The previous evening, just before turning in, I wandered off by myself, stared into the distance, and murmured, “Theres no reason why I shouldn’t die tonight.”
My father’s wife died. My mother said we should drive down to his place and see what might be in it for us.
Ghosts didn’t have much substance. All they were composed of was memories and heart.
HALDEMAN: There are a lot of good stories from the first term.
NIXON: A book should be written, called 1972.
NIXON: That would be a helluva good book… You get in China, you get in Russia, you get in May 8 [his dramatic decision to bomb and mine Hanoi and Haiphong just before his summit in Moscow], and you get in the election. And it’s a helluva damn year. That’s what I would write as a book. 1972, period.
This time I know it, I know it with a certainty that chokes my throat with panic, that grips and twists my heart until it’s ripped from its mooring. This time, I’m too late.
If you come from New England, the creeping certainty that you are a bad person is always with you.
Throughout the night of Friday, September 7, 1900, Isaac Monroe Cline found himself waking to a persistent sense of something gone wrong.
The thing that finally nudged Agatha Raisin into opening her own detective agency was what she always thought of as the Paris Incident.