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Quote by Deb Chakraborty

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Deb Chakraborty

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“But Eugene was untroubled by any thought of a goal. He was mad with such ecstasy as he had never known. He was a centaur, moon-eyed and wild of mane, torn apart with hunger for the golden world. He became at times almost incapable of coherent speech. While talking with people, he would whinny suddenly into their startled faces, and leap away, his face contorted with an idiot joy. He would hurl himself squealing through the streets and along the paths, touched with the ecstasy of a thousand unspoken desires. The world lay before him for his picking – full of opulent cities, golden vintages, glorious triumphs, and lovely women, full of a thousand unmet and magnificent possibilities. Nothing was dull or tarnished. The strange enchanted coasts were unvisited. He was young and he could never die.”

Over The TopUnintentionally Funny
Book:Look Homeward, Angel
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“Betty returns in a couple of minutes, setting down our pots of tea and two towers of treats. There are small tea cakes dressed as mini presents, tarts in the shape of flowers, chocolate-covered strawberries sprinkled with edible pearls, macarons decorated with pressed violets, and a tray of scones accompanied by tiny finger sandwiches. She explains each tea before leaving us to indulge. Aphrodite's Ambrosia--- a blend of caramel, rose hips, white chocolate, and raspberry. Midsummer Moondrop--- a confection of violets, butterfly pea flower, and sugar plums. I lift the porcelain cup to my lips, hand painted with tiny cornflowers and gold leaf. The sweet, dark blend relaxes my muscles like a dreamspell.”

TeaFlavorsConfectionsBlends
Book:Dance of the Starlit Sea
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“Nine times out of ten, when a customer walks into the Punchbowl and Pineapple, I can guess what will tempt them. It is the confectioner's principal art, anticipating wants and needs--- and people betray their desires in countless small ways. For a young lady taut with nerves, dressed to make a house call, I suggest a pretty basket of French macaroons to impress her friends. For a young buck in the first flush of love, seeking a gift for his mistress, I propose a petits puits d'amour (the name and oval shape might make him smile, though I act oblivious to any indelicate connotations). For an older gentleman--- picture one crimson from hunting and port--- a rich plum cake spiced with cinnamon and mace. For a widow in mittens, a box of scented violet wafers--- or if she is bent with the rheumatism, bergamot chips. For a little boy with a cough, I prescribe a guimauve: a soft cake of honey whipped with the sap of the marsh mallow plant. And for his governess, a sweet syllabub, to be eaten at one of my tables, while she ponders how life's misfortunes brought her here.”

CraftSweetsConfectionsConfectioner
Book:The Art of a Lie
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“It is the simplest of recipes, after pralines and chocolate ganache. He calls them mendiants, those chocolate discs studded with raisins, and almonds and candied lemon peel. He tells me they're named after the mendicant orders of monks, who used to sell them door-to-door during the Middle Ages. It's a word I have heard before, though never in this context; instead, I remember it flung like stones in our wake as we passed through some long-ago village. It's a surprise to find this word-- this slur-- thus sweetened by circumstance, harmlessly translated into the language of chocolate. First, melt the chocolate in a bain-marie. Strange, how the Virgin seems to bless even this most secular of baptisms. Then, on greaseproof paper, place tablespoons of the chocolate to make round discs, the size of the Host. On this still-cooling chocolate, add the traditional dried fruits and nuts that symbolize the Orders. Fat raisins; yellow sultanas; cherries; toasted almonds; pistachios and hazelnuts, like jewels on a medallion.”

ChocolateNutsMonksConfectionsDried FruitsMendicant
Book:Vianne
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“And then we jerked to a stop. Jared was blocking the exit. "Have you lost your mind, Ian?" he asked, shocked and outraged. "What are you doing to her?" "Did you know about this?" Ian shouted back, shoving me toward Jared and shaking me at him. "You're going to hurt her!" "Do you know what she's planning?" Ian roared. Jared stared at Ian, his face suddenly closed off. He didn't answer. That was answer enough for Ian. Ian's fist struck Jared so fast that I missed the blow - I just felt the lurch in his body and saw Jared reel back into the dark hall. "Ian, stop," I begged. "You stop," he growled back at me. He yanked me through the arch into the tunnel, then pulled me north. I had to almost run to keep up with his longer stride. "O´Shea!" Jared shouted after us. "I'm going to hurt her?" Ian roared back over his shoulder, not breaking pace. "I am? You hypocritical swine!" There was nothing but silence and blackness behind us now. I stumbled in the dark, trying to keep up. He jerked me along faster, and my breath caught in a moan, almost like a cry of pain. The sound made Ian stumble to a stop. His breathing was hoarse in the darkness. "Ian, Ian, I..." I chocked, unable to finish. I didn't know what to say, picturing his furious face. His arms caught me abruptly, yanking my feet out from under me and then catching my shoulders before I could fall. He started running forward again, carrying me now. His hands were not rough and angry like before; he cradled me against his chest.”

IanWandererJaredWanda
Book:The Host
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