Laurie R. King (born September 19, 1952) is an American author best known for her detective fiction.
You cannot help being a female, and I should be something of a fool were I to discount your talents merely because of their housing.
Now, I'm as appreciative as the next obsessive-compulsive recovering-academic of the vast riches of material becoming available online, thanks to all those Google scanners crouched in the basements of libraries around the world, madly feeding books through their machines. I download obscure tomes onto my iPad and give thanks to the dual gods Gates and Jobs, singing hymns to all the lesser pantheon of geniuses. But there's nothing like a book.
. . . the first spring in five free from the rumour of guns across the Channel, a spring anxious to make up for the cold winter, life bursting out after four years of death. All of England raised her face to the sun. . .
The last dog I had was an Irish wolfhound - now that is a dog. Rather spoils a person for a lesser canine, that is, anything under a hundredweight.
Travel broadens, they say. My personal experience has been that, in the short term at any rate, it merely flattens, aiming its steam-roller of deadlines and details straight at one's daily life, leaving a person flat and gasping at its passage.
Blogs are the main exception I make in my aversion to complex machinery.
I was fifteen when I first met Sherlock Holmes, fifteen years old with my nose in a book as I walked the Sussex Downs, and nearly stepped on him. In my defense I must say it was an engrossing book, and it was very rare to come across another person in that particular part of the world in that war year of 1915.
I took to the Bodleian Library as to a lover and. . . would sit long hours in Bodley's arms, to emerge, blinking and dazed with the smell and feel of all those books.
But a topee is not a turban, and I had been my teacher's pupil before I became my husband's wife, learning to my bones that half a disguise is none at all. . . The moment my short-cropped, pomade-sleek, unquestionably masculine hair passed beneath his nose was the closest thing I've ever seen Holmes to fainting dead away.
I undid the wrappings with great curiosity, for Holmes did not normally give gifts. I opened the dark velvet jewller's box and found inside a shiny new set of picklocks, a younger version of his own. "Holmes, ever the romantic. Mrs. Hudson would be pleased.
Tell me about yourself, Miss Russel. " I started to give him the obligatory response, first the demurral and then the reluctant flat autobiography, but some slight air of polite inattention in his manner stopped me. Instead, I found myself grinning at him. "Why don't you tell me about myself, Mr. Holmes?
Eccentricty had flowered into madness.
Most damning of phrases: He meant well.
The period after the First World War was an extremely different time, so that Sherlock Holmes would have been a different person following 1918 than he was during the Victorian era.
Pride is a sweetmeat, to be savoured in small pieces; it makes for a poor feast.
That's what tears are for, you know, to wash away the fear and cool the hate.
The hand of bone and sinew and flesh achieves its immortality in taking up a pen. The hand on a page wields a greater power than the fleshly hand ever could in life.
I slept in the bedroom used by Sabine Baring-Goulds wife when I was researching The Moor, and later the Jamaica Inn on Bodmin Moor.
However, the mind has an amazing ability to continue worrying away at a problem all on its own, so that when the "Eureka!" comes it is as mysterious as if it were God speaking.
Do not neglect to bring your revolver, Russell. It may be needed, and it does us no good in your drawer with that disgusting cheese. " "My lovely Stilton; it's almost ripe, too. I do hope Mr. Thomas enjoys it. " "Any riper and it will eat through the woodwork and drop into the room below. " "You envy me my educated tastes. " "That I will not honour with a response. Get out the door, Russell.