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Quote by Multatuli

Work

Max Havelaar, or the Coffee Auctions of the Dutch Trading Company

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Author

Multatuli
Multatuli

Multatuli, whose real name was Eduard Douwes Dekker, was a Dutch writer. His work 'The Diary of a Visit to the Dutch Antilles' exposed the残酷 realities of Dutch colonial rule and conducted a profound critique of colonialism. more

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“...kota Paris yang memalukan dalam hal selera dan miskin bahagia; di mana jerat pajak mencengkeram sebuah kereta atau mungkin bahkan juga dikenakan pada kenyal payudara...! Ah... betapa tanah Hindia adalah surga bagi gairah...! Sedang Paris, menurut kata orang, adalah surga bagi nalar...! Pemikiran demikian ini lumayan menghibur. Meski bukankah penghiburan paling nyata adalah jika bisa menjumpai seorang perempuan Jawa di kota Paris ini?”

“He dragged his lips up the soft skin of her neck and gently nipped her ear lobe, sipping on the soft flesh. Her hands splayed against his chest. Expecting a shove, his senses careened when her fingers fisted his surcoat. Their ragged breath overloud in the forest, he eased his face away, nose rubbing against her jaw on his retreat, and sought her eyes. Hers darkened and—Lord help him—held no censure, only interest. He stepped back.”

“To be completely ignorant of the collective past seems to me to be another state of amnesia; you would be untethered, adrift in time. Which is why all societies have sought some kind of memory bank, whether by way of folklore, story-telling, recitation of the ancestors--from Homer to Genesis. And why the heritage industry does so well today; most people may not be particularly interested in the narrative of the past, in the detail or the discussion, but they are glad to know that it is there.”

“The pulse visible in the pale column of her neck vibrated faster, her intoxicating scent washed over him, and he was dizzy with lust. Even through his mail and gambeson, he could feel her womanly curves crushed against his hard chest. He uncurled his fingers from her throat and ran the tough leather of his palm’s mitten along her neck and to the enticing curve of her shoulder. He nudged her mantle an inch, exposing skin. He cursed that his hand was covered in mail. How long had he wanted to taste, to touch her precious skin? Unable to resist, he bent and, with his tongue, touched, tasted the heat of the skin on her collarbone. Oh, Christ, she was lovely. She shivered, and satisfaction roared through him.”

“Yes, Lilian Earton was a large woman. She was fat. There was no other word for it. But at the same time, there was something indefinable about her. Was it an inner light? A sparkle in her eyes? The way she spoke and moved and made things move around her? The man couldn’t have said exactly. He didn’t know the word “charisma,” but that was exactly what she had. She had personality that no layers of fat could hide. She was impressive.”

“There were just four things a woman could be (five at most): daughter, wife, mother, widow, and slut. That was it. There were no other roles for them—no free and independent women, no feminism, no selfsufficiency. If you didn’t like it, you could be branded a witch and executed.”