I blew it on all three counts: nowhere to go, no one to go with-and money was a sick joke in New York, this late October of 1985. Which accounted for my sitting here alone in a silent Delta Tango, staring out at a wet, dimly lit expanse of Kennedy Airport. Assuming, of course, they have somewhere to go, someone to be with, money to spend. Most big jet crews get the hell out almost before the main wheels stop rolling-you could get trampled in the rush, I guess. Indescribable things which compensate, ephemerally, for the cruel hours of tense concentration. Somewhere in there, traces of pleasure, satisfaction: nostalgic echoes of vast starry nights like inverted Broadways, snowy peaks jutting through cloud floors in brilliant sunlight, tropical sunsets from a Gauguin canvas. Memory storages impregnated with sweat, fear, boredom and stress. In writing this book, I thought only of demonstrating that Man is alone in his individual Hell, that he would inevitably sow the seeds of his own destruction, rising and falling in a few hundred millenniums which represent the tiniest fraction of eternity.įlight decks are traumatic places. Through all my life, I have been the epitome of the rabid, outspoken atheist. One fascinating and odd fact deserves mention. References within the text to existing aircraft and airlines are incidental, and any resemblance to actual persons is unintentional. Air Force, stationed in the Azores, who provided most valuable help with that section of this book. Dalby, Chief Information Officer, HQ, 1605th Air Base Wing (MAC), U.S. I should also like to thank Captain Jan F. Short of allowing me to fly a Boeing 747-a dream which, alas, after fifteen wingless years will never be realized-their efforts to provide authenticity were unremitting and, I venture to remark, more successful than I could have hoped. His eyes are dark-circled, but his hands are steady.Without the generous and unstinting help of British Airways, and additionally of Captain John Race, Pan American World Airways, this book could not have been attempted. The Tireless Mechanic has his own problems, and who in the Unterzee can afford to mourn the dead? Yet the Tireless Mechanic is no stranger to debts that cannot be paid. Dying quickly or by inches, bloody and bruised and scarred and drowning. Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character DeathĪlways poets and always hungry, zee captains making promises they could not keep.Just how far could one go with a character who was painfully pedestrian – who, however outré their surroundings, clung to the commonplace of Victorian society like a holy talisman? Could they reach the upper echelons of Neathy society without having achieved anything more adventurous than having an extra boiled egg with their breakfast? Well, there’s only one way to find out: by following the non-adventures of Doctor Taupe-Wainscot, the Pabulous Physician! Language: English Words: 28,609 Chapters: 14/14 Comments: 2 Kudos: 14 Bookmarks: 1 Hits: 164 By end game, any protagonist can reasonably expect to be a Biblical scholar, cat burglar, exotic animal breeder, sea captain, police officer, anarchist bomber, prison escapee, occult investigator, and it’s more than likely that they’ll come back from the dead and spend some time lost in the land of dreams at least once. The player characters of Fallen London are a rum lot. Fruits of the Zee Festival (Fallen London).Feast of the Exceptional Rose (Fallen London).Seeking Mr Eaten's Name (Fallen London).JustDiptych Fandoms: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar, Sunless Sea
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |