(no subject)
A sturdy man, middle aged, strides down a gravel path in the gardens, eyes more on the open folder he’s carrying than on his surroundings.
He’s complaining to himself.
Loudly.
“Of all the political bullshit,” he says furiously, “I will not undercut - impossible, self centered, short sighted - Why can’t I have one week - ”
Here he looks up sharply, as if he were about to demand an answer from someone, and stops short, glaring at the landscape as if it has conspired to inconvenience him personally.
“Fucking hell,” he says, sounding torn between wonder and rage, “Now there’s a trick.”
Ladies and Gentlemen, Doctor Yanni Schwartz from C.J. Cherryh’s “Cyteen”.
He’s complaining to himself.
Loudly.
“Of all the political bullshit,” he says furiously, “I will not undercut - impossible, self centered, short sighted - Why can’t I have one week - ”
Here he looks up sharply, as if he were about to demand an answer from someone, and stops short, glaring at the landscape as if it has conspired to inconvenience him personally.
“Fucking hell,” he says, sounding torn between wonder and rage, “Now there’s a trick.”
Ladies and Gentlemen, Doctor Yanni Schwartz from C.J. Cherryh’s “Cyteen”.