The ladies at the watering-place still believe in attacks by Circassians in broad daylight; for that reason, doubtless, Grushnitski had slung a sabre and a pair of pistols over his soldier’s cloak: he looked ridiculous enough in that heroic attire.
What was happening up there, as I’ve already said, was a stunningly successful attack on the prison by Jamaicans wearing National Guard uniforms and waving American flags.
Goldstein was delivering his usual venomous attack upon the doctrines of the Party―an attack so exaggerated and perverse that a child should have been able to see through it, and yet just plausible enough to fill one with an alarmed feeling that other people, less level-headed than oneself, might be taken in by it.
The restaurant had once mistakenly sent me off with a wonderful-looking filet, thinking that she was sure to enjoy it more than the tough ribeye, but she’d almost had a full-fledged heart attack.
His anxiety was gone now, replaced by a sense of urgency. Attacks of conscience and guilt were ephemeral.
Or organize picnics in the park and end up with all the women scraping squashed gobbets of mozzarella off tinfoil and yelling at children with ozone asthma attacks; while the men swig warm white wine in the fierce midday sun, staring at the nearby softball games with left-out shame.
