The Metamorphosis (German: Die Verwandlung, also sometimes translated as The Transformation) is a novella by Franz Kafka, first published in 1915. It has been cited as one of the seminal works of fiction of the 20th century and is studied in colleges and universities across the Western world. The story begins with a traveling salesman, Gregor Samsa, waking to find himself transformed (metamorphosed) into a large, monstrous insect-like creature. The cause of Samsa's transformation is never revealed, and Kafka never did give an explanation. The rest of Kafka's novella deals with Gregor's attempts to adjust to his new condition as he deals with being burdensome to his parents and sister, who are repulsed by the horrible, verminous creature Gregor has become. Part I: One day, Gregor Samsa, a traveling salesman, wakes up to find himself transformed into a "ungeheures Ungeziefer", literally "monstrous vermin", often interpreted as a giant bug or insect. He believes it is a dream, and reflects on how dreary life as a traveling salesman is. As he looks at the wall clock, he realizes he has overslept, and missed his train for work. He ponders on the consequences of this delay. Gregor becomes annoyed at how his boss never accepts excuses or explanations from any of his employees no matter how hard working they are, displaying an apparent lack of trusting abilities. Gregor's mother knocks on the door and he answers her. She is concerned for Gregor because he is late for work, which is unorthodox for Gregor. Gregor answers his mother and realizes that his voice has changed, but his answer is short so his mother does not notice the voice change. His sister, Grete, to whom he was very close, then whispers through the door and begs him to open the door. All his family members think that he is ill and ask him to open the door. He tries to get out of bed, but he is incapable of moving his body. While trying to move, he finds that his office manager, the chief clerk, has shown up to check on him. He finally rocks his body to the floor and calls out that he will open the door shortly.

In 1861 Captain Grant succeeded Captain Burgess on Matinicus, taking his son with him as assistant. The old keeper left Abby on the rock to instruct the newcomers in their duties, and she performed the task so well that young Grant fell in love with her, and asked her to become his wife. Soon after their marriage she was appointed an assistant keeper. A few years later the husband was made keeper and the wife assistant keeper of White Head, another light on the Maine coast. There they remained until the spring of 1890, when they removed to Middleborough, Mass., intending to pass the balance of their days beyond sight and hearing of the rocks and the waves. But the hunger which the sea breeds in its adopted children was still strong within them, and the fall of 1892 found them again on the coast of Maine, this time at Portland, where the husband again entered the lighthouse establishment, working in the engineers' department of the first lighthouse district. With them until his death lived Captain Grant, who in the closing months of 1890, being then aged eighty-five, retired from the position of keeper of Matinicus light, which he had held for nearly thirty years. Not less lonely, but far more perilous than the life of the keepers of a light like that on Matinicus is the lot of the crew of the South Shoal lightship, whose position twenty-six miles off Sankaty Head, Nantucket Island, makes it the most exposed light-station in the world. Anchored so far out at sea, it is only during the months of summer and autumn that the lighthouse tender ventures to visit it, and its crew from December to May of each year are wholly cut off from communication with the land. It is this, however, that makes the South Shoal lightship a veritable protecting angel of the deep, for it stands guard not only over the treacherous New South Shoal, near which it is anchored, but over twenty-six miles of rips and reefs between it and the Nantucket shore—a wide-reaching ocean graveyard, where bleach the bones of more than a half thousand wrecked and forgotten vessels. The lightship is a stanchly built two-hulled schooner of 275 tons burden, 103 feet long over all, equipped with fore-and-aft lantern masts 71 feet high, and with two masts for sails, each 42 feet high. The lanterns are octagons of glass in copper frames, so arranged that they can be lowered into houses built around the masts. In the forward part of the ship is a huge fog bell, swung ten feet above the deck, which, when foggy weather prevails, as it frequently does for weeks at a time, is kept tolling day and night. A two-inch chain fastened to a "mushroom" anchor weighing upward of three tons holds the vessel in eighteen fathoms of water, but this, so fiercely do the waves beat against it in winter, has not prevented her from going adrift many times. She was two weeks at sea on one of these occasions, and on another she came to anchor in New York Harbor. Life on the South Shoal lightship is at all times a hard and trying one, and, as a matter of fact, the crew are instructed not to expose themselves to danger outside their special line of duty. This, however, does not deter them from frequently risking their lives in rescuing others, and when, several years ago, the City of Newcastle went ashore on one of the shoals near the lightship, all hands, twenty-seven in number, were saved by the South Shoal crew and kept aboard of her over two weeks, until the story of the wreck was signalled to a passing vessel. Isaac H. Grant holds a silver medal given him by the Government for rescuing two men from drowning while he was keeper at White Head; while Frederick Hatch, keeper of the Breakwater station at Cleveland was awarded the gold bar. The last mentioned badge of honor is granted only to one who has twice distinguished himself by a special act of bravery. It was given Hatch in the winter of 1898.

нод дитяч мр збуваються. Дан Таарт керу найбльшою в кран залзницею. Генк Рарден запроваджу революцйну технологю в металург. Еллс Ваятт перетворю Богом забуту землю на промисловий рай. У хнх руках — наймогутнш корпорац, що вд них залежить доля крани. Вони — сучасн атланти. хня релгя — економка, хня вдповдальнсть — тягар усього свту. Колись вони мряли змнити життя суспльства, а тепер м доводиться чути, що вся хня праця лише помножу несправедливсть. Що всм людям потрбн однаков права можливост. Спершу атланти лише знизували плечима. Але настане той день, коли м остаточно набридне тримати цей свт на свох плечах. вони пдуть.

Mr. Hungerton, her father, really was the most tactless person upon earth,—a fluffy, feathery, untidy cockatoo of a man, perfectly good-natured, but absolutely centered upon his own silly self. If anything could have driven me from Gladys, it would have been the thought of such a father-in-law. I am convinced that he really believed in his heart that I came round to the Chestnuts three days a week for the pleasure of his company, and very especially to hear his views upon bimetallism, a subject upon which he was by way of being an authority. For an hour or more that evening I listened to his monotonous chirrup about bad money driving out good, the token value of silver, the depreciation of the rupee, and the true standards of exchange. "Suppose," he cried with feeble violence, "that all the debts in the world were called up simultaneously, and immediate payment insisted upon,—what under our present conditions would happen then?" I gave the self-evident answer that I should be a ruined man, upon which he jumped from his chair, reproved me for my habitual levity, which made it impossible for him to discuss any reasonable subject in my presence, and bounced off out of the room to dress for a Masonic meeting. At last I was alone with Gladys, and the moment of Fate had come! All that evening I had felt like the soldier who awaits the signal which will send him on a forlorn hope; hope of victory and fear of repulse alternating in his mind. She sat with that proud, delicate profile of hers outlined against the red curtain. How beautiful she was! And yet how aloof! We had been friends, quite good friends; but never could I get beyond the same comradeship which I might have established with one of my fellow-reporters upon the Gazette,—perfectly frank, perfectly kindly, and perfectly unsexual. My instincts are all against a woman being too frank and at her ease with me. It is no compliment to a man. Where the real sex feeling begins, timidity and distrust are its companions, heritage from old wicked days when love and violence went often hand in hand. The bent head, the averted eye, the faltering voice, the wincing figure—these, and not the unshrinking gaze and frank reply, are the true signals of passion. Even in my short life I had learned as much as that—or had inherited it in that race memory which we call instinct. Gladys was full of every womanly quality. Some judged her to be cold and hard; but such a thought was treason. That delicately bronzed skin, almost oriental in its coloring, that raven hair, the large liquid eyes, the full but exquisite lips,—all the stigmata of passion were there. But I was sadly conscious that up to now I had never found the secret of drawing it forth. However, come what might, I should have done with suspense and bring matters to a head to-night. She could but refuse me, and better be a repulsed lover than an accepted brother. So far my thoughts had carried me, and I was about to break the long and uneasy silence, when two critical, dark eyes looked round at me, and the proud head was shaken in smiling reproof. "I have a presentiment that you are going to propose, Ned. I do wish you wouldn't; for things are so much nicer as they are." I drew my chair a little nearer. "Now, how did you know that I was going to propose?" I asked in genuine wonder."Don't women always know? Do you suppose any woman in the world was ever taken unawares? But—oh, Ned, our friendship has been so good and so pleasant! What a pity to spoil it! Don't you feel how splendid it is that a young man and a young woman should be able to talk face to face as we have talked?" "I don't know, Gladys. You see, I can talk face to face with—with the station-master." I can't imagine how that official came into the matter; but in he trotted, and set us both laughing. "That does not satisfy me in the least. I want my arms round you, and your head on my breast, and—oh, Gladys, I want——"

The third novel, The Vicomte de Bragelonne (serialized October, 1847—January, 1850), has enjoyed a strange history in its English translation. It has been split into three, four, or five volumes at various points in its history. The five-volume edition generally does not give titles to the smaller portions, but the others do. In the three-volume edition, the novels are entitled The Vicomte de Bragelonne, Louise de la Valliere, and The Man in the Iron Mask. For the purposes of this etext, I have chosen to split the novel as the four-volume edition does, with these titles: The Vicomte de Bragelonne, Ten Years Later, Louise de la Valliere, and The Man in the Iron Mask. In the first three etexts: The Vicomte de Bragelonne (Etext 2609): It is the year 1660, and D'Artagnan, after thirty-five years of loyal service, has become disgusted with serving King Louis XIV while the real power resides with the Cardinal Mazarin, and has tendered his resignation. He embarks on his own project, that of restoring Charles II to the throne of England, and, with the help of Athos, succeeds, earning himself quite a fortune in the process. D'Artagnan returns to Paris to live the life of a rich citizen, and Athos, after negotiating the marriage of Philip, the king's brother, to Princess Henrietta of England, likewise retires to his own estate, La Fere. Meanwhile, Mazarin has finally died, and left Louis to assume the reigns of power, with the assistance of M. Colbert, formerly Mazarin's trusted clerk. Colbert has an intense hatred for M. Fouquet, the king's superintendent of finances, and has resolved to use any means necessary to bring about his fall. With the new rank of intendant bestowed on him by Louis, Colbert succeeds in having two of Fouquet's loyal friends tried and executed. He then brings to the king's attention that Fouquet is fortifying the island of Belle-Ile-en-Mer, and could possibly be planning to use it as a base for some military operation against the king. Louis calls D'Artagnan out of retirement and sends him to investigate the island, promising him a tremendous salary and his long-promised promotion to captain of the musketeers upon his return. At Belle-Isle, D'Artagnan discovers that the engineer of the fortifications is, in fact, Porthos, now the Baron du Vallon, and that's not all. The blueprints for the island, although in Porthos's handwriting, show evidence of another script that has been erased, that of Aramis. D'Artagnan later discovers that Aramis has become the bishop of Vannes, which is, coincidentally, a parish belonging to M. Fouquet. Suspecting that D'Artagnan has arrived on the king's behalf to investigate, Aramis tricks D'Artagnan into wandering around Vannes in search of Porthos, and sends Porthos on an heroic ride back to Paris to warn Fouquet of the danger. Fouquet rushes to the king, and gives him Belle-Isle as a present, thus allaying any suspicion, and at the same time humiliating Colbert, just minutes before the usher announces someone else seeking an audience with the king. Ten Years Later (Etext 2681): As 1661 approaches, Princess Henrietta of England arrives for her marriage, and throws the court of France into complete disorder. The jealousy of the Duke of Buckingham, who is in love with her, nearly occasions a war on the streets of Le Havre, thankfully prevented by Raoul's timely and tactful intervention. After the marriage, though, Monsieur Philip becomes horribly jealous of Buckingham, and has him exiled. Before leaving, however, the duke fights a duel with M. de Wardes at Calais. De Wardes is a malicious and spiteful man, the sworn enemy of D'Artagnan, and, by the same token, that of Athos, Aramis, Porthos, and Raoul as well. Both men are seriously wounded, and the duke is taken back to England to recover. Raoul's friend, the Comte de Guiche, is the next to succumb to Henrietta's charms, and Monsieur obtains his exile as well, though De Guiche soon effects a reconciliation.

Кра?на стр?мко летить у пр?рву: моторошна криза охоплю? вс? царини людського життя. Псевдовчен? наполегливо пропагують: мислення – це ?люз?я, пошук будь-якого сенсу – абсурд, ? зрештою уряд оголошу? моратор?й на розум. Талано- вит? п?дпри?мц? безсл?дно зникають, кидаючи сво? виробництво напризволяще або знищуючи його. Головн? геро? роману – Да?н? Та??арт ? Генк Р?арден – в?дчайдушно намагаються в?двернути катастрофу. Да?н? переконана, що в кра?н? з’явився та?м- ничий Руйн?вник, ц?ль якого – крах економ?ки ? тотальна деградац?я людей. Ж?нка не покида? над?? в?дтворити досконалий двигун, але перспективний молодий нау- ковець, який погодився допомогти ?й, в?дмовля?ться працювати на благо нев?глас?в. Да?н? не хоче в?дмовлятися в?д свого задуму, тож ?де на зустр?ч з? знев?реним до- сл?дником, а в дороз? знайомиться з волоцюгою. Свого часу в?н працював там, де й зародилося ?чисте зло?, яке зараз пожира? кра?ну… Друга частина роману м?стить блискуч? св?тоглядн? монологи, вкладен? в уста Франциско Д’Анкон?? та Генка Р?ардена.

High into air are the great New York buildings lifted by a ray whose source no telescope can find.It seemed only fitting and proper that the greatest of all leaps into space should start from Roosevelt Field, where so many great flights had begun and ended. Fliers whose names had rung—for a space—around the world, had landed here and been received by New York with all the pomp of visiting kings. Fliers had departed here for the lands of kings, to be received by them when their journeys were ended. Of course Lucian Jeter and Tema Eyer were disappointed that Franz Kress had beaten them out in the race to be first into the stratosphere above fifty-five thousand feet. There was a chance that Kress would fail, when it would be the turn of Jeter and Eyer. They didn't wish for his failure, of course. They were sports-men as well as scientists; but they were just human enough to anticipate the plaudits of the world which would be showered without stint upon the fliers who succeeded. The warship simply vanished into the night sky. "At least, Tema," said Jeter quietly, "we can look his ship over and see if there is anything about it that will suggest something to us. Of course, whether he succeeds or fails, we shall make the attempt as soon as we are ready.""Indeed, yes," replied Eyer. "For no man will ever fly so high that another may not fly even higher. Once planes are constructed of unlimited flying radius ... well, the universe is large and there should be no end of space fights for a long time."

Видано 45 мовами! Донна Тартт — лауреат Пул?тцер?всько? прем?? № 1 у списку 100 видатних книжок за верс??ю The New York Times Отямившись п?сля вибуху в музе?, тринадцятир?чний Тео ще не розум??, що там, п?д уламками, залишилися його мат?р ? його дитинство. Пробираючись до виходу, повз кам?ння та т?ла, в?н п?дбира? безц?нну картину фламандського майстра, яку так любила його мати. Дивний старий, вмираючи, в?дда? йому свого персня та просить винести картину зв?дси... Тео буде кидати ?з родини в родину, ?з Нью-Йорка до Амстердама, ?з глибин в?дчаю до ейфор??. Викрадений ?Щиголь? стане його прокляттям та над??ю на порятунок... Vidano 45 movami! Donna Tartt — laureat Pul?tcer?vs'ko? prem?? № 1 u spisku 100 vidatnih knizhok za vers??ju The New York Times Otjamivshis' p?slja vibuhu v muze?, trinadcjatir?chnij Teo shhe ne rozum??, shho tam, p?d ulamkami, zalishilisja jogo mat?r ? jogo ditinstvo. Probirajuchis' do vihodu, povz kam?nnja ta t?la, v?n p?dbira? bezc?nnu kartinu flamands'kogo majstra, jaku tak ljubila jogo mati. Divnij starij, vmirajuchi, v?dda? jomu svogo persnja ta prosit' vinesti kartinu zv?dsi... Teo bude kidati ?z rodini v rodinu, ?z N'ju-Jorka do Amsterdama, ?z glibin v?dchaju do ejfor??. Vikradenij ?Shhigol'? stane jogo prokljattjam ta nad??ju na porjatunok...

Underground* *The author of the diary and the diary itself are, of course, imaginary. Nevertheless it is clear that such persons as the writer of these notes not only may, but positively must, exist in our society, when we consider the circumstances in the midst of which our society is formed. I have tried to expose to the view of the public more distinctly than is commonly done, one of the characters of the recent past. He is one of the representatives of a generation still living. In this fragment, entitled "Underground," this person introduces himself and his views, and, as it were, tries to explain the causes owing to which he has made his appearance and was bound to make his appearance in our midst. In the second fragment there are added the actual notes of this person concerning certain events in his life.--AUTHOR'S NOTE. II am a sick man.... I am a spiteful man. I am an unattractive man. I believe my liver is diseased. However, I know nothing at all about my disease, and do not know for certain what ails me. I don't consult a doctor for it, and never have, though I have a respect for medicine and doctors. Besides, I am extremely superstitious, sufficiently so to respect medicine, anyway (I am well-educated enough not to be superstitious, but I am superstitious). No, I refuse to consult a doctor from spite. That you probably will not understand. Well, I understand it, though. Of course, I can't explain who it is precisely that I am mortifying in this case by my spite: I am perfectly well aware that I cannot "pay out" the doctors by not consulting them; I know better than anyone that by all this I am only injuring myself and no one else. But still, if I don't consult a doctor it is from spite. My liver is bad, well--let it get worse! I have been going on like that for a long time--twenty years. Now I am forty. I used to be in the government service, but am no longer. I was a spiteful official. I was rude and took pleasure in being so. I did not take bribes, you see, so I was bound to find a recompense in that, at least. (A poor jest, but I will not scratch it out. I wrote it thinking it would sound very witty; but now that I have seen myself that I only wanted to show off in a despicable way, I will not scratch it out on purpose!) When petitioners used to come for information to the table at which I sat, I used to grind my teeth at them, and felt intense enjoyment when I succeeded in making anybody unhappy. I almost did succeed. For the most part they were all timid people--of course, they were petitioners. But of the uppish ones there was one officer in particular I could not endure. He simply would not be humble, and clanked his sword in a disgusting way. I carried on a feud with him for eighteen months over that sword. At last I got the better of him. He left off clanking it. That happened in my youth, though. But do you know, gentlemen, what was the chief point about my spite? Why, the whole point, the real sting of it lay in the fact that continually, even in the moment of the acutest spleen, I was inwardly conscious with shame that I was not only not a spiteful but not even an embittered man, that I was simply scaring sparrows at random and amusing myself by it. I might foam at the mouth, but bring me a doll to play with, give me a cup of tea with sugar in it, and maybe I should be appeased. I might even be genuinely touched, though probably I should grind my teeth at myself afterwards and lie awake at night with shame for months after. That was my way.

In these times of ours, though concerning the exact year there is no need to be precise, a boat of dirty and disreputable appearance, with two figures in it, floated on the Thames, between Southwark bridge which is of iron, and London Bridge which is of stone, as an autumn evening was closing in. The figures in this boat were those of a strong man with ragged grizzled hair and a sun-browned face, and a dark girl of nineteen or twenty, sufficiently like him to be recognizable as his daughter. The girl rowed, pulling a pair of sculls very easily; the man, with the rudder-lines slack in his hands, and his hands loose in his waistband, kept an eager look out. He had no net, hook, or line, and he could not be a fisherman; his boat had no cushion for a sitter, no paint, no inscription, no appliance beyond a rusty boathook and a coil of rope, and he could not be a waterman; his boat was too crazy and too small to take in cargo for delivery, and he could not be a lighterman or river-carrier; there was no clue to what he looked for, but he looked for something, with a most intent and searching gaze. The tide, which had turned an hour before, was running down, and his eyes watched every little race and eddy in its broad sweep, as the boat made slight head-way against it, or drove stern foremost before it, according as he directed his daughter by a movement of his head. She watched his face as earnestly as he watched the river. But, in the intensity of her look there was a touch of dread or horror. Allied to the bottom of the river rather than the surface, by reason of the slime and ooze with which it was covered, and its sodden state, this boat and the two figures in it obviously were doing something that they often did, and were seeking what they often sought. Half savage as the man showed, with no covering on his matted head, with his brown arms bare to between the elbow and the shoulder, with the loose knot of a looser kerchief lying low on his bare breast in a wilderness of beard and whisker, with such dress as he wore seeming to be made out of the mud that begrimed his boat, still there was a business-like usage in his steady gaze. So with every lithe action of the girl, with every turn of her wrist, perhaps most of all with her look of dread or horror; they were things of usage. 'Keep her out, Lizzie. Tide runs strong here. Keep her well afore the sweep of it.' Trusting to the girl's skill and making no use of the rudder, he eyed the coming tide with an absorbed attention. So the girl eyed him. But, it happened now, that a slant of light from the setting sun glanced into the bottom of the boat, and, touching a rotten stain there which bore some resemblance to the outline of a muffled human form, coloured it as though with diluted blood. This caught the girl's eye, and she shivered. 'What ails you?' said the man, immediately aware of it, though so intent on the advancing waters; 'I see nothing afloat.' The red light was gone, the shudder was gone, and his gaze, which had come back to the boat for a moment, travelled away again. Wheresoever the strong tide met with an impediment, his gaze paused for an instant. At every mooring-chain and rope, at every stationery boat or barge that split the current into a broad-arrowhead, at the offsets from the piers of Southwark Bridge, at the paddles of the river steamboats as they beat the filthy water, at the floating logs of timber lashed together lying off certain wharves, his shining eyes darted a hungry look. After a darkening hour or so, suddenly the rudder-lines tightened in his hold, and he steered hard towards the Surrey shore. Always watching his face, the girl instantly answered to the action in her sculling; presently the boat swung round, quivered as from a sudden jerk, and the upper half of the man was stretched out over the stern.

Barrie never described Peter's appearance in detail, even in the novel Peter and Wendy (1911), leaving much of it to the imagination of the reader and the interpretation of anyone adapting the character. Barrie mentions in Peter and Wendy that Peter Pan still had all of his "first teeth". He describes him as a beautiful boy with a beautiful smile, "clad in skeleton leaves and the juices that flow from trees". In the play, Peter's outfit is made of autumn leaves and cobwebs. His name and playing the flute or pipes suggest the mythological character Pan.Traditionally, the character has been played on stage by an adult woman. Peter Breaks Through "All children, except one, grow up. They soon know that they will grow up, and the way Wendy knew was this. One day when she was two years old she was playing in a garden, and she plucked another flower and ran with it to her mother. I suppose she must have looked rather delightful, for Mrs. Darling put her hand to her heart and cried, "Oh, why can't you remain like this for ever!" This was all that passed between them on the subject, but henceforth Wendy knew that she must grow up. You always know after you are two. Two is the beginning of the end. Of course they lived at 14 [their house number on their street], and until Wendy came her mother was the chief one. She was a lovely lady, with a romantic mind and such a sweet mocking mouth. Her romantic mind was like the tiny boxes, one within the other, that come from the puzzling East, however many you discover there is always one more; and her sweet mocking mouth had one kiss on it that Wendy could never get, though there it was, perfectly conspicuous in the right-hand corner. The way Mr. Darling won her was this: the many gentlemen who had been boys when she was a girl discovered simultaneously that they loved her, and they all ran to her house to propose to her except Mr. Darling, who took a cab and nipped in first, and so he got her. He got all of her, except the innermost box and the kiss. He never knew about the box, and in time he gave up trying for the kiss. Wendy thought Napoleon could have got it, but I can picture him trying, and then going off in a passion, slamming the door. Mr. Darling used to boast to Wendy that her mother not only loved him but respected him. He was one of those deep ones who know about stocks and shares. Of course no one really knows, but he quite seemed to know, and he often said stocks were up and shares were down in a way that would have made any woman respect him. Mrs. Darling was married in white, and at first she kept the books perfectly, almost gleefully, as if it were a game, not so much as a Brussels sprout was missing; but by and by whole cauliflowers dropped out, and instead of them there were pictures of babies without faces. She drew them when she should have been totting up. They were Mrs. Darling's guesses. Wendy came first, then John, then Michael. .." About Author: Sir James Matthew Barrie, (9 May 1860 – 19 June 1937) was a Scottish author and dramatist, best remembered today as the creator of Peter Pan. The child of a family of small-town weavers, he was educated in Scotland. He moved to London, where he developed a career as a novelist and playwright. There he met the Llewelyn Davies boys who inspired him in writing about a baby boy who has magical adventures in Kensington Gardens (included in The Little White Bird), then to write Peter Pan, or The Boy Who Wouldn't Grow Up, a "fairy play" about this ageless boy and an ordinary girl named Wendy who have adventures in the fantasy setting of Neverland. This play quickly overshadowed his previous work and although he continued to write successfully, it became his best-known work, credited with popularising the name Wendy, which was very uncommon previously. Barrie unofficially adopted the Davies boys following the deaths of their parents. Barrie was made a baronet by George V in 1913, and a member of the Order of Merit in 1922. Before his death, he gave the rights to the Peter Pan works to London's Great Ormond Street Hospital, which continues to benefit from them.

Mon Agent Андрея М. Мелехова – третий роман об Аналитике. Как и предыдущие книги серии – Malaria и Analyste – Mon Agent представляет из себя необычную комбинацию приключенческого романа и мистического триллера. Он предлагает читателю не только получить удовольствие от весьма неожиданных поворотов нескольких сюжетных линий, но и задуматься над широким кругом философских, религиозных и мировоззренческих проблем, волнующих современного человека.Действие романа происходит в Лондоне и Москве, в Раю и в Преисподней. Его персонажами являются террористы и агенты спецслужб, герои Библии и герои тайных операций, великие пророки прошлого и политики настоящего, ангелы Божьи и слуги Сатаны, люди и говорящие животные. В произведении нашлось место большой любви и большой ненависти, острой политической сатире и тонкому юмору. Как и все книги Мелехова, Mon Agent написан для тех, кто способен подвергнуть сомнению догмы, стереотипы и предубеждения, кто может рассмеяться, говоря даже о весьма серьёзных вещах. Если вы хотите узнать, чем простые (и непростые!) смертные смогли помочь вдруг начавшим стареть и умирать обитателям Рая и как отнеслись бы сегодня люди к новому пришествию Христа – эта книга для вас, читатель! Вам предлагается новая редакция романа.

The Last of the Mohicans is a historical novel written by James Fenimore Cooper. The book, which is set during the French and Indian War, was made into an award-winning film starring Kevin Costner.?James Fenimore Cooper's most famous character, Hawkeye, and his Mohican companions, Uncas and Chingachook, are tasked with rescuing the daughters of a British colonel, who have been abducted by the very man entrusted to keep them safe.?This ebook has been professionally proofread to ensure accuracy and readability on all devices.?

Dear Grown-ups! This book has been written for You! Our story is set in the XXXIV century. As we follow the intriguing life of a royal family we gain insight into the future. A new folk is taking shape, its progress unstoppable. The battle against the force of Darkness puts an end to the idyllic if somewhat insipid life they have grown accustomed to and its outcome will determine the faith of planet Earth ...

Seria Povesti Italiene de la Corint Junior ale lui Italo Calvino aduce titlul Desene naravase. Lodolinda este o fetita care adora sa deseneze, dar si lui Federico ii place foarte mult acest lucru. Cand Lodolinda deseneaza un taur furios, gata de atac, iar Federico un tigru pregatit sa se napusteasca asupra prazii, incepe lupta desenelor naravase, unde nu exista nicio regula in afara de cea a imaginatiei si niciun fel de arme in afara de hartie si creioane colorate.

E la mijloc un mister negru. erpuitor. Cu femei puternice, regsindu-se n albia nopilor. Cu brbai pierdui n hiurile existenei. Cu adolesceni care asist gur-casc la felul n care morii dau buzna n existena de zi cu zi. Sunt pagini dense, pe mari poriuni memorabile, de un erotism subtil, nvalnic, mpuns de botul fraged al morii care-este-pretutindeni. Madeleine Davidsohn are lejeritatea i familiaritatea lucrurilor artate la lumina zilei de creatorii obiectelor artizanale, confecionate cu o art motenit din tat n fiu, ce-i transmit reciproc secretele meseriei, trucurile tiute exclusiv de membrii clanului de meseriai.“ – Aura Christi

A nem túl távoli j?v?ben az emberek látszólag t?kéletes társadalomban élnek. A mindent és mindenkit irányító politikai elit a média, illetve kül?nféle pszichoaktív szerek segítségével mossa át az emberek tudatát. A vezet? elit és a hadsereg k?z?tti ellentét a hatalom birtoklásáért kiélesedik. A konfliktus polgárháborúhoz, majd a rendszer teljes ?sszeomlásához vezet. A hadsereg által kidolgozott terv, az Armageddon-teória, mely az új társadalmi berendezkedést hivatott volna megszervezni, kudarcba fulladt. A harcokban milliók pusztulnak el és visszafordíthatatlan károkat szenved a F?ld is. A túlél?k reménytelensége egyre csak n?, persze tudják, hamarosan az embereknél egy sokkal kegyetlenebb ellenséggel kell szembenézniük... Novák Andor poszt-apokaliptikus t?rténetének els? k?tete a Háborút megel?z? eseményekr?l szól. Egy olyan kegyetlen, nyomasztó világot ábrázol, mely talán már a mi életünkben elj?het. Vagy észre sem vettük, de mi magunk is már ebben a világban élünk?

Amikor Vicky Firenzébe érkezik, hogy olaszul tanuljon és megmerítkezzen az ottani kultúrában, nem számít arra, hogy eltalálja ?mor nyila. A szerelem a jókép? és sármos, ám kissé rusztikus modorú talján séf, Gianfranco személyében érkezik. Gianfranco éttermében Vicky megismerkedik a toszkán konyham?vészettel is. Hétvégén a szerelmespár autóba pattan és felfedezi Toszkána gy?ny?r? tájait és a hegyekben megbújó k?zépkori városkákat. A színes leírásokban b?velked? gasztromemoár becsempészi az olvasót Toszkána, Umbria, Elba és Perugia romantikus éttermeinek és bárjainak színfalai m?gé. Remek olasz receptek szakítják meg hébe-hóba a sz?veget, mely nincs híján humornak, szerelemnek és szerelmi csalódásnak. ?Toszkán mese szerelemr?l és ételekr?l” – az alcím magáért beszél, de mesénél t?bbet kapunk: az írón? ironikus és olykor lírai stílusa igazi olvasási élményt is nyújt.

avagy a szeretet, a megbocsátás és a szabadság ereje T?rténet egy anyáról, akinek szívéhez k?zelebb állt egyik fia, mint a másik, és b?ntudata halála után sem hagyta nyugodni. T?rténet egy fiúról, akit édesanyja nem akart a világra hozni, akinek a magány volt a legh?ségesebb társa, s akinek szíve k?vé dermedt a háború borzalmaiban. T?rténet egy lányról, aki tudta, mekkora er?vel bír a szeretet, és tudta, hogyan kell megszelídíteni, újrahangolni egy elgy?t?rt szívet. T?rténet egy n?r?l, aki háta m?g?tt hagyta a nyugati világot, hogy megtalálja, ami a legfontosabb az életben: ?nmagát. Az egymásba fonódó t?rténetekb?l egyetlen regény kerekedik, mely izgalmas emberi sorsokról mesél, mik?zben bemutatja Burma babonákkal, ugyanakkor b?lcsességgel átsz?tt kultúráját, és felnyitja szemünket egy olyan világra, melyben a szeretet, a megbocsátás és a szabadság jelentik az igazi hatalmat.

Ei desc?lecar? atunci am?ndoi??i se iau la lupt? ca doi juni eroi.Ochii tuturora cat? cu mirareLa Buzescu Preda ?i t?tarul mare.Ei se bat la raza stelei cei de foc Flac?rile-i albe pe-a lor zale joc.V?ntul r?core?te fruntea lor udat???i m?nia dulce sufletul le-mbat?. Ei se bat ?n spade – spadele se fr?ng;??i se iau la bra?e – se smucesc se str?ng.C?nd t?tarul scoate o secure mic?Si lovind pe Preda pav?za ?i stric?.Dar el cu m?ciuca astfel ?l loviInc?t deodat? c?zu ?i muri. Iar dup? aceasta oastea rom?neasc?Pleac? ?i ?nvinge horda t?t?rasc?. Dimitrie Bolintineanu - Preda Buzescu

Cu totul nea?teptat, Susan Morrow prime?te manuscrisul unui roman scris de Edward, so?ul de care a divor?at ?n urm? cu dou?zeci ?i cinci de ani. Pe m?sur? ce cite?te, Susan ?i, odat? cu ea, cititorul ?nsu?i p?trund din ce ?n ce mai ad?nc ?n via?a personajului principal al romanului din roman, profesorul de matematic? Tony Hastings, care c?l?tore?te ?mpreun? cu so?ia ?i fiica lui spre casa lor de vacan??. ?n vreme ce via?a obi?nuit?, civilizat?, a familiei Hastings cade prada violen?ei ?i crimei, o sumedenie de amintiri tulbur?toare o arunc? pe Susan ?napoi ?n trecut, provoc?nd-o s? se confrunte cu tenebrele propriei vie?i ?i cu teama care ?i amenin?? viitorul. Un thriller cutremur?tor se ?mbin? astfel cu o poveste despre team? ?i regret, despre r?zbunare ?i ?mb?tr?nire, despre c?s?torie ?i creativitate.Cu un talent literar unic, Austin Wright ilustreaz? fascinant? experien?? a lecturii, prin rela?iile pe care le creeaz? at?t ?ntre cititor ?i oper?, c?t ?i ?ntre autor ?i cititor, ?ntr-o scriere surprinz?toare ?i pasionant?.