.
Who knows when I may condescend to turn you on again, Maccie Thatcher? Yet for a sixth part of my life, a whole sixth of my life, by big beautiful Buddha, that keyboard clawed at me like cancer. He lives with his girlfriend Jane, who is a very clever ambitious Chemist I think, idk anymore and both of them are so different that this relationship isn't good for any of them. Wondering too, why the Christ Jane isn't coiled warmly beside me. He has clear difficulty in fitting in at the school. Does one assert one's self more or less when wearing dark glasses? Stand on both legs, boy! It's not working, I'll call back for the rest of my things later today. The best part of the book was the alternate world that Fry imagined, with a very different outcome to the Second World War from the one we know.
He had forbidden her ever to call him that again. Michael Young is a graduate student at Cambridge who is completing his dissertation on the early life of Adolf Hitler. I'm not a David Irving type, if that's what you think. Also of course, it is a subject that the biographies cover in very little detail, so it is very fitting for a doctoral thesis, where one needs to pitch one's tent in virgin fields, yes? Hitler, Hitler, Hitler,' he says, with increasing volume. Who gives a shit about the car? Skidding into the bathroom, my brain half-registers something. Expecting the disorientation, Michael comes to his senses faster now and discovers that almost everything is back to how it was, except that his favourite band never existed. And in the car-park thar she blew: four thousand quidswotth of Renault Clio.
It's just that there's this thing in my pigeonhole for Professor Zuckermann and his pigeonhole's full. When she returns for her 'things' she will spy the elegant curved streak of rusty sediment along the kitchen wall and her big feet will crunch on the glass and she will8 derive some satisfaction from believing that I 'cared' and that will be that. I saw a play the other week plays are nothing to films, nothing. Here you are, you little buggers. Pnina the Whip, our new child.
They are facing each other. Cambridge councillors love the word 'park'. Uncle Bastard had bought a hippopotamus whip and hung it on the wall with a terrible smile. Hessians, Hamburgers, Thuringians and Saxons could be Germans. Fox fur around the necks of the dowager-humped women; not just fox fur but the whole fox, the complete animal: feet, head, eyes, teeth, the V-shaped jaw bared in a grin, the entire beast flattened and dried like salted cod, like paper that can't be torn. I call her my raven-haired gypsy temptress, at which she groans good-naturedly.