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Great Lines From Literature
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From Stephen King's latest book, 11.22.63 ...
"She leaned back, and her head bonked on the door."
LOL
"She leaned back, and her head bonked on the door."
LOL
Answers
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I think we are being a little unfair to Mr King here.
This is simply another example of the language differences that we and our American cousins share - and usually translate automatically.
When ever the Americans refer to the word 'spunk', they mean courage, but it never fails to elicit some schoolboy sniggering on this side of the pond.
Similarly - they use the word 'fanny' for posterior, and for them, 'randy' means nothing at all, except as a Christian name, becuase their expression is 'horny'.
So I think we can allow Mr King to use the word 'bonk' which in his native idion simply means bump or clonk.
This is simply another example of the language differences that we and our American cousins share - and usually translate automatically.
When ever the Americans refer to the word 'spunk', they mean courage, but it never fails to elicit some schoolboy sniggering on this side of the pond.
Similarly - they use the word 'fanny' for posterior, and for them, 'randy' means nothing at all, except as a Christian name, becuase their expression is 'horny'.
So I think we can allow Mr King to use the word 'bonk' which in his native idion simply means bump or clonk.
Sorry if this is longer than you are wanting but for me it doesn't come any better than this.
Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, Scrooge! a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner! Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster. The cold within him froze his old features, nipped his pointed nose, shrivelled his cheek, stiffened his gait; made his eyes red, his thin lips blue; and spoke out shrewdly in his grating voice. A frosty rime was on his head, and on his eyebrows, and his wiry chin. He carried his own low temperature always about with him; he iced his office in the dogdays; and didn't thaw it one degree at Christmas.
Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, Scrooge! a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner! Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster. The cold within him froze his old features, nipped his pointed nose, shrivelled his cheek, stiffened his gait; made his eyes red, his thin lips blue; and spoke out shrewdly in his grating voice. A frosty rime was on his head, and on his eyebrows, and his wiry chin. He carried his own low temperature always about with him; he iced his office in the dogdays; and didn't thaw it one degree at Christmas.
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