Gndul c a fi putut-o sugruma pe sora mea mai mic, adormit n patul de sub mine i pe care o iubeam mai mult dect orice altceva pe lume. Nu o nebunie slbatic, ci una aproape n joac. O sugestie lene, somnoroas, maliioas, care prea s atepte acolo de mult vreme.“ Acolo, adic n pivnia ntunecoas a fiinei. Gnduri ceoase, impulsuri obscure, vinovii fr vin, acuzaii difuze. Inexplicabilul sau inavuabilul resimite ca reacie fireasc. Benign demonism infantil, dincolo de logic i de orice explicaie. i totul n caruselul Relaiei, cadrul obsedant al acestor istorii de via amar, pestri, derizorie. Relaii ntre prini i copii, surori i frai, bunici i nepoi, unchi, mtui, vecini. Cu avorturi, adultere, accidente, sinucideri, apendicite, bovarism, sex aiurea, decizii pripite de nunt i desprire. Gelozie ntre surori, ura fetiei fa de predicile mamei, Parkinson i Alzheimer, Toronto i Vancouver, baluri provinciale, paralizii, primele fantazri erotice ale vrstei nubile, rochia mamei, azilul, recuperri sentimentale dup jumtate de veac, apologia vieii neinhibate“, dar i rigorile inflexibile ale unui mediu intens irizat religios. Pe scurt, via. Mai precis: draga noastr via. Cea pe care adesea uitm s-o trim, necum s-o mai i gndim.

Azi tr?im o Miori?? r?sturnat?, lumea, ?gur? de rai“, transformat? ?ntr-o lume din ce ?n ce mai mercantil? ?i vanificant?, o lume a g?ndirii economice, cu omogenizarea, dispari?ia diferen?elor, omogenizarea sexelor, a binelui ?i a r?ului, a?a-zisul ?global village“; lumea virtual? care gole?te realitatea, pentru a o umple ?n loc cu ?emo?ii“ dozate de al?ii, ?n tentativa de colectivizare ?i dirijare a sentimentelor ?i g?ndirii oamenilor.Revolu?ia rom?n? a fost o revolu?ie a jertfei mioritice, a tinerilor care au opus r?ului piepturile goale, care a dat, ciudat rod, o societate a corup?iei morale: ea a fost contrapus? ?colhozului global“, at?t sub sensul colectivistic al colhozului comunist, c?t ?i al aceluia omologant, dup? o unic? m?sur?, al popoarelor ?i al valorilor.Cine va recrea punctele cardinale, utopia paradisului mioritic? Noul Ierusalim?Poate c? Miori?a, prin for?a ei spiritual?, ne va reda punctele cardinale ?i pe noi, cei r?t?ci?i de noi, nou? ?n?ine. Altfel, moartea Miori?ei, cea din urm? mioar?, ar fi moartea noastr? a tuturor.

Roman inspirat din istoria contemporan?, Puzzle realizeaz? o viziune cuprinz?toare a voca?iei rom?nilor de-a armoniza ?ntr-un mod necunoscut celorlalte ??ri europene (Constantin Noica) dou? mentalit??i istorice?te opuse: oriental? ?i occidental?. ?n centrul c?r?ii se afl? un singur personaj – profesorul pensionar Neghibaur – ?n jurul c?ruia se dispun faptele ?i oamenii ca pe un ecran al imagina?iei, observa?iei ?i experien?ei fostului dasc?l. Construc?ie dens? ?i insolit?, romanul se re?ine ?i prin deschiderea de amploare ?i de ad?ncime asupra mecanismelor ascunse ale reac?iilor suflete?ti individuale determinate de importantele schimb?ri sociale intervenite ?n via?a ??rii dup? Revolu?ia din Decembrie, 1989.

Cin? cu langustine, ap?rut ini?ial ?n anul 1987 (Editura Cartea Rom?neasc?), se constituie dintr-o suit? de schi?e ?i povestiri av?nd, ca numitor comun, spa?iul geografic al Peninsulei Iberice. Stilul prozelor este alert, cu nota?ii scurte, imprim?nd un ritm viu lecturii. Este o proz? care angajeaz? subtil interesul cititorului, provoc?ndu-l ?ntr-un registru discret la reflec?ie ?i coresponden?e de tr?iri. Povestirile iberice ar putea fi ?i un posibil vestibul de p?trundere ?n lumea uneori fabuloas? a celuilalt cap?t de orizont al Europei. Mihai Giugariu (n. 1929), este autorul unei literaturi beletristice variate, cu predilec?ie romane, proz? scurt?, dar ?i eseuri ?i traduceri. Din portofoliul activit??ii sale literare pot fi re?inute romanele: Condotierul, O vacan?? at?t de lung?, Magdalena, Spre sear?, C?l?uza, precum ?i volumul de eseuri M?rul lui Paris. Romanul Destine, editat ?n 1990 ?i reeditat ?n 2003 a fost distins (ex aequo) cu premiul pentru proz? din anul 1992 al Academiei Rom?ne.

Te voi lua totu?i cu mine, M?iastro… Te voi ascunde ?n inim?, ?n g?nd, ?n vis…. Te voi oglindi ?n treizeci ?i trei de chipuri – ?n marmor? alb?, sur? ?i neagr?, ?n bronz lustruit ca aurul, ?n aur ?nsu?i… Te voi sculpta ?n lumin?, dincolo de lut ?i carne, ??i voi face cu m?inile mele de ??ran din Gorj aripi ?nalte de piatr? sau metal, ?i cu ele te vei ?n?l?a ?i vei zbura ca ?i aci, str?b?t?nd P?m?ntul, de la un cap la altul… (?ncet de tot.) ?i vei c?nta… c?ntecul t?u… ?i al meu…O carte pentru copii antrenant?, pentru pu?tii de toate v?rstele.

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.

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.

The Mole had been working very hard all the morning, spring-cleaning his little home. First with brooms, then with dusters; then on ladders and steps and chairs, with a brush and a pail of whitewash; till he had dust in his throat and eyes, and splashes of whitewash all over his black fur, and an aching back and weary arms. Spring was moving in the air above and in the earth below and around him, penetrating even his dark and lowly little house with its spirit of divine discontent and longing. It was small wonder, then, that he suddenly flung down his brush on the floor, said 'Bother!' and 'O blow!' and also 'Hang spring-cleaning!' and bolted out of the house without even waiting to put on his coat. Something up above was calling him imperiously, and he made for the steep little tunnel which answered in his case to the gavelled carriage-drive owned by animals whose residences are nearer to the sun and air. So he scraped and scratched and scrabbled and scrooged and then he scrooged again and scrabbled and scratched and scraped, working busily with his little paws and muttering to himself, 'Up we go! Up we go!' till at last, pop! his snout came out into the sunlight, and he found himself rolling in the warm grass of a great meadow. 'This is fine!' he said to himself. 'This is better than whitewashing!' The sunshine struck hot on his fur, soft breezes caressed his heated brow, and after the seclusion of the cellarage he had lived in so long the carol of happy birds fell on his dulled hearing almost like a shout. Jumping off all his four legs at once, in the joy of living and the delight of spring without its cleaning, he pursued his way across the meadow till he reached the hedge on the further side. 'Hold up!' said an elderly rabbit at the gap. 'Sixpence for the privilege of passing by the private road!' He was bowled over in an instant by the impatient and contemptuous Mole, who trotted along the side of the hedge chaffing the other rabbits as they peeped hurriedly from their holes to see what the row was about. 'Onion-sauce! Onion-sauce!' he remarked jeeringly, and was gone before they could think of a thoroughly satisfactory reply. Then they all started grumbling at each other. 'How STUPID you are! Why didn't you tell him——' 'Well, why didn't YOU say——' 'You might have reminded him——' and so on, in the usual way; but, of course, it was then much too late, as is always the case. It all seemed too good to be true. Hither and thither through the meadows he rambled busily, along the hedgerows, across the copses, finding everywhere birds building, flowers budding, leaves thrusting—everything happy, and progressive, and occupied. And instead of having an uneasy conscience pricking him and whispering 'whitewash!' he somehow could only feel how jolly it was to be the only idle dog among all these busy citizens. After all, the best part of a holiday is perhaps not so much to be resting yourself, as to see all the other fellows busy working.

În mijlocul lag?rului de prizonieri de r?zboi condamna?i s? construiasc? o cale ferat? între Birmania ?i Thailanda, cunoscut? cu denumirea Calea ferat? a mor?ii, chirurgul Dorrigo Evans, comandantul lag?rului, este torturat de povestea de dragoste pe care a tr?it-o cu tân?ra so?ie a unchiului s?u cu doi ani în urm?. În str?dania lui de a-?i salva oamenii de înfometare, de holer?, de persecu?ii, Dorrigo prime?te o scrisoare care îi schimb? pentru totdeauna cursul vie?ii. O poveste despre dragoste ?i moarte cu multiplele lor fa?ete, despre r?zboi ?i despre adev?r, în care eroul î?i tr?ie?te experien?a de via?? numai pentru a descoperi tot ceea ce a pierdut.

The more I know of the world, the more am I convinced that I shall never see a man whom I can really love. I require so much!'Marianne Dashwood wears her heart on her sleeve, and when she falls in love with the dashing but unsuitable John Willoughby she ignores her sister Elinor's warning that her impulsive behaviour leaves her open to gossip and innuendo. Meanwhile Elinor, always sensitive to social convention, is struggling to conceal her own romantic disappointment, even from those closest to her. Through their parallel experience of love—and its threatened loss—the sisters learn that sense must mix with sensibility if they are to find personal happiness in a society where status and money govern the rules of love.This edition includes explanatory notes, textual variants between the first and second editions, and Tony Tanner's introduction to the original Penguin Classic edition.

Alegorie moral? ?i autobiografie spiritual?, Micul prin?, cea mai tradus? carte din literatura francez?, înf??i?eaz? cu un farmec nepieritor povestea unui b?ie?el care î?i abandoneaz? micu?a planet? pentru a c?l?tori prin univers. Odiseea sa, în care descoper? ciud??eniile adul?ilor printr-o serie de întâlniri extraordinare, culmineaz? cu aventurile pe planeta P?mânt.

Holmes and Watson are faced with their most terrifying case yet. The legend of the devil-beast that haunts the moors around the Baskerville families home warns the descendants of that ancient clan never to venture out in those dark hours when the power of evil is exalted. Now, the most recent Baskerville, Sir Charles, is dead and the footprints of a giant hound have been found near his body. Will the new heir meet the same fate?

Cavalerii Pardaillan - Vol. 5. Intrigi, comploturi, pove?ti pline de suspans ?i r?sturn?ri spectaculoase de situa?ie. În 1588, Fran?a este marea scen? pe care regele Henric al III-lea ?i mama sa, Caterina de Medici, lupt? cu ducele de Guise ?i cu Liga Sfânt? pentru tron ?i putere. Cavalerul de Pardaillan e nevoit s? fac? fa?? numeroaselor capcane pe care cumplita Fausta i le întinde în încercarea de a elimina un adversar considerat periculos pentru planurile sale de cucerire a Fran?ei ?i a Italiei, dar ?i pentru inima ei. În aceast? înfruntare dintre curaj ?i viclenie, loialitate ?i tr?dare, onoare ?i infamie, cavalerul va ie?i din nou înving?tor. Dar va reu?i el s? doboare o dat? pentru totdeauna for?a r?ului din spiritul Faustei?

Cavalerii Pardaillan - Vol. 7. Intrigi, comploturi, pove?ti pline de suspans ?i r?sturn?ri spectaculoase de situa?ie. Numit ambasador extraordinar al Fran?ei în Spania, Pardaillan se treze?te implicat în intrigi ?i lupte în care se joac? soarta celor dou? regate. De aceast? dat?, cavalerul îi ia sub protec?ia sa pe frumoasa ?iganc? Giralda ?i pe logodnicul ei, don César, nimeni altul decât nepotul secret ?i persecutat al regelui spaniol. Astfel ajunge s? îi înfrunte din nou pe puternicii s?i du?mani: Fausta, Filip al II-lea ?i Marele Inchizitor Espinosa. Sprijinit de Chico, un pitic cu inim? mare, ?i de iubita acestuia, micu?a hangi?? Juana, Pardaillan va dejuca îns? toate comploturile, salvând pentru a doua oar? coroana regelui Henric al IV-lea.

Cavalerii Pardaillan - Vol. 8. Intrigi, comploturi, pove?ti pline de suspans ?i r?sturn?ri spectaculoase de situa?ie. Cavalerul Pardaillan întâlne?te un tân?r punga? care îi treze?te simpatia, Jehan cel Brav, de fapt, nimeni altul decât fiul lui ?i al Faustei. Jehan se îndr?goste?te de Bertille de Saugis, fiica natural? a lui Henric al IV-lea, ?i pentru a-?i ap?ra iubita ?i pe tat?l ei, intr? în conflict cu to?i cei care îi doresc moartea regelui. Cavalerul Pardaillan lupt? de partea fiului s?u, atât pentru a-l observa, cât ?i pentru a-l proteja pe rege. Îns? Fausta a ascuns cândva, în Montmartre, o comoar? fabuloas? la care râvne?te toat? lumea – iezui?ii, familia Concini, chiar ?i ministrul regelui, Sully. Bertille este singura care cunoa?te secretul acestei ascunz?tori...

"---this fantasy of a night-black, dead planet, with the remains of the human race concentrated in a stupendously vast metal pyramid & besieged by monstrous, hybrid & altogether unknown forces of darkness, is something that no reader can ever forger" (H. P. Lovecraft)."One of the most potent pieces of macabre imagination ever written" -?H.P.Lovecraft. Lovecraft wasn't wrong: this is, perhaps, the greatest single work of fantastic fiction in the English language. The sun has died, as have the stars. Not a solitary light shines in the heavens. The days of light are nothing by a legend?-?they are a story told to soothe children. The last millions of humans still live in their Last Redoubt -?but the end of their days is at hand.

Unul tr?ie?te, cel?lalt moare. E singura solu?ie. Roman din seria Helen Grace Doi ostatici. Un singur glon?. Doar unul va supravie?ui. Sunt suflete-pereche. Vor s?-?i petreac? restul vie?ii ?mpreun?. ?ns? c?nd se trezesc singuri ?i dezorienta?i ?ntr-un subsol p?r?sit, groaza ?i cople?e?te. Nu au la dispozi?ie dec?t o arm? ?nc?rcat? cu un singur glon? ?i ?nso?it? de urm?torul mesaj: ?C?nd unul dintre voi ?l va ucide pe cel?lalt, supravie?uitorul va fi liber“. Cine a putut concepe un astfel de scenariu sinistru, ?n care victimele ?nse?i comit crima? Tortura?i de spaim?, disperare, sete ?i inani?ie, pentru ostatici nu exist? dec?t o singur? cale de a pune cap?t acestui supliciu: unul dintre ei trebuie s? moar?. M. J. Arlidge a creat o eroin? memorabil?: inspectoarea Helen Grace. – Daily Mail O poveste captivant? ?i ?nfrico??toare, scris? magistral. – Sun ??i d? fiori! – Sunday Mirror ?Mi se pare mie sau ?mbr??i??rile noastre nu ne mai prea ?nc?lzesc? ?i nu ne mai ap?r?? De c?nd s-a ?nt?mplat, ne-am ag??at zi ?i noapte unul de altul, dorind s? supravie?uim am?ndoi, dispera?i s? nu r?m?nem singuri ?n locul acesta cumplit. Am jucat tot felul de jocuri ca s? treac? timpul, imagin?ndu-ne ce vom face dup? ce va sosi cavaleria — ce-o s? m?nc?m, ce-o s? le spunem rudelor, ce-o s? primim de Cr?ciun. ?ns? aceste jocuri s-au terminat treptat, pe m?sur? ce am ?n?eles c? am fost adu?i aici cu un scop ?i c? nu va exista un sf?r?it fericit.“

Capitala a c?zut. ?ntunecatul conduce Ravka din tronul s?u de umbre. Acum, soarta ??rii depinde de fragila Invocatoare a Soarelui, de o iscoad? c?zut? ?n dizgra?ie ?i de r?m??i?ele unei armate magice, c?ndva m?rea??. Pornit? ?n c?utarea ultimului amplificator al lui Morozova, Alina ?ncheie noi alian?e ?i las? deoparte vechile rivalit??i. Pe m?sur? ce afl? secretele ?ntunecatului, descoper? un trecut ce va schimba pentru totdeauna felul ?n care vede leg?tura lor, precum ?i puterea cu care e ?nzestrat?. Numai pas?rea de foc mai poate ?mpiedica distrugerea Ravk?i, ?ns? prinderea ei ar putea s? o coste pe Alina viitorul pentru care lupt?. Alina este o marginal? ?i a?a m? sim?eam ?i eu c?nd eram mic?. ??i dore?te foarte mult s? apar?in? unui loc din lumea asta ?i din aceast? cauz? face ni?te alegeri gre?ite. Am fost crescut? de bunicii mei ?ntr-un loc straniu, unde nu prea ?nt?lneai copii. Casa lor se afla pe un deal ?i mai tot timpul eram l?sat? de capul meu. Cred c? ceva din senza?ia aceea de izolare s-a strecurat ?i ?n descrierea Keramzinului (orfelinatul ?n care cresc Alina ?i Mal). – Leigh Bardugo, pentru Entertainment Weekly Elegan?a ?i fluiditatea stilului, ?mpreun? cu acea lume imaginar? des?v?r?it? fac din Trilogia Grisha o pies? de rezisten?? a genului fantasy. – RT Book Reviews Am reu?it s? m? ridic ?n picioare. Capul mi se ?nv?rtea. Mi-am str?ns bra?ul r?nit cu m?na teaf?r? ?i am pornit cl?tin?ndu-m? prin ?ntuneric. Nu vedeam nimic, eram complet dezorientat?. Dar am continuat s? merg prin bezn?, ?ncerc?nd s?-mi deblochez mintea, s? ?ncropesc un plan. ?tiam c? volcrele m? puteau ataca ?n orice clip?, dar era prea riscant s? folosesc lumina. G?nde?te!, m? mustram ?n sinea mea. Nu mai aveam nicio idee. R?m?sesem f?r? explozibili ?i nu puteam folosi T?ietura. M?neca ?mi era plin? de s?nge ?i pa?ii ?mi ?ncetineau. Trebuia s? g?sesc pe cineva s?-mi vindece bra?ul. Trebuia s? m? refac ?i s? atac din nou. Nu puteam fugi iar??i de ?ntunecatul, la fel ca prima oar? c?nd luptaser?m ?n Falie. De atunci, fugisem ?ntruna.

PREMIUL NA?IONAL AL CHINEI ?n senza?ionalul s?u roman de debut, Mai Jia ne dezv?luie misterioasa lume a Unit??ii 701, un serviciu de informa?ii ultrasecrete, care se ocup? cu spargerea codurilor ?i contraspionaj. Rong Jinzhen, un geniu al matematicii autist, cu un trecut de-a dreptul mitic, e obligat s?-?i abandoneze cariera academic? dup? ce e recrutat ?n Unitatea 701. Fiind cel mai mare criptograf al Chinei, Rong descoper? c? mintea str?lucit? din spatele extrem de dificilului Cod Violet e fostul s?u profesor ?i prieten apropiat, care lucreaz? acum pentru inamicul Chinei. Considerat un precursor al fic?iunii de spionaj chineze, Mai Jia s-a inspirat din propria experien?? – a intrat ?n contact cu numero?i criptologi ?i spioni ?n timpul celor 17 ani c?t a lucrat ?n serviciul de informa?ii secrete din cadrul Armatei de eliberare a poporului. “Cartea e o subtil? ?i complex? ?mbinare de criptografie, politic?, vise ?i semnifica?ia lor. Sunt multe episoade memorabile, de la apari?ia stranie, ?nc?rcat? de supersti?ii, a familiei Rong ?i p?n? la declinul ei treptat, pe m?sur? ce secolul XX ?nainteaz?. ?ns? marea reu?it? a romanului e dat? de profunzimea personajelor lui.“ - The Times Literary Supplement Romanul lui Mai Jia are o estetic? proprie, construie?te o lume ?n care personajele par mereu gata s? cad? prad? obsesiilor. -- The Telegraph “Absurditatea destinului, str?lucirea ?i fragilitatea geniului ?i ?mprejur?rile care-i leag? definitiv pe oameni – despre toate acestea vorbe?te Criptograful, romanul straniu ?i misterios al lui Mai Jia.“ - Beijing Evening News “Copilul s-a n?scut cu pre?ul vie?ii mamei sale, care ?l adusese pe lume ?n chinuri groaznice. Intrat ?n via??, i-a uimit pe to?i cu capul lui mare ca o bani??. Avea capul mai mare dec?t linia umerilor! Capul mamei era o nimica toat? ?n compara?ie cu al fiului (…)Dup? na?terea lui, cei din clanul Lin s-au dat peste cap s?-i aleag? tot soiul de nume, de la nume cu stil, nume formale, nume-porecl? ?i multe altele, ?ns? ?i-au dat repede seama c? era o treab? de prisos, ?ntruc?t capul s?u c?t bani?a ?i condi?iile groaznice ?n care se n?scuse i-au f?cut pe oameni s?-l strige: C?p???n? de Uciga?.“

Ruby are doar nou? ani c?nd un virus misterios ?ncepe s? decimeze adolescen?ii din Statele Unite. Ea va fi unul dintre pu?inii supravie?uitori care descoper? c? sunt ?nzestra?i cu capacit??i paranormale misterioase, ?ndeajuns de primedjdioase ?nc?t s? le asigure trimiterea la Thurmond, un lag?r guvernamental represiv. Acum ?n v?rst? de 16 ani, Ruby se teme deopotriv? de puterile pe care ?nc? n-a ?nv??at s? le controleze ?i de perspectiva de a fi descoperit?. C?nd o grupare de rezisten?? ?i ofer? ?ansa de a evada din lag?r, acesta se va dovedi primul pas ?ntr-o c?l?torie ?n decursul c?reia va descoperi prietenia ?i dragostea, dar care o poart? implacabil spre o alegere imposibil?. “C?nd decesele au ie?it ?ntr-un sf?r?it la lumin?, conducerea ?colii a interzis cu stricte?e profesorilor ?i personalului s? discute cu noi despre ceea ce se numea pe atunci Sindromul lui Everhart, dup? Michael Everhart, primul copil care se ?tia c? murise din aceast? cauz?. Cu?r?nd, cineva din alte cercuri a decis s?-i dea un nume ca la carte: Neurodegenerare idiopatic? adolescentin? acut? — NIAA, pe scurt. ?i atunci n-a mai fost doar boala lui Michael. A fost a noastr?, a tuturor.“ “Bracken a creat o Americ? distopic?, plasat? ?ntr-o viitor nu prea ?ndep?rtat, ?n care copiii sunt v?na?i ?i temu?i, iar pericolele ?i p?ndesc chiar ?i pe culoarele unui magazin Wal-Mart abandonat. Ruby este o eroin? puternic?, ce treze?te instinctiv empatia cititorilor, f?c?ndu-i s? a?tepte cu ner?bdare urm?torul roman din trilogie.“ - Publishers Weekly

Ceea ce d? nuvelelor lui Slavici o pu?in obi?nuit? plin?tate ?i for?a de via?? este profunda cunoa?tere a sufletului omenesc ?n complexitatea lui ?i ?n mi?c?rile lui contradictorii. Aceast? cunoa?tere func?ioneaz? ?n modul cel mai firesc d?nd impresia c? Slavici ??i creeaz? personajele v?z?ndu-le dinl?untrul lor. Comportamentul lor nu e ?ntotdeauna logic - adesea chiar dimpotriv? mai ales ?n ceea ce prive?te analiza sufletului feminin ?n care Slavici r?m?ne un maestru - dar aproape niciodat? ?n marile lui reu?ite artistice nu d? impresia c? ar putea s? fie altul. Slavici se identific? cu personajele sale fiind legat cu l?untrul lor cu felul lor de a g?ndi ?i de a sim?i prin intime fire simpatetice. Iar acest fel de a g?ndi ?i de a sim?i e rezultatul unei observa?ii ?i medita?ii multiseculare asupra naturii umane. Slavici ?nf??i?eaz? cu mijloacele artistice ale scriitorului citadin analitic ceea ce poporul exprim? aforistic prin zic?torile ?i proverbele sale... Ovidiu Papadima