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.

Vigyázat! Cselekményleírást tartalmaz. Szerelmek és félreértések klasszikus meséje a XVIII. századvégi Angliából. Az ?t Bennet n?vér élete a férjkeresés jegyében zajlik: anyjuk megszállottan próbálja biztosítani számukra a megnyugtató j?v?t valami pénzes – és lehet?leg rangos – férfiú mellett. Csakhogy a jó esz? és éles nyelv? Elizabeth szélesebb perspektívákban gondolkozik, és ebben apja is támogatja ?t. Amikor Mr. Bingley, a módos agglegény bek?lt?zik az egyik szomszédos birtokra, felbolydul a Bennet-ház élete. A férfi el?kel? londoni barátai és a vidékre vezényelt nyalka, ifjú katonatisztek k?zt bizonyára számos udvarlója akad majd a lányoknak. A legid?sebb lány, a der?s és gy?ny?r? Jane úgy t?nik, meghódítja Mr. Bingley szívét. Ami Lizzie-t illeti, ? megismerkedik a jókép?, és látszólag igencsak d?lyf?s Mr. Darcyval, és máris kezd?dik a nemek ádáz csatája. A helyzetet tovább bonyolítja, hogy Elizabeth nem várt házassági ajánlatot kap a Bennet-vagyont ?r?kl? unokatestvért?l, és amikor Mr. Bingely váratlanul Londonba távozik, magára hagyva a kétségbeesett Jane-t, Lizzie Mr. Darcyt teszi felel?ssé a szakításért. ?m egy Lydiával kapcsolatos családi válsághelyzet hamarosan ráébreszti h?sn?nket arra, hogy mindvégig balul ítélte meg ezt a büszke férfit… Eredeti hangú, máig modern, magával ragadó t?rténet, melyben magunkra ismerhetünk.

Alexandra, o adolescent? rebel?, este trimis? de p?rin?i s? ??i petreac? vacan?a de var? ?ntr-un sat din Transilvania, pentru a fi ?ndep?rtat? de o iubire considerat? imoral?. Odat? ajuns? ?n V., ea este atras? de pove?tile localnicilor legate de o crim? s?v?r?it? ?n urm? cu mai mult de un veac: contesa Aneke fusese acuzat? de incest ?i vr?jitorie ?i ucis? ?n p?dure. Alexandra porne?te pe urmele contesei, hot?r?t? s? afle ce s-a ?nt?mplat cu adev?rat. Castelul ascunde mistere la fiecare col?… Pe m?sur? ce fapte ?i personaje stranii ies la iveal?, Alexandra ??i d? seama c? are ?n comun cu frumoasa vr?jitoare mai mult dec?t ?i-ar fi imaginat, inclusiv iubirea ei secret? ?i interzis?. Va reu?i Alexandra s? salveze aceast? iubire ?i ?n final propria via??, sau va avea soarta tragic? a Anekei?Dou? lumi distincte se ?ntrep?trund: lumea adolescen?ilor de azi, cu Facebook, concerte rock, tatuaje ?i pierce-uri, ?i lumea contesei disp?rute, cu intrigi de curte ?i pove?ti uitate.Un mistery romance ?n tonuri ?ntunecate despre incest, supersti?ii, tr?d?ri, secrete, legende transmise peste veacuri.

Auzim adesea pe c?te cineva spun?nd, Via?a mea e un roman! Dar c??i dintre noi au curajul s? zugr?veasc? ?n cuvinte ?i s? pun? pe h?rtie ceea ce li s-a ?nt?mplat de-a lungul anilor?Elena Dican este unul dintre foarte pu?inii care ?i-au transformat amintirile ?ntr-un roman. Domnia-sa nu numai c? a trecut testul curajului, dar a ?i dovedit c? are toate calit??ile necesare pentru a duce un astfel de proiect la bun sf?r?it: u?urin?a de a construi scene memorabile, de a da via?? fiin?elor evocate, cre?nd personaje veridice, gata s? sar? din pagin? ?n via?a real?, precum ?i capacitatea de a medita pe marginea celor v?zute, auzite, experimentate ?i rememorate.?n acest fel, scrierea Elenei Dican creeaz? nu un jurnal al vie?ii sale, ci un adev?rat roman, cu toate valen?ele ?i atributele romanului, dar care p?streaz? ?n acela?i timp ?i valoarea de document al vremurilor ceau?iste ?i al vremurilor de azi. Prin mijloacele specifice acestei specii literare, autoarea direc?ioneaz? cu mare pricepere curiozitatea ?i imagina?ia cititorului c?tre mesajul pe care ?l are de transmis.Un mesaj plin de c?ldur?, de umanitate, de ?ncredere ?n via?? ?i de recuno?tin?? pentru ceea ce este frumos ?i atr?g?tor pe aceast? lume.

Eduard Limonov — rebel politic i comarul cel mai cumplit al lui Putin.“ – The GuardianLimonov nu este un personaj de ficiune. El exist.A fost un haiduc ucrainean; idol al underground-ului sovietic; ceretor, apoi valet al unui miliardar din Manhattan; scriitor la mod parizian; soldat pierdut pe undeva, prin Balcani; i acum, n imensa harababur postcomunist, btrn ef charismatic al unui partid al tinerilor desperados. Personal, se consider un erou, dar poate fi socotit i un ticlos. [...] viaa lui romanesc i periculoas spune ceva. Nu doar despre el, despre Limonov, nu doar despre Rusia, ci despre istoria noastr, a tuturor, de la ncheierea celui de-al Doilea Rzboi Mondial ncoace.“ – Emmanuel CarrèreRoman biografic sau biografie ficionalizat, cartea lui Emmanuel Carrère reconstruiete viaa unui personaj real, ivit parc din paginile unei cri. Un personaj excentric, ambiguu, evaziv i schimbtor, cu o via aproape neverosimil de aventuroas, care i permite autorului s traseze un portret convingtor al Rusiei din ultimii cincizeci de ani i n acelai timp s se lanseze ntr-o explorare uimitoare a paradoxurilor condiiei umane.Ca artist i politician, Limonov e, fr ndoial, unic i complex — un adevrat fenomen rusesc, o reflectare a intensitii neobinuite ce definete viaa n Rusia. i, aidoma rii din care vine, tocmai contradiciile sale l fac att de viu. – The GuardianIntimist, perspectiva lui Carrère este totodat istoric, ridicnd n jurul eroului su echivoc i temerar o vast i vibrant scen de teatru: URSS-ul izolat din anii lui Brejnev, apoi dezagregarea comunismului i, n fine, aruncarea Rusiei n capitalismul mafiot i ntr-un haos de proporii.Carrère nu-i asum niciodat poziia de judector, ns tie s insereze n amplul su roman de aventuri puternic ancorat n real meditaii profunde asupra destinului att al individului, ct i al civilizaiilor.“ – TéléramaNu mai viseaz la o insurecie violent, ci, mai degrab, la o revoluie portocalie, cum tocmai se produsese n Ucraina. O revoluie panic, democrat, de care se teme cel mai tare Kremlinul pe care e gata s l zdrobeasc prin indiferent ce mijloace. Iat de ce duce viaa asta de om hituit. Cu civa ani n urm, a fost fcut praf cu bte de baseball. Totul a renceput, abia dac a scpat unui atentat. Numele i figureaz n fruntea listei dumanilor Rusiei, adic a oamenilor de suprimat, pe care oficinele apropiate puterii i propun rzbunrii poporului, fcndu-le publice adresele i numerele de telefon. Ceilali de pe list erau Politkovskaia, ucis cu o puc cu aer comprimat, ex-ofierul FSB Litvinenko, otrvit cu poloniu dup ce denunase deriva criminal a serviciilor secrete, miliardarul Hodorkovski, nchis n Siberia pentru c a vrut s se bage n politic. Urmtorul e el, Limonov.

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.

Чортова дванадцятка — досить змстовна й влучна характеристика збрки жахв за редакцю неперевершеного Ствена Джонса! Пд одню обкладинкою збран 12 гостроцкавих оповдань менитих майстрв горору. Дж. Гаррс, К. Ньюман, М. рей, Р. Кемпбелл та нш гарантують вам безсонну нч в атмосфер тамничост й мстики… Подейкують, що в паризькому Театр Жаху влаштовують кривав вистави. Тридцятидвохрчна Кейт Рд пдбралася надто близько до розгадки… (Гньоль) Вдомий актор Даррен Ловр на пку популярност… був, аж доки не розгнвав вдьму! (Забуття)Chortova dvanadcjatka — dosit' zmstovna j vluchna harakteristika zbrki zhahv za redakcju neperevershenogo Stvena Dzhonsa! Pd odnju obkladinkoju zbran 12 gostrockavih opovdan' menitih majstrv gororu. Dzh. Garrs, K. N'juman, M. rej, R. Kempbell ta nsh garantujut' vam bezsonnu nch v atmosfer tamnichost j mstiki… Podejkujut', shho v pariz'komu Teatr Zhahu vlashtovujut' krivav vistavi. Tridcjatidvohrchna Kejt Rd pdbralasja nadto bliz'ko do rozgadki… (Gn'ol') Vdomij aktor Darren Lovr na pku populjarnost… buv, azh doki ne rozgnvav vd'mu! (Zabuttja)

Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it, 'and what is the use of a book,' thought Alice 'without pictures or conversation?'So she was considering in her own mind (as well as she could, for the hot day made her feel very sleepy and stupid), whether the pleasure of making a daisy-chain would be worth the trouble of getting up and picking the daisies, when suddenly a White Rabbit with pink eyes ran close by her. There was nothing so VERY remarkable in that; nor did Alice think it so VERY much out of the way to hear the Rabbit say to itself, 'Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be late!' (when she thought it over afterwards, it occurred to her that she ought to have wondered at this, but at the time it all seemed quite natural); but when the Rabbit actually TOOK A WATCH OUT OF ITS WAISTCOAT-POCKET, and looked at it, and then hurried on, Alice started to her feet, for it flashed across her mind that she had never before seen a rabbit with either a waistcoat-pocket, or a watch to take out of it, and burning with curiosity, she ran across the field after it, and fortunately was just in time to see it pop down a large rabbit-hole under the hedge. In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again. The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down a very deep well. Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her and to wonder what was going to happen next. First, she tried to look down and make out what she was coming to, but it was too dark to see anything; then she looked at the sides of the well, and noticed that they were filled with cupboards and book-shelves; here and there she saw maps and pictures hung upon pegs. She took down a jar from one of the shelves as she passed; it was labelled 'ORANGE MARMALADE', but to her great disappointment it was empty: she did not like to drop the jar for fear of killing somebody, so managed to put it into one of the cupboards as she fell past it. 'Well!' thought Alice to herself, 'after such a fall as this, I shall think nothing of tumbling down stairs! How brave they'll all think me at home! Why, I wouldn't say anything about it, even if I fell off the top of the house!' (Which was very likely true.) Down, down, down. Would the fall NEVER come to an end! 'I wonder how many miles I've fallen by this time?' she said aloud. 'I must be getting somewhere near the centre of the earth. Let me see: that would be four thousand miles down, I think—' (for, you see, Alice had learnt several things of this sort in her lessons in the schoolroom, and though this was not a VERY good opportunity for showing off her knowledge, as there was no one to listen to her, still it was good practice to say it over) '—yes, that's about the right distance—but then I wonder what Latitude or Longitude I've got to?' (Alice had no idea what Latitude was, or Longitude either, but thought they were nice grand words to say.) ? ? ABOUT AUTHOR: ??Charles Lutwidge Dodgson (1832 – 1898), better known by his pen name, as “Lewis Carroll”, was an English writer, mathematician, logician, Anglican deacon and photographer. His most famous writings are Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and its sequel Through the Looking-Glass, as well as the poems "The Hunting of the Snark" and "Jabberwocky", all examples of the genre of literary nonsense.

F?szerepl?nk Kópé, egy erdei manó, aki kirándulók fogságábae sik, majd az erd?b?l egy f?városi lakótelepre kerül. A manó megsz?kik a rabságból, és meghúzódik egy limlommal zsúfolter kélyen. Nem esik kétségbe, hanem kényelmes kuckót alakít ki a kacatok k?z?tt. Kópé az épület el?tt magasodó akácfán k?zlekedik az erkélyek k?z?tt. ?gy talál egy barátot, Dórit, aki egyedül él az anyukájával, és soha nem járt erd?ben. A manó mesélni kezd az otthonáról, az odvas t?lgyrol, a barátairól. A mesékhez Dóri rajzokat készít. A rideg lakótelepen nem ismerik egymást az emberek, és éppen Kópé kalandozása, kíváncsisága hozza ?ket ?szsze. Dóri megismerkedik Olga nénivel, akit?l kertész kedni tanul,virágokat nevel az erkélyen, másoktól cicát kap. A k?nyvben az izgalmas kalandokat, mint például amikor Kópét majdnem elüti egy autó, vagy amikor lepottyan egyik erkélyrol a másikra, mulatságos részek gazdagítják. Az erdei él?világ valóságh? bemutatása keveredik a fantáziavilágbeli lények, tündérek és manók jellemzésével. Megtudhatjuk például, milyen is egy manó esküv?! Ajánlott korosztály: 5 és 10 év k?z?tt.

When does life begin?... A well-known book says "forty". A well-known radio program says "eighty". Some folks say it's mental, others say it's physical. But take the strange case of Mel Carlson who gave a lot of thought to the matter. Mel felt as if he were floating on clouds in the deepest, most intense dark he had ever experienced. He tried opening his eyes but nothing happened, only a sharp pain. Little bits of memory flashed back and he tried to figure out what could have happened, where he was. The last thing he could remember was the little lab hidden back in the mountains in an old mine tunnel. Remote, but only an hour's drive from the city. What had he been doing? Oh yes, arguing with Neil again. He even recalled the exact words."Damn it, Mel," his partner had said. "We've gone about as far as possible working with animal brains. We've got to get a human one." "We can't," Mel had disagreed. "There'd be enough of an uproar if the papers got hold of what we've been doing with animals. If we did get someone in a hospital to agree to let us use his brain on death, they would close us up tighter than a drum.""But our lab's too well hidden, they'd never know." "It wouldn't work anyway. The brain might be damaged for lack of oxygen and all of our work would go for nothing. Worse, it might indicate failure where a fresh, healthy brain would mean success.""We'll never know unless we try," said Neil almost violently, dark eyes glittering. "Our funds aren't going to last forever."

To the irreverent—and which of us will claim entire exemption from that comfortable classification—there is something very amusing in the attitude of the orthodox criticism toward Bernard Shaw. He so obviously disregards all the canons and unities and other things which every well-bred dramatist is bound to respect that his work is really unworthy of serious criticism (orthodox). Indeed he knows no more about the dramatic art than, according to his own story in "The Man of Destiny," Napoleon at Tavazzano knew of the Art of War. But both men were successes each in his way—the latter won victories and the former gained audiences, in the very teeth of the accepted theories of war and the theatre. Shaw does not know that it is unpardonable sin to have his characters make long speeches at one another, apparently thinking that this embargo applies only to long speeches which consist mainly of bombast and rhetoric. There never was an author who showed less predilection for a specific medium by which to accomplish his results. He recognized, early in his days, many things awry in the world and he assumed the task of mundane reformation with a confident spirit. It seems such a small job at twenty to set the times aright. He began as an Essayist, but who reads essays now-a-days—he then turned novelist with no better success, for no one would read such preposterous stuff as he chose to emit. He only succeeded in proving that absolutely rational men and women—although he has created few of the latter—can be most extremely disagreeable to our conventional way of thinking. As a last resort, he turned to the stage, not that he cared for the dramatic art, for no man seems to care less about "Art for Art's sake," being in this a perfect foil to his brilliant compatriot and contemporary, Wilde. He cast his theories in dramatic forms merely because no other course except silence or physical revolt was open to him. For a long time it seemed as if this resource too was doomed to fail him. But finally he has attained a hearing and now attempts at suppression merely serve to advertise their victim. It will repay those who seek analogies in literature to compare Shaw with Cervantes. After a life of heroic endeavor, disappointment, slavery, and poverty, the author of "Don Quixote" gave the world a serious work which caused to be laughed off the world's stage forever the final vestiges of decadent chivalry. The institution had long been outgrown, but its vernacular continued to be the speech and to express the thought "of the world and among the vulgar," as the quaint, old novelist puts it, just as to-day the novel intended for the consumption of the unenlightened must deal with peers and millionaires and be dressed in stilted language. Marvellously he succeeded, but in a way he least intended. We have not yet, after so many years, determined whether it is a work to laugh or cry over. "It is our joyfullest modern book," says Carlyle, while Landor thinks that "readers who see nothing more than a burlesque in 'Don Quixote' have but shallow appreciation of the work." Shaw in like manner comes upon the scene when many of our social usages are outworn. He sees the fact, announces it, and we burst into guffaws. The continuous laughter which greets Shaw's plays arises from a real contrast in the point of view of the dramatist and his audiences. When Pinero or Jones describes a whimsical situation we never doubt for a moment that the author's point of view is our own and that the abnormal predicament of his characters appeals to him in the same light as to his audience. With Shaw this sense of community of feeling is wholly lacking. He describes things as he sees them, and the house is in a roar. Who is right If we were really using our own senses and not gazing through the glasses of convention and romance and make-believe, should we see things as Shaw does Must it not cause Shaw to doubt his own or the public's sanity to hear audiences laughing boisterously over tragic situations And yet, if they did not come to laugh, they would not come at all. Mockery is the price he must pay for a hearing. Or has he calculated to a nicety the power of reaction Does he seek to drive us to aspiration by the portrayal of sordidness, to disinterestedness by the picture of selfishness, to illusion by disillusionment It is impossible to believe that he is unconscious of the humor of his dramatic situations, yet he stoically gives no sign. He even dares the charge, terrible in proportion to its truth, which the most serious of us shrinks from—the lack of a sense of humor. Men would rather have their integrity impugned. In "Arms and the Man" the subject which occupies the dramatist's attention is that survival of barbarity—militarism—which raises its horrid head from time to time to cast a doubt on the reality of our civilization. No more hoary superstition survives than that the donning of a uniform changes the nature of the wearer. This

A kis szellem minden éjjel pontban éjfélkor f?lébred. Vígan járja Bagolyk? várának ?sszes termét, és meglátogatja ?reg barátját, Uhu bácsit. De k?zben arról ábrándozik, milyen jó lenne nappal látni a világot! Csupán egyetlenegyszer… Addig nem nyugszik, míg egy ver?fényes napon a kívánsága váratlanul nem teljesül. Ekkor izgalmas kalandok sora veszi kezdetét, és nemcsak a kis szellem számára… A Kolibri Klasszikusok sorozatban a Torzonborz-t?rténetek után egy újabb Otfried Preussler meseh?s, a kis szellem válhat generációk kedvencévé.

t lány, t nézpont, t knyv. Cherry trténete, a Cseresznyés ábránd az els. Cherry Costello élete hamarosan rkre megváltozik. Somersetbe kltzik az apukájával, ahol egy új anyuka és egy csomó vadiúj testvér vár rá. Rgtn az els napon megismeri Shay Fletchert, aki annyira szívdgleszt, hogy az már kzveszélyes. Csakhogy Shay foglalt: Cherry új mostohatestvérével, Honey-val jár. Cherry pontosan tudja, milyen kockázatos Shayjel barátkoznia – hiszen ezzel mindent tnkretehet. Csakhogy ez még nem jelenti azt, hogy távol is tudja tartani magát tle… Csajok és csokik. Egy knyvsorozat, melyben minden testvérnek megvan a maga trténete… Neked melyik lány lesz a kedvenced Talán a Cseresznyés ábránd fhse, Cherry Az a lány, akinek tejeskávé szín a bre, stétbarna szeme pedig mandulavágású. Akinek élénk a képzelete, szórakoztató a társaságában lenni, és aki mindig kiáll magáért. Cathy Cassidy nyolc-kilencéves korában írta meg els képesknyvét kisccsének, és azóta ontja magából a trténeteket. Magyarul elsként a Csajok és csokik-sorozata (a Cseresznyés ábránd az 1. ktet) jelenik meg, melynek a vagány Tanberry-nvérek a fhsei, de mellettük feltnik néhány szupermen srác is, valamint Cathy egyik legnagyobb szerelme, a csokoládé is fontos szerepet kap. Cathy Skóciában él a családjával. Az sszes munka kzül, amivel valaha megpróbálkozott, az írást szereti a legjobban – hiszen amikor ír, mást sem kell csinálnia, mint ébren álmodozni egész álló nap.

36 тижн?в у списку бестселер?в The New York Times! Евел?н пережива? глибоку особисту кризу. Вона знайомиться з? старенькою Н?нн?, яка, попри важку долю, не втрача? жаги до життя. Н?нн? розпов?да? Евел?н ?стор?? ?хнього м?стечка: про д?вчину, яка п?сля загибел? брата знаходить сили жити дал?; про розбите серце красун? Рут; про мандр?вного роб?тника, який закохався в Рут; про безроб?тних, яких у кафе ?Зупинка? годували безкоштовно... Ц? ?стор?? мають таку силу, що зм?нюють на краще життя тих, хто ?х чита?. 36 tizhn?v u spisku bestseler?v The New York Times! Evel?n perezhiva? gliboku osobistu krizu. Vona znajomit'sja z? staren'koju N?nn?, jaka, popri vazhku dolju, ne vtracha? zhagi do zhittja. N?nn? rozpov?da? Evel?n ?stor?? ?hn'ogo m?stechka: pro d?vchinu, jaka p?slja zagibel? brata znahodit' sili zhiti dal?; pro rozbite serce krasun? Rut; pro mandr?vnogo rob?tnika, jakij zakohavsja v Rut; pro bezrob?tnih, jakih u kafe ?Zupinka? goduvali bezkoshtovno... C? ?stor?? majut' taku silu, shho zm?njujut' na krashhe zhittja tih, hto ?h chita?.

Lauren Hope a fiatal, gyönyör?, és céltudatos n? minden kétséget kizáróan hisz benne. Két nagy álma van: sikeres író szeretne lenni, és meg akarja ismerni az igaz szerelmet, melyr?l a nagy könyvekben írnak. Egy nap messzire utazik abban a reményben, hogy fájdalmait maga mögött hagyhatja. Akkor még nem is sejti, hogy ez az utazás alapjaiban változtatja meg az életét. Távol otthonától a véletlennek köszönhet?en megismerkedik egy titokzatos, jókép? zenésszel. Dylan Duprés, a biztonságot sugárzó férfi, Lauren álmainak lehetséges megvalósítója, egyben minden probléma forrása. Vajon milyen hatással lesz Lauren életére ennek a rejtélyes férfinek a felbukkanása? Elképzelhet?, hogy mindkét álma valóra válik? És ha választania kell? Zsarnai Beáta - a N?k Lapjához tartozó Cafeblog kiemelt bloggerének - els? regénye a sors hatalmáról.

Jonas Lie is sufficiently famous to need but a very few words of introduction. Ever since 1870, when he made his reputation by his first novel, "Den Fremsynte," he has been a prime favourite with the Scandinavian public, and of late years his principal romances have gone the round of Europe. He has written novels of all kinds, but he excels when he describes the wild seas of Northern Norway, and the stern and hardy race of sail-ors and fishers who seek their fortunes, and so often find their graves, on those dangerous waters. Such tales, for instance, as "Tremasteren Fremtid," "Lodsen og hans Hustru," "Gaa Paa!" and "Den Fremsynte" are unique of their kind, and give far truer pictures of Norwegian life and character in the rough than anything that can be found elsewhere in the literature. Indeed, Lie's skippers and mates are as superior to Kjelland's, for instance, as the peasants of Jens Tvedt (a writer, by the way, still unknown beyond his native land) are superior to the much-vaunted peasants of Bj?rnstjerne Bj?rnson. But it is when Lie tells us some of the wild legends of his native province, Nordland, some of the grim tales on which he himself was brought up, so to speak, that he is perhaps most vivid and enthralling. The folk-lore of those lonely sub-arctic tracts is in keeping with the savagery of nature. We rarely, if ever, hear of friendly elves or companionable gnomes there. The supernatural beings that haunt those shores and seas are, for the most part, malignant and malefic. They seem to hate man. They love to mock his toils, and sport with his despair. In his very first romance, "Den Fremsynte," Lie relates two of these weird tales (Nos. 1 and 3 of the present selection). Another tale, in which many of the superstitious beliefs and wild imaginings of the Nordland fishermen are skilfully grouped together to form the background of a charming love-story, entitled "Finn Blood," I have borrowed from the volume of "Fort?llinger og Skildringer," published in 1872. The re-maining eight stories are selected from the book "Trold," which was the event of the Christmas publishing season at Christiania in 1891. Last Christmas a second series of "Trold" came out, but it is distinctly inferior to the former one. TALES: THE FISHERMAN AND THE DRAUGJACK OF SJOHOLM AND THE GAN-FINNTUG OF WAR."THE EARTH DRAWS"THE CORMORANTS OF ANDVAERISAAC AND THE PARSON OF BRONOTHE WIND-GNOMETHE HULDREFISHFINN BLOODTHE HOMESTEAD WESTWARD IN THE BLUE MOUNTAINS"IT'S ME."