Ríviai Geralt a thaneddi puccs után Brokilonban lábadozik. Egy világ választja el Cirit?l, a Meglepetés Gyermekt?l, akit pedig állítólag neki rendelt a sors – a lányt ugyanis Nilfgaardban látták utoljára. A vaják tehát hosszú és veszélyes útra indul a driádok földjér?l a háború sújtotta vidéken keresztül, de nem marad sokáig egyedül: ahogy közeledik úticéljához, egyre többen csatlakoznak hozzá… E furcsa kompánia végül egy olyan konfliktusba csöppen, melyet csak véres küzdelmek árán élhetnek túl. „Keresztül kell jutnod a t?zön, amely megperzsel ugyan, de meg is tisztít.” (Ríviai Geralt) A vaják-saga következ? kötete A megvetés idejének közvetlen folytatása. A lengyel szerz? ismét elröpíti az olvasót a szláv mítoszok és a valóság ihlette fantáziavilágába, ahol a tét nem csupán egy szörnyvadász vagy egy kislány élete, de az Északi Királyságok sorsa is.

"When Jesus arrives, Hades bids his servants to bolt and lock the doors, but to no avail; Jesus shatters the gates and enters. He seizes Satan and binds him in iron chains, then consigning him into Hades’s keeping until the second coming. Jesus next turns his attention to the patriarchs. He raises up Adam, along with all the prophets and the saints. Together, they all depart up out of Hades, and ascend into Paradise.) The “Harrowing of Hell” portion of that Gospel was widely circulated in other compilations of religious literature, most notably in the Golden Legend of the lives of the saints, compiled by Jacob of Voragine in the 13th century." The literary versions of the “Harrowing of Hell” in turn gave rise to many works of art, including the “mystery play” tradition of medieval religious drama. Most commonly, however, people would learn about Jesus’s descent into the underworld from the artwork which decorated the churches and cathedrals of Europe. A Dialogue in Hades, this illlustrated version of the book, gives a many perspective to the readers, With WELL ILLUSTRATIONS BY MURAT UKRAY {E-KITAP PROJESI}..

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...

The stories were written when Irish nationalism was at its peak, and a search for a national identity and purpose was raging; at a crossroads of history and culture, Ireland was jolted by various converging ideas and influences. They centre on Joyce's idea of an epiphany: a moment where a character experiences self-understanding or illumination. Many of the characters in Dubliners later appear in minor roles in Joyce's novel Ulysses. The initial stories in the collection are narrated by child protagonists, and as the stories continue, they deal with the lives and concerns of progressively older people. This is in line with Joyce's tripartite division of the collection into childhood, adolescence and maturity. THERE was no hope for him this time: it was the third stroke. Night after night I had passed the house (it was vacation time) and studied the lighted square of window: and night after night I had found it lighted in the same way, faintly and evenly. If he was dead, I thought, I would see the reflection of candles on the darkened blind for I knew that two candles must be set at the head of a corpse. He had often said to me: "I am not long for this world," and I had thought his words idle. Now I knew they were true. Every night as I gazed up at the window I said softly to myself the word paralysis. It had always sounded strangely in my ears, like the word gnomon in the Euclid and the word simony in the Catechism. But now it sounded to me like the name of some maleficent and sinful being. It filled me with fear, and yet I longed to be nearer to it and to look upon its deadly work.Old Cotter was sitting at the fire, smoking, when I came downstairs to supper. While my aunt was ladling out my stirabout he said, as if returning to some former remark of his: "No, I wouldn't say he was exactly... but there was something queer... there was something uncanny about him. I'll tell you my opinion...." He began to puff at his pipe, no doubt arranging his opinion in his mind. Tiresome old fool! When we knew him first he used to be rather interesting, talking of faints and worms; but I soon grew tired of him and his endless stories about the distillery. "I have my own theory about it," he said. "I think it was one of those... peculiar cases.... But it's hard to say...." He began to puff again at his pipe without giving us his theory. My uncle saw me staring and said to me:"Well, so your old friend is gone, you'll be sorry to hear." "Who?" said I."Father Flynn.""Is he dead?" ? ABOUT AUTHOR: ? James Augustine Aloysius Joyce (1882 – 1941) was an Irish novelist and poet, considered to be one of the most influential writers in the modernist avant-garde of the early 20th century. Joyce is best known for Ulysses (1922), a landmark work in which the episodes of Homer's Odyssey are paralleled in an array of contrasting literary styles, perhaps most prominent among these the stream of consciousness technique he perfected. Other major works are the short-story collection Dubliners (1914), and the novels A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (1916) and Finnegans Wake (1939). His complete oeuvre also includes three books of poetry, a play, occasional journalism, and his published letters.

Aesop embodies an epigram not uncommon in human history; his fame is all the more deserved because he never deserved it. The firm foundations of common sense, the shrewd shots at uncommon sense, that characterise all the Fables, belong not him but to humanity. In the earliest human history whatever is authentic is universal: and whatever is universal is anonymous. In such cases there is always some central man who had first the trouble of collecting them, and afterwards the fame of creating them. He had the fame; and, on the whole, he earned the fame. There must have been something great and human, something of the human future and the human past, in such a man: even if he only used it to rob the past or deceive the future. The story of Arthur may have been really connected with the most fighting Christianity of falling Rome or with the most heathen traditions hidden in the hills of Wales. But the word "Mappe" or "Malory" will always mean King Arthur; even though we find older and better origins than the Mabinogian; or write later and worse versions than the "Idylls of the King." The nursery fairy tales may have come out of Asia with the Indo-European race, now fortunately extinct; they may have been invented by some fine French lady or gentleman like Perrault: they may possibly even be what they profess to be. But we shall always call the best selection of such tales "Grimm's Tales": simply because it is the best collection. The historical Aesop, in so far as he was historical, would seem to have been a Phrygian slave, or at least one not to be specially and symbolically adorned with the Phrygian cap of liberty. He lived, if he did live, about the sixth century before Christ, in the time of that Croesus whose story we love and suspect like everything else in Herodotus. There are also stories of deformity of feature and a ready ribaldry of tongue: stories which (as the celebrated Cardinal said) explain, though they do not excuse, his having been hurled over a high precipice at Delphi. It is for those who read the Fables to judge whether he was really thrown over the cliff for being ugly and offensive, or rather for being highly moral and correct. But there is no kind of doubt that the general legend of him may justly rank him with a race too easily forgotten in our modern comparisons: the race of the great philosophic slaves. Aesop may have been a fiction like Uncle Remus: he was also, like Uncle Remus, a fact. It is a fact that slaves in the old world could be worshipped like Aesop, or loved like Uncle Remus. It is odd to note that both the great slaves told their best stories about beasts and birds. But whatever be fairly due to Aesop, the human tradition called Fables is not due to him. This had gone on long before any sarcastic freedman from Phrygia had or had not been flung off a precipice; this has remained long after. It is to our advantage, indeed, to realise the distinction; because it makes Aesop more obviously effective than any other fabulist. Grimm's Tales, glorious as they are, were collected by two German students. And if we find it hard to be certain of a German student, at least we know more about him than We know about a Phrygian slave. The truth is, of course, that Aesop's Fables are not Aesop's fables, any more than Grimm's Fairy Tales were ever Grimm's fairy tales. But the fable and the fairy tale are things utterly distinct. There are many elements of difference; but the plainest is plain enough. There can be no good fable with human beings in it. There can be no good fairy tale without them.

Bob Houston, the youngest agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, stepped out of the Department of Justice Building and turned toward home, his heart beating faster than it had in months. It hardly seemed real but he was now a full-fledged agent in the greatest man hunting division in the Federal Government. Bob paused a moment at the curb. Another man who had emerged from the justice building joined him. It was his uncle, Merritt Hughes, one of the most famous detectives in the department. He put his arm around Bob’s shoulders and shook him in a rough but friendly embrace.“Well, Bob, how does it feel to be a real federal agent?” he asked. It was a moment before Bob replied, and when he finally spoke the words came slowly.“I hardly know,” he confessed, “as yet it doesn’t seem real, but there is one thing I do know—I’m going to work night and day to make a success of this new job.” “Don’t worry about making a success,” advised his uncle. “You’ve got the stuff to make good or you wouldn’t have been taken into the department.”“When do you think I’ll get my first assignment on a new case?” asked Bob. “That’s hard to say,” replied the famous detective, “but if I were you I’d go home now and get a good night’s sleep. In this kind of a game you’d better sleep when you can.” “Then I’m headed for home now,” said Bob. “Good night, and thanks for all you’ve done for me.”With that the young federal agent strode off down the avenue, his lungs drinking in great gulps of the cool air of the fall night. Merritt Hughes stood on the curb of the justice building watching his nephew until Bob turned the corner a block away. Anyone noticing the federal agent would have seen a slight smile of pleasure on his lips and he might have guessed that Merritt Hughes was greatly pleased by the events which had happened in the preceding hours. As a matter of fact, Bob Houston, a plain clerk in the archives division of the War Department, temporarily a provisional federal agent, had been the key figure in preventing the theft of some of Uncle Sam’s most valuable radio secrets.

A lányok sorban álltak, szétterpesztett lábbal.Integettek a kocsiknak.Az egyik kezükkel, mert a másikkal a szoknyájukat tartották,knykük a híd korlátján...Négy fiatal pina.Ki ne lenne rá kíváncsi”Mit csinálsz, amíg szüleid a társadalom hasznos tagjaikéntdolgoznak, keresik és kltik a pénztTanulsz és játszol, gyjtd a tapasztalatot,hogy majd te is a társadalom hasznos tagja lehess...s persze kipróbálod azt is,amit nem szabad.Amíg lehet.A Kzd kamasz hsei meg akarnak élni, meg akarnak tapasztalni mindent, amit tabuként kezel a civilizáció. Az a gyllt civilizáció, amelytl magányosnak érzik magukat akkor is, amikor együtt vannak.Megélni a gynyr és a kín, a hatalom és az alávetettség mámorát!Belerhgni a halál képébe! Persze lehetleg a másokéba.Mert szabadok vagyunk.Csont nélkül szabadok.Nem így születtünk, nem így neveltek minket:azért vagyunk szabadok, mert azok akarunk lenni.Igaz vagy sem”

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.

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."

Cirilla, a cintrai trón?r?k?s a Fecske-toronyban elt?nik saját világáról, és olyan útra indul, ahová sem védelmez?je, a fehér hajú vaják, sem mentora, a fekete hajú varázslón? nem k?vetheti. Olyan útra, amelynek a végén a végzet várja – az a végzet, amelyr?l már oly sok látomás kísértette. Minden a helyére kerül, a kígyó a saját farkába harap, valami véget ér, és valami elkezd?dik… A Vaják-saga befejez? k?tetében Sapkowski még magához képest is elképeszt? bravúrral ábrázol nagyszabású háborút és ugyanakkor az egyes ember drámai sorsát. Képzeletének és érzékletes leírásainak hatására megelevenednek el?ttünk az országok, városok és falvak, a t?le megszokott néz?pontváltások pedig gondoskodnak róla, hogy a sorssz?tte t?rténet végét a lehet? legalaposabb, legmélyebb módon kapjuk meg. A sagát átsz?v? fekete humor pedig tükr?t tart nemcsak a társadalom, de az egyes ember kicsinyessége és nagysága elé. ??

R?MA ELESTE CSAK A KEZDET VOLT. EGY ?J BIRODALOM BONTOGATJA SZ?RNYAIT. AD 439: A Római Birodalom az ?sszeomlás szélére sodródik. Hispánia és ?szak-Afrika római provinciáin egy vandál sereg zúdul át megd?bbent? gyorsasággal, leigázza Karthágót, és Rómának a F?ldk?zi-tenger feletti uralmát fenyegeti. ?m ennél is nagyobb veszély k?zeledik keletr?l, egy barbár hader? ?zsia zord sztyeppéir?l, páratlanul vérszomjas harcosok, akik mindenkit els?p?rnek, aki hódítás utáni vágyuk útjában áll – Attila, a hun serege.Római katonák és egy titokzatos brit szerzetes alkotta kicsiny csapat az egyetlen, amely a római császárok züll?ttsége és gyengesége f?lé emelkedik, és a római sereg évszázadokkal korábbi dics? napjaiba nyúl vissza, hogy a t?rténelemb?l merítsen er?t. Hogy végül olyan megd?bbent?en pimasz tervvel rukkoljon el?, ami magába a s?tétség szívébe repíti ?ket, a legrettegettebb harcos-király er?djébe, akit a világ valaha is ismert. Az elk?vetkez? leszámolásban, a legnagyobb ütk?zetben, amelyet Róma valaha is vívott, a gy?zelem azoké lesz, akik a háború leghatalmasabb jelképét, amelyet valaha is kovácsoltak, a magasba tudják emelni – Attila szent kardját.

This book, re-edited and illustrated by e-kitap projesi and published again in ebook format. In this book, telling that Cooterell’s adventures, and so was a treasure adventure, Naturally then Ben felt that this puzzle of Peter Cotterell’s treasure was right in his line, and the finding of the half-sheet of parchment whetted his appetite to discover more. He walked about the room, whittling shavings right and left, he sat down and kept on whittling, he stood up again, and since by now the willow-stick had been whittled down to almost nothing, he threw what was left in the fireplace. That done, he went to a bookcase and took down from the shelf on top the old notebook that Tuckerman had found in his uncle’s bedroom. He thumbed the pages until he came to the place where Tuckerman had inserted a slip of paper. Ben read the words at the top of the page out loud. “Find the mahogany-hued man with the long, skinny legs and look in his breast pocket. That’s a saying my father handed down. What can it mean?” Ben looked at the desk. “Well, we’ve done that, anyhow.” He shook his head in deep thought. “I don’t understand why that piece of parchment wasn’t discovered before. They might not have taken the desk to be the mahogany man; but surely Crusty Christopher or his father would have known of those three little drawers. However, they might have found that writing and left it there. That’s possible, of course. Probably it didn’t tell them any more than it’s told us so far.” ABOUT AUTHOR: Rupert Sargent Holland ?was an American author. His works include: Historic Boyhoods (1909), The Boy Scouts of Birchbark Island (1911), The Boy Scouts of Snowshoe Lodge (1915) and King Arthur and The Knights of the Round Table. "A privateer was leaving Genoa on a certain June morning in 1461, and crowds of people had gathered on the quays to see the ship sail. Dark-hued men from the distant shores of Africa, clad in brilliant red and yellow and blue blouses or tunics and hose, with dozens of glittering gilded chains about their necks, and rings in their ears, jostled sun-browned sailors and merchants from the east, and the fairer-skinned men and women of the north."

"A Doll's House" is a three-act play in prose by Henrik Ibsen. It premiered at the Royal Theatre in Copenhagen, Denmark, on 21 December 1879, having been published earlier that month. List of characters of the Book: ? ? Nora Helmer – wife of Torvald, mother of three, living out the ideal of the 19th century wife, but leaves her family at the end of the play. ? ? Torvald Helmer – Nora's husband, a newly promoted bank manager, suffocates but professes to be enamoured of his wife. ? ? Dr. Rank – Rich family friend, who is secretly in love with Nora. He is terminally ill, and it is implied that his "tuberculosis of the spine" originates from a venereal disease contracted by his father. ? ? Kristine Linde – Nora's old school friend, widowed, seeking employment (named Kristine in the original Norwegian text). ? ? Nils Krogstad – Employee at Torvald's bank, single father, pushed to desperation. A supposed scoundrel, he is revealed to be a long-lost lover of Kristine. ? ? The Children – Ivar, Bobby and Emmy? ? Anne Marie – Nora's former nanny, now cares for the children.? ? Helene – The Helmers' maid? ? The Porter – Delivers a Christmas Tree to the Helmer household at the beginning of the play. We must come to a final settlement, Torvald. During eight whole years. . . We have never exchanged one serious word about serious things.Nora, in Ibsen's A Doll's House (1879) ABOUT AUTHOR: Henrik Johan Ibsen (Norwegian; 20 March 1828 – 23 May 1906) was a major 19th-century Norwegian playwright, theatre director, and poet. He is often referred to as "the father of realism" and is one of the founders of Modernism in theatre.?

Mme. Vauquer (nee de Conflans) is an elderly person, who for the past forty years has kept a lodging-house in the Rue Nueve-Sainte-Genevieve, in the district that lies between the Latin Quarter and the Faubourg Saint-Marcel. Her house (known in the neighborhood as the Maison Vauquer) receives men and women, old and young, and no word has ever been breathed against her respectable establishment; but, at the same time, it must be said that as a matter of fact no young woman has been under her roof for thirty years, and that if a young man stays there for any length of time it is a sure sign that his allowance must be of the slenderest. In 1819, however, the time when this drama opens, there was an almost penniless young girl among Mme. Vauquer's boarders. That word drama has been somewhat discredited of late; it has been overworked and twisted to strange uses in these days of dolorous literature; but it must do service again here, not because this story is dramatic in the restricted sense of the word, but because some tears may perhaps be shed intra et extra muros before it is over. Will any one without the walls of Paris understand it? It is open to doubt. The only audience who could appreciate the results of close observation, the careful reproduction of minute detail and local color, are dwellers between the heights of Montrouge and Montmartre, in a vale of crumbling stucco watered by streams of black mud, a vale of sorrows which are real and joys too often hollow; but this audience is so accustomed to terrible sensations, that only some unimaginable and well-neigh impossible woe could produce any lasting impression there. Now and again there are tragedies so awful and so grand by reason of the complication of virtues and vices that bring them about, that egotism and selfishness are forced to pause and are moved to pity; but the impression that they receive is like a luscious fruit, soon consumed. Civilization, like the car of Juggernaut, is scarcely stayed perceptibly in its progress by a heart less easy to break than the others that lie in its course; this also is broken, and Civilization continues on her course triumphant. And you, too, will do the like; you who with this book in your white hand will sink back among the cushions of your armchair, and say to yourself, "Perhaps this may amuse me." You will read the story of Father Goriot's secret woes, and, dining thereafter with an unspoiled appetite, will lay the blame of your insensibility upon the writer, and accuse him of exaggeration, of writing romances. Ah! once for all, this drama is neither a fiction nor a romance! All is true,—so true, that every one can discern the elements of the tragedy in his own house, perhaps in his own heart. During the day a glimpse into the garden is easily obtained through a wicket to which a bell is attached. On the opposite wall, at the further end of the graveled walk, a green marble arch was painted once upon a time by a local artist, and in this semblance of a shrine a statue representing Cupid is installed; a Parisian Cupid, so blistered and disfigured that he looks like a candidate for one of the adjacent hospitals, and might suggest an allegory to lovers of symbolism. The half-obliterated inscription on the pedestal beneath determines the date of this work of art, for it bears witness to the widespread enthusiasm felt for Voltaire on his return to Paris in 1777: "Whoe'er thou art, thy master see; He is, or was, or ought to be."

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.

After too many years, T. L. Sherred returns with a story that gets our SPACE SPECIAL rating. It's the story of a man with a headache—who found a cure for it! And the cure gave him more power than any man could dream of. ________________________________________ So I had a headache. The grandfather of all headaches. You try working on the roof line sometime, with the presses grinding and the overhead cranes wailing and the mechanical arms clacking and grabbing at your inner skull while you snap a shiny sheet of steel like an armored pillowcase and shove it into the maw of a hungry greasy ogre. Noise. Hammering, pounding, shrieking, gobbling, yammering, incessant noise. And I had a headache. PART I This headache had all the signs of permanency. It stayed with me when I slid my timecard into an empty slot that clanged back at me, when I skittered across a jammed street of blowing horns and impatient buses with brakedrums worn to the rivets, when I got off at my corner and stood in the precarious safety of a painted island in a whirring storm of hurtling hornets. It got even worse when I ate dinner and tried to read my paper through the shrill juvenile squeals of the housing project where I live surrounded by muddy moppets and, apparently, faithless wives and quarrelsome spouses. The walls of my Quonset are no thicker than usual. When Helen—that's my wife—dropped the casserole we got for a wedding present from her aunt and just stood there by the kitchen sink crying her eyes out in frustration I knew she finally had more of a mess to clean up than just the shattered remains of a brittle bowl. I didn't say a word. I couldn't. I shoved the chair across the room and watched it tilt the lamp her mother bought us. Before the lamp hit the floor my hat was on my head and I was out the door. Behind me I heard at least one pane of the storm door die in a fatal crash. I didn't look around to see if it were the one I'd put in last Sunday.

Following the Equator (sometimes titled More Tramps Abroad) is a non-fiction travelogue published by American author Mark Twain in 1897. Twain was practically bankrupt in 1894 due to a failed investment into a "revolutionary" typesetting machine. In an attempt to extricate himself from debt of $100,000 (equivalent of about $2.5 million in 2010) he undertook a tour of the British Empire in 1895, a route chosen to provide numerous opportunities for lectures in the English. Themes:In Following the Equator, an account of that travel published in 1897, the author criticizes racism, imperialism and missionary zeal in observations woven into the narrative with classical Twain wit.In keeping with that wit, and Twain's love of a tall tale, Twain included a number of fictional stories in the body of what is otherwise a non-fiction work. In particular, the story of how Cecil Rhodes made his fortune by finding a newspaper in the belly of a shark, and the story of how a man named Ed Jackson made good in life out of a fake letter of introduction to Cornelius Vanderbilt, were anthologized in Charles Neider (ed) The Complete Short Stories of Mark Twain, (Doubleday, 1957) where they are presented as fiction. Chapter I A man may have no bad habits and have worse. —Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar. The starting point of this lecturing-trip around the world was Paris, where we had been living a year or two. We sailed for America, and there made certain preparations. This took but little time. Two members of my family elected to go with me. Also a carbuncle. The dictionary says a carbuncle is a kind of jewel. Humor is out of place in a dictionary. We started westward from New York in midsummer, with Major Pond to manage the platform-business as far as the Pacific. It was warm work, all the way, and the last fortnight of it was suffocatingly smoky, for in Oregon and British Columbia the forest fires were raging. We had an added week of smoke at the seaboard, where we were obliged to wait awhile for our ship. She had been getting herself ashore in the smoke, and she had to be docked and repaired. We sailed at last; and so ended a snail-paced march across the continent, which had lasted forty days. We moved westward about mid-afternoon over a rippled and sparkling summer sea; an enticing sea, a clean and cool sea, and apparently a welcome sea to all on board; it certainly was to me, after the distressful dustings and smokings and swelterings of the past weeks. The voyage would furnish a three-weeks holiday, with hardly a break in it. We had the whole Pacific Ocean in front of us, with nothing to do but do nothing and be comfortable. The city of Victoria was twinkling dim in the deep heart of her smoke-cloud, and getting ready to vanish and now we closed the field-glasses and sat down on our steamer chairs contented and at peace. But they went to wreck and ruin under us and brought us to shame before all the passengers. They had been furnished by the largest furniture-dealing house in Victoria, and were worth a couple of farthings a dozen, though they had cost us the price of honest chairs. In the Pacific and Indian Oceans one must still bring his own deck-chair on board or go without, just as in the old forgotten Atlantic times—those Dark Ages of sea travel.

This is illustrated and translated version od the "Jaufry the Knight and the Fair Brunissende" & “A Tale of the Times of King Arthur" Now of a tale of chivalry, of proper fashion, great allurement, full of-wise and courteous instances, and wherein abound acts of great prowess, strange adventures, assaults, encounters, and dread battles, you may list the telling. An it amuse you, I will relate thereof all that I do know, or that it please you to give ear unto. Let me know only that which ye desire, and if ye be inclined to listen in good sooth. When the minstrel doth indeed recite, neither should hearers buy nor sell, nor in low voice hold council; for thus the recital is lost to him who speaketh, and they methinks who listen cannot find therein great pleasure. I come, then, to recount to you tidings of the court of good King Arthur; he who was so worthy, so valiant, and so wise, that his name shall never die, but whereof shall eternally be spoken the mighty things he did; and the good knights, all for their prowess known, whom he did gather at his famed Round Table. In that court, the fairest and most loyal that ever shone beneath the stars, all men did find that counsel and that aid of which they stood in need. There triumphed right, and there were wrongs redressed. There dames and damsels, widows and orphans attacked unjustly, or disinherited by force, ne'er failed to meet with champions. The oppressed of all conditions there did find a refuge, and none e'er sought protection there in vain. Give, then, sweet welcome to a poem the fruit of such good place, and deign to listen unto it in peace. The troubadour who rhymed it never knew King Arthur; but he heard the entire story told at the court of the king of Aragon, the best of monarchs in this world. * Don Pedro III., killed in 1213 at the battle of Muret. A worthy father and a famous son, lord of goodly fortunes, humble in heart, and frank in nature as in mind, the king of Aragon loveth God and feareth Him; he maintaineth faith and loyalty, peace and justice: thus God protecteth him, giveth him the victory when he raiseth his banner against the infidel, and placeth him above all those who are alike worthy and bold. Where shall we seek youthful brows wearing a crown which emitteth rays of greater splendour He giveth good gifts to minstrels and to knights, and his court is the resort of all those who are esteemed brave and courteous. It was before him the troubadour heard related, by a stranger-knight of kin to Arthur and Sir Gawain, the song he here hath rhymed; and whereof the first adventure occurred while the king of the Round Table held his court at Carlisle on the day of Pentecost. The Adventure of the Forest Twas on the day of Pentecost, a feast which to Carlisle had drawn a host of knights, that Arthur, King of Briton's isle, his crown placed on his brows, and to the old monastic church proceeded to hear mass. And with him went a brilliant train, the Knights of the Round Table. There were Sir Gawain, Lancelot du Lac, Tristrem, and Ivan bold, Eric frank of heart, and Quex the seneschal, Percival and Calogrant, Cliges the worthy, Coedis the handsome knight, and Caravis short i' the arm; the whole of his bright court, indeed, was there, and many more whose names I have forgot. When mass was done, they to the palace home returned 'mid laughter and loud noise, the thoughts of each on pleasure only bent. Each on arrival gave his humour play. Some spoke of love, and some of chivalry; and some of ventures they were going to seek. Quex at this moment came into the hall, holding a branch of apple in his hand. All made room for him; for there were few who did not fear his tongue and the hard words which it was wont to utter. This baron bold held nothing in respect. E'en of the best he ever said the worst. But this apart, he was a brave stout knight, in council sage, a valiant man of war, and lord of lineage high..

Négy gimis egy s?tét, dohos pincében ébred… Nyár, haverok, emberrablás. Doma, Zoli, Zsófi és Max egy s?tét, dohos pincében ébred. Hol lehetnek? ?s vajon hogy kerültek oda? A négy gimis csak arra emlékszik, hogy hazaindultak az év utolsó bulijáról, amit az egyik hipergazdag osztálytársuk rendezett. Szorult helyzetükben mind egymást okolják a t?rténtekért, hiszen valamennyiük életében van is valami gyanús. Doma édesanyja korábban rend?r volt, most magánnyomozóként dolgozik. Zoli a város legmen?bb brókerének a fia. A belevaló Zsófi, aki a tanév k?zepén érkezett, maga a két lábon járó rejtély. ?s ott van Max, aki a legidegesít?bb, legnagykép?bb srác az osztályban. Ráj?nnek, melyikük miatt kerültek bajba? ?s vajon meg tudnak sz?kni fogvatartóiktól? Minden leleményükre szükségük lesz, hogy az országhatárt és a saját korlátaikat is képesek legyenek átlépni. A Váltságdíj nélkül izgalmas, lebilincsel? krimi, melyben a tinisorsokból sz?v?d? kül?nleges hálótól az utolsó oldal után sincs kedvünk szabadulni. Varga Bálint (1970) újságíró, író. 2005-ben jelent meg els? k?nyve, a Magándetektívek. T?bb mint negyven krimit (k?ztük Lawrence Block és Jim Thompson munkáit) valamint ifjúsági regényeket (P. B. Kerr A lámpás gyermekei-sorozat) fordított. Számos k?nyv (k?ztük John le Carré regényeinek) szerkeszt?je. Tíz éven át maga is k?nyvkiadó volt. 2013-ig pedig egy magánnyomozó-irodának dolgozott analitikusként és legális hírszerz?ként.

This book contains 66 original tales collected by the brothers Grimm. The exact print source is unknown. The etext appears to be based on the translation by Edgar Taylor and Marian Edwardes called Grimm's Household Tales, and it is identical to her edition. -The Frog King, or Iron Henry-The Good Bargain-The Twelve Brothers-Rapunzel-Hansel and Grethel-The White Snake-Cinderella ..and More The Brothers Grimm Fairy Tales: The Golden BirdHans In LuckJorinda And JorindelThe Travelling MusiciansOld SultanThe Straw, The Coal, And The BeanBriar RoseThe Dog And The SparrowThe Twelve Dancing PrincessesThe Fisherman And His WifeThe Willow-Wren And The BearThe Frog-PrinceCat And Mouse In PartnershipThe Goose-GirlThe Adventures Of Chanticleer And PartletRapunzelFundevogelThe Valiant Little TailorHansel And GretelThe Mouse, The Bird, And The SausageMother HolleLittle Red-Cap [Little Red Riding Hood]The Robber BridegroomTom ThumbRumpelstiltskinClever GretelThe Old Man And His GrandsonThe Little PeasantFrederick And CatherineSweetheart RolandSnowdropThe PinkClever ElsieThe Miser In The BushAshputtelThe White SnakeThe Wolf And The Seven Little KidsThe Queen BeeThe Elves And The ShoemakerThe Juniper-TreeThe TurnipClever HansThe Three LanguagesThe Fox And The CatThe Four Clever BrothersLily And The LionThe Fox And The HorseThe Blue LightThe RavenThe Golden GooseThe Water Of LifeThe Twelve HuntsmenThe King Of The Golden MountainDoctor KnowallThe Seven RavensThe Wedding Of Mrs FoxThe SaladThe Story Of The Youth Who Went Forth To Learn What Fear WasKing Grisly-BeardIron HansCat-SkinSnow-White And Rose-Red.. About Author: Wilhelm Grimm or The Brothers Grimm, Jacob (1785-1863) and Wilhelm (1786-1859), were born in Hanau, near Frankfurt, in the German state of Hesse. Throughout their lives they remained close friends, and both studied law at Marburg University. Jacob was a pioneer in the study of German philology, and although Wilhelm's work was hampered by poor health the brothers collaborated in the creation of a German dictionary, not completed until a century after their deaths. But they were best (and universally) known for the collection of over two hundred folk tales they made from oral sources and published in two volumes of 'Nursery and Household Tales' in 1812 and 1814. Although their intention was to preserve such material as part of German cultural and literary history, and their collection was first published with scholarly notes and no illustration, the tales soon came into the possession of young readers. This was in part due to Edgar Taylor, who made the first English translation in 1823, selecting about fifty stories 'with the amusement of some young friends principally in view.' They have been an essential ingredient of children's reading ever since.

MYTH: ITS BIRTH AND GROWTH.“Unchecked by external truth, the mind of man has a fatal facility for ensnaring, entrapping, and entangling itself. But, happily, happily for the human race, some fragment of physical speculation has been built into every false system. Here is the weak point. Its inevitable destruction leaves a breach in the whole fabric, and through that breach the armies of truth march in.”Sir H. S. Maine. MYTH: ITS BIRTH AND GROWTH.CHAPTER IITS PRIMITIVE MEANING.It is barely thirty years ago since the world was startled by the publication of Buckle’s History of Civilisation, with its theory that human actions are the effect of causes as fixed and regular as those which operate in the universe; climate, soil, food, and scenery being the chief conditions determining progress. That book was a tour de force, not a lasting contribution to the question of man’s mental development. The publication of Darwin’s epoch-making Origin of Species[1] showed wherein it fell short; how the importance of the above-named causes was exaggerated and the existence of equally potent causes overlooked. Buckle probably had not read Herbert Spencer’s Social Statics, and he knew nothing of the profound revolution in silent preparation in the quiet of Darwin’s home; otherwise, his book must have been rewritten. This would have averted the oblivion from which not even its charm of style can rescue it. Its brilliant but defective theories are obscured in the fuller light of that doctrine of descent with modifications by which we learn that external circumstances do not alone account for the widely divergent types of men, so that a superior race, in supplanting an inferior one, will change the face and destiny of a country, “making the solitary place to be glad, and the desert to rejoice and blossom as the rose.” Darwin has given us the clue to those subtle and still obscure causes which bring about, stage by stage, the unseen adaptations to requirements varying a type and securing its survival, and which have resulted in the evolution of the manifold species of living things. The notion of a constant relation between man and his surroundings is therefore untenable. The object of this book is to present in compendious form the evidence which myths and dreams supply as to primitive man’s interpretation of his own nature and of the external world, and more especially to indicate how such evidence carries within itself the history of the origin and growth of beliefs in the supernatural. The examples are selected chiefly from barbaric races, as furnishing the nearest correspondences to the working of the mind in what may be called its “eocene” stage, but examples are also cited from civilised races, as witnessing to that continuity of ideas which is obscured by familiarity or ignored by prejudice.Had more illustrations been drawn from sources alike prolific, the evidence would have been swollen to undue dimensions without increasing its significance; as it is, repetition has been found needful here and there, under the difficulty of entirely detaching the arguments advanced in the two parts of this work.