Humorous Quotes from Peter Bechley's
Q Clearance

Some Americans accepted him as an American but one who had spent his entire life in an institution, and others accepted him as a person recently arrived from Pluto.

Half the Politburo was addicted to alcohol, and booze-fired betises were as common as flatulence.

The next morning, Pym's dormant haemorrhoids burst into agonizing bloom.

Technically the pass (White House Pass) meant that the bearer could go to work in the morning. Actually, in the eyes of the rest of Washington it was affirmation of his worth as a human being.

He had graduated from Harvard College, Harvard Law School and Harvard Business School, which was good because it gave him first-strike credibility on the Hill and with the press. (You have to prove a Harvard man wrong; somebody from, say, Bucknell, has to prove himself right.)

There would be no stopping her; her monologues had the momentum of a locomotive.

Inside Burnham's head, Dr. (Samuel) Johnson was outraged. He begged to be released into the fray, he waved weapons of destruction tantalizingly behind Burnham's eyes. Burnham had to swallow him back into his guts.

He sat up, and there was no pain, no foul taste, no sensation that his brain had slipped its moorings and was floating free in the cabinet of his skull.

He felt grateful and strong, grateful at being strong enough to have weathered the storm with Sarah without being compelled, as once he would have, to repair to a dark saloon where a sympathetic anaesthetist would help him remove himself from himself.

Power knows no time of the day. And absolute power never sleeps.

He felt like a whoopee cushion sat on by a fat person.

The kiss to her would be like a Beckett play to a college student : she would study it, dissect it, analyse it, appraise it ...

It said nothing, in about 250 carefully chosen words.

He could spout empty rhetoric, sign vapid letters, ooze with unfelt treacle - as long as nothing was at stake. But when substance mattered, he could spot its absence as quickly 'as a fly finds shit'.

Facts aren't important, as long as they support the truth.

He didn't want to be conspicuous, like an undertaker at an orgy.

He decided to take refuge in a facile Hemingwayesque conclusion, that good is what makes you feel good.

Guilt never reared its inhibiting head that night. Burnham had no time to entertain it. In fact, he didn't even have time to remove his socks.

His telephone console looked like the control panel of the Concorde : at least a million buttons, some clear, some red, some blue, some green. He'd need a master's degree just to call home.

Her disembodied voice was beginning to annoy him. It was prim, sharp as a rapier, righteous. Like Tom Sawyer's Aunt Polly. One more crack from him and she'd probably storm into the office and grab him by the ear and wash his mouth with soap.

I think her vanity would keep her from making a public spectacle out of it. Charging adultery doesn't reflect to well on the . . . adulterated.

It was as if he had pricked a hole in her balloon. He could hear a rush of escaping good will.

She had poured herself a glass of vodka large enough to stun Rasputin.

He would have lied to himself as facilely as an alcoholic lies to himself to justify the 10 a.m. tumbler of vodka : it may be early here, but in Baghdad it's almost evening.

The fact that no President had suddenly infarcted to death in office, or been hauled away in a wagon and left to watch cartoons for the rest of his natural life, was a miracle.

I am trying to decide whether his children - if he ever learns how to have any - will spend their lives ...

Never stare at anything surprising, was a rule, for many surprising things will take offence and put a bullet in you.

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