Some three years ago I drove down to Provence to spend a summer weekend with a lady who was interesting to me simply because she possessed an extraordinarily powerful muscle in a region where other women have no muscles at all.
Mr. Twit was one of these very hairy-faced men. The whole of his face except for his forehead, his eyes and his nose, was covered with thick hair. The stuff even sprouted in revolting tufts out of his nostrils and ear-holes.
This morning from a halibut.
What sort of a book would you like to read next?” she asked.
The trouble is, I’m writer, and most writers are terrible nosey parkers.
He resembled, to an extraordinary degree, an asparagus.
I signaled the bus-driver and he stopped the bus for me right outside the cottage, and I flew down the steps of the bus straight into the arms of the waiting mother.
But it’ll cost the earth!
Get up at once, you lazy little beast!
The books transported her into new worlds and introduced her to amazing people who lived exciting lives... All the reading she had done had given her a view of life that they had never seen.
Tell me immediately who those people are in that glass capsule!’ ‘Ah-ha,’ said the Chief Spy, twirling his false moustache.
She seemed to be coiled in herself, as though with a secret she was jealously guarding.
The rooster has a funny little paper hat over its head, like an ice-cream cone upside down, and my dad is pointing to it proudly and saying, ‘Stroke him. Go on, stroke him. Do anything you like to him. He won’t move an inch.’ The rooster starts scratching.
This is Mr. Bucket. This is Mrs. Bucket. Mr. and Mrs. Bucket have a small boy whose name is Charlie Bucket.
We is having an interesting babblement about the taste of the human bean. The human bean is not a vegetable.
There is nothing more tantalizing than a thing like this which lingers just outside the borders of one’s memory.
Mr. Bucket was the only person in the family with a job. He worked in a toothpaste factory, where he sat all day long at a bench and screwed the little caps onto the tops of the tubes of toothpaste after the tubes had been filled.
The only meals they could afford were bread and margarine for breakfast, boiled potatoes and cabbage for lunch, and cabbage soup for supper.
A bad girl is a far more dangerous thing than a bad boy.
I would love to to go somewhere else and pick peachy fruits in the early morning from the back of an elefunt.