When I Left Home

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When We Left Earth 6of6 Home In Space.avi.001

Title: I was young When I Left home artist: antony with bryce dessner album: dark was the night - cd1 genre: rock bit rate: 192 kbps.
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Justonestar :: view topic - ant on charity record "dark was the night".
I Was Young When I Left Home - Antony and Bryce 4m 48s .mp3

Title: I was young When I Left home artist: antony with bryce dessner album: dark was the night - cd1 genre: rock bit rate: 192 kbps.
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Year: 2009 artist: antony with bryce dessner comment: 000000d0 000000d7 00001074 000010ab 0003468c 0003468c 000047fe 000048df 00034675 00034675 title: I was young When I Left Home (bob dylan cover) album: dark was the night - cd1 genre: rock tracknum: 10/15 tagversion: id3v2.3.0 bitrate: cbr/192.
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Year: 2009 artist: antony with bryce dressner album: dark was the night title: I was young When I Left home genre: indie release type: normal release tagversion: id3v2.3.0 tracknum: 10 rip date: 2009-02-14 source: cd (lp) bitrate: cbr/121.
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Guy, Buddy - When I Left Home.zip.rar

Year: 2012 artist: q: the podcast from cbc radio comment: the italian comedian who's making his fellow citizens laugh in the wake of the berlusconi years. blues musician buddy guy talks about his memoir, When I Left Home. fashion writer lizzie garrett mettler on the enduring appeal of tomboy style. title: the italian comedian, buddy guy, lizzie garrett mettler 05/31/2012 album: q: the podcast from cbc radio genre: podcast tracknum: 1 tagversion: id3v2.3.0.
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Antony + Bryce Dessner - I Was Young When I Left Home - Antony + Bryce Dessner mp3

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09 - I Was Young When I Left Home - Antony + Bryce Dessner.mp3

I Was Young When I Left Home - Antony and Bryce 4m 48s .mp3

Year: 2012 artist: life matters comment: the letter of the week is from robert in response to the modern dilemma of boomerang children. dear natasha, congratulations on the show, I love it! like you I Left Home early, I went to boarding school at 12 (my father-in-law used to say "if you send them to boarding school that's When they leave home") and had 3 primary schools in my first year at primary school= i'm a real nomad.� this had made me very independent/mobile and has allowed me to work/teach in the out.
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Author: virginia woolf book title: to the lighthouse introduction one does not have to read very much of to the lighthouse before one realizes that woolf has chosen here a very particular style, a way of telling the story which exerts a strange and compelling effect upon the reader. in this lecture I wish to focus upon some aspects of this style in order to consider some of the ways in which a few very important aspects of what this novel has to reveal are directly linked to the author's decisions about point of view and language. one of my major purposes in this lecture is to offer some suggestions about why we might consider woolf a major modernist writer and link her to other modernist artists we have been considering in liberal studies, even to those who, at first glance perhaps, don't seem to share quite the same style: kafka, eliot, and certain modern painters. i shall be trying to establish as my major point the idea that what does link woolf to these other modernists is the way in which her style compels us to recognize a fundamental problem of modern life: the deep and apparently unbridgeable dichotomy between the fragmented inner world of the self and any sense of coherent order to the world beyond the self, that is, the world of human relationships, of nature, of society as a totality. the power of style: an example however, before moving to such large concerns, I would like to consider a particular example, selected almost at random, from an early part of the book. this particular example is part of a description of mrs ramsay; it occurs on p. 15 of our edition: all she could do now was to admire the refrigerator, and turn the pages of the stores list in the hope that she might come upon something like a rake, or a mowing machine, which, with its prongs and its handles, would need the greatest skill and care in cutting out. all these young men parodied her husband, she reflected; he said it would rain; they said it would be a positive tornado. but here, as she turned the page, suddenly her search for the picture of a rake or a mowing-machine was interrupted. the gruff murmur, irregularly broken by the taking out of pipes and the putting in of pipes which had kept on assuring her, though she could not hear what was said (as she sat in the window which opened on the terrace), that the men were happily talking; this sound, which had lasted now half an hour and had taken its place soothingly in the scale of sounds pressing on top of her, such as the tap of balls upon bats, the sharp, sudden bark now and then, "how's that? how's that?" of the children playing cricket, had ceased; so that the monotonous fall of the waves on the beach, which for the most part beat a measured and soothing tattoo to her thoughts and seemed consolingly to repeat over and over again as she sat with the children the words of some old cradle song, murmured by nature, "i am guarding you-I am your support," but at other times suddenly and unexpectedly, especially When her mind raised itself slightly from the task actually in hand, had no such kindly meaning, but like a ghostly roll of drums remorselessly beat the measure of life, made one think of the destruction of the island and its engulfment in the sea, and warned her whose day had slipped past in one quick doing after another that it was all ephemeral as a rainbow-this sound which had been obscured and concealed under the other sounds suddenly thundered hollow in her ears and made her look up with an impulse of terror. the first thing we notice about this style, I suspect, is the extraordinary sentence structure. the second paragraph contains a sentence of 260 words, a sentence which, in effect, is a single complex sentence of 32 words enormously embellished by parenthetical phrases and clauses, modifying phrases, and a whole rich array of various grammatical constructions. these hold up the full meaning of the sentence and transform it from something clear and straightforward into something delayed, qualified, uncertain, and (for the reader) much more difficult to assimilate. if we examine closely the structure of that long sentence, we see that the main clause begins with an indication of the subject (the gruff murmur) but that any further development of that clause is held up for nine lines, so that we get a range of associations and modifying phrases describing that murmur. thus, by the time we get to the main verb (had ceased) we have gone through a range of emotional associations connected to the initial subject. the meanings of the words and, most important, the rhythm of the sentence establish the extent to which mrs ramsay's mood is dependent upon the semi-conscious absorption of what is going on around her. she cannot hear what people are saying, but the very presence of the regular activity provides for her a comforting reassurance of domestic order. thus, the structure of the sentence itself presents the central issue of mrs ramsay's character, that she is constantly dependent upon the existence of family rituals all around her, that, although she may not participate directly in them or even be fully aware of what is going on, she relies upon such a background sense of ongoing domestic order to sustain her tranquil mood. the strongest word in the entire sentence is the final word terror. it injects into what has seemed a slow meandering through a number of quotidian details a sudden emotional urgency. we can ask ourselves an obvious question: why does woolf not simply present the main clauses and thus deliver the full thought much more simply? after all, isn't the main point here that mrs ramsay's mood changes suddenly in an unwelcome way? it's clear, of course, what would be lost immediately, namely, the sense that the subject (mrs ramsay) is not, any more than anyone else is, capable of such a firm declarative thought process. what goes on in her mind, from one moment to the next, is something much more complex than any such simple declaration would illustrate. more about this later. we notice, too, how almost all the details of this style focus our attention upon what is going on in mrs ramsay's mind. we do learn some external details about what she is doing and where she is sitting, but these details are clearly subordinated to the most obvious content of the sentences: the details passing through mrs ramsay's consciousness as she sits and stares at a magazine, half-listening to the children playing and the men talking nearby. in other words, there's an interplay here between the external world and mrs ramsay's inner consciousness of that world, but the emphasis is very much on the latter rather than on the former. that is clear from the fact that, although we have a very clear idea of what mrs ramsay is feeling, we have no exact idea of her position, so exact that we could paint the scene with more or less the same shared details. such a style, in other words, forces us to recognize the preeminence of the inner life in the ongoing drama of a human existence. many readers comment that this style is wonderful because that's how people in fact think. but of course this is nonsense. no one thinks in such superbly polished prose, taking care, clause by clause or phrase by phrase, that all the antecedents are appropriately positioned and the modifiers clear. no, if people thought like this, then english teachers would be out of a job. what woolf is attempting here clearly is not to reproduce the thought process itself but to develop a symbolic equivalent of thought, to use her command of english prose style to create for us in the rhythm, structure, and accumulation of detail in the sentence an emotional illumination of mrs ramsay's consciousness. a comparison here with symbolist painting may be in order. it's clear that many symbolist painters justified their style with reference to dreams and dream analysis. but no one dreams a symbolist painting. what the symbolist (like, say, dali) is doing is using his art to create for the viewer the emotional equivalent of dreams, to get us to recognize in the art something analogous to a dream experience. but in creating such symbols, the painter, like woolf, is doing something very sophisticated and simply beyond the world of how people really think and how they dream. the structure of the sentence, of course, does a good deal more than simply emphasize the importance of the inner life of mrs ramsay. it also characterizes that inner life in a curious way that is sustained for all of the characters in the novel. we can summarize this briefly by observing that characteristically the people in this novel, as in the above example, cannot complete a simple and coherent thought without a host of other impressions, memories, feelings, images, qualifications, and possibilities crowding in upon the mind. in this one sentence, for example, we are taken from the initial sense that something has happened (the opening of that sentence) through all of mrs ramsay's impressions of what is going on around her with her family into her sense of nature beyond the family-a sense that includes the contradictory sensations of solace and dread and leads to some momentary impression of the nature of life itself as ephemeral, subject only to the cruel dictates of time. thus, before the sentence closes, the details have placed this thought amid a welter of other thoughts crowding mrs ramsay's mind for attention. and in an instant, the peaceful scene has been transformed into one characterized by the last word: terror. nothing we recognize as very significant has changed in the external scene, but that isn't the point. the essential quality of life here is inner, and in that inner world the emotional changes can be abrupt, unexpected, and extreme. there is nothing particularly dramatic in the external scene; it is about as tranquil and unthreatening as a domestic scene might be-a family at play and rest. yet there is an intense inner drama amid all this mundane detail. woolf does not tell us that the real drama of life is inner, but the structure of the sentences forces us to acknowledge that as the major fact of life: one can go from security to dread in an instant for reasons one cannot fully comprehend. this style also indicates that the succession of thoughts is not in mrs ramsay's control. the style is, of course, beautifully controlled, but its effect on the reader is a constant feeling of surprise, complexity, and lack of control on the part of mrs ramsay. what the next qualifying clause is going to add to the accumulating details neither she nor the reader can tell. in the mind, as in the sentence, things happen "suddenly and unexpectedly," and the mood may shift from something as consoling as a cradle song to something as ominous as a "ghostly roll of drums remorselessly beat[ing] the measure of life," full of a sense of "destruction of the island and its engulfment in the sea." the terror she feels at the end of the clause does not arise from any decision she has consciously made or from anything terrifying she has experienced. the slightest change in her external environment has altered her mood in an instant. in this sense, too, we get a feeling from the structure of the sentence of the ruthless forward thrusting effects of time. for the thought process here cannot rest; there are further qualifications, modifying clauses, appositive phrases which insist on being heard in succession. and every piece added to the accumulating string further complicates, changes, and, in a sense, harasses the personality of the thinker. we learn explicitly enough, especially in part ii, of the corrosive effects of time on whatever there is of value in the world. but long before that section, the style itself insist upon the restless forward-driving, unsettling nature of the inner life. tranquility, if it comes, is momentary. there is no closure here. thus, woolf's style, I would suggest, not only creates a sense of the primacy of the inner life, of the extent to which the drama of everyday is determined by the complex succession of thoughts and feelings arising for reasons incommensurate with any external causes, but also characterizes that inner life as one over which the subject has relatively little control. mrs. ramsay, like others in the novel, can react emotionally to what is going on in her imagination; but people cannot do very much to order or control that world. the modernity of the style this aspect of the novel, I would suggest, is its most noteworthy feature and the one which, more than anything else, gives the work its distinctly modernist flavour. to make this point a little more clearly, I would first like to discuss some of the other works we have studied and then return to woolf's characters. to appreciate the significance of what woolf is doing we might think for a moment about the relationship in other books we have read between the inner world of the characters and their perceptions of the outer world. in homer, for example, the characters have a firm confidence in the external world. it may be unpredictable and often brutal, but they are confident that they understand why it is so (the gods, everyone agrees, are in charge). hence, nature and society have a certain stability of meaning, and human beings can understand themselves with reference to that natural order. so in homer, we see again and again, the characters declare how they think and feel with constant reference to the nature of things, and there is thus little tension between the inner world of the characters (which is generally not all that interesting) and the external world in which they move. we see the same thing in, say, hildegard. she is overwhelmingly confident that nature is everywhere evidence of god's handiwork, so that she has no difficulty in using natural imagery to explore the nature of human feelings and purposes. once again, there is no tension between her inner sense of herself and the natural order beyond her, and so she can easily urge us to understand ourselves in terms of god's work, the manifestations of which are present in every flower or tree. to these thinkers, then, there is a certain solidity to life, a reassuring certainty in the order of things, so that they can reassure whatever inner doubts they have against the stability which they see in the world around them. hence, their conceptions of themselves take on something of the solidity of that world. this is not to say that they can have no doubts but rather that there is a way of dealing with and resolving those doubts with reference to a system of order, the evidence for which is all around them: in nature, in social relationships, in the tasks they have to do, in their past and future. however, as we have seen already, this great confidence in the congruence of inner and outer sources of meaning was decisively challenged in the seventeenth century. in our reading we encountered this most clearly in the work of descartes, who urges us to distrust all contact with the external world, to direct our attentions inward, and to build whatever we can know upon a ruthless self-examination. only if we do that, can we come to any serious understanding of ourselves and the world (and even with that method, certain meanings we might want to have are not available). descartes is confident that, taking this inward turn, one can construct a more certain sense of the world around one and remain secure in the sense of one's relationship to god. hence, his meditations strives to create the beginnings of a suitable link between the inner self and the outer world of the natural order. and descartes is clearly confident that such a project can be continued. now, this inward turn, as we have discussed, creates a dichotomy between the inner self and the outer world, between mind and matter, between the thinking, feeling subject and the perceived objects of experience, and calls into question the traditional faith in understanding the self in terms of a wider natural order given by god. the sense of a separation between the self and such an order we called, in our discussions of marx, alienation, which, in the most general sense, refers to a feeling that one's full identity as imagined inside is not part, or not sufficiently part of one's real existence in the given world. and we have looked at various attempts (by, most notably, rousseau and marx and wordsworth) to overcome this feeling. we also saw in the novel the red and the black, which is in some ways a very interesting anticipation of to the lighthouse, how the central tensions in the life of julien sorel arose from this sense of separation and from his inability satisfactorily to deal with it. we did argue a good deal about whether the conclusion of that novel represents such a resolution, but, that aside, it is clear that in most of the rest of the novel, we are dealing with a character who knows himself so poorly and whose sense of the values of life are so inadequate that, for all his skills and intelligence, he blunders through life creating unhappiness for himself and for others. it's not that julien doesn't long for personal fulfillment or even at times have a clear image of what that might involve. but he has two major problems realizing that longing: in the first place, his inner sense of himself is fragile and changing, racked with doubts and insecurities; in the second place, the world he confronts and which insists on treating him as an object offers him no suitable avenue for him to pursue in quest of his fullest identity (except perhaps in the nostalgic images of the napoleonic past)-thus he lacks, say, the integrity of someone like jane eyre, in some senses equally romantic, but with a much firmer and more consistent sense of her own self. now, one characteristic feature of a good deal of modernist art which we have already considered is the recognition that such an attempt to resolve the question of alienation is futile. the self has become so fractured and the world has become so unknowable or so strange that the possibilities for connecting a sense of who I am as a human being with some wider purpose for life itself no longer exist. I may yearn for such a resolution, and I may even momentarily carry an image of what that fulfillment might actually mean. I might even sense, like prufrock, that without such fulfillment my life is going to be radically unsatisfactory. but if I set out, like prufrock, to obtain what my life needs, I am going to be defeated because the world does not answer to such a request and, more important, my own consciousness, my own integrity, such as it is, is not up to the task. and one way in which the modernist writers we have read evoke this sense of an unbreachable barrier between a fragmented inner self and a menacing and unknowable world is by creating a discrepancy between the style of narration and the external events being described, so that the reader is confronted with a constant tension between style and subject matter, and this tension becomes one of the major symbolic means of generating a sense of the anxiety of modern life. we talked about this a little bit in connection with kafka's prose in the metamorphosis. there the weird and horrific events are given to us, largely from the point of view of gregor's own mind, in a flat, unemotional, and prosaic style quite at odds with the strangeness of the situation. one wants what one finds in, say, shakespeare, some style commensurate to the situation. but we don't get that. one effect of this is to underscore just how inadequate gregor's mind is to gain any sense of the reality of the situation he or any of his family is in, and, beyond gregor, a sense of how language itself cannot capture the full meaning of these events. there is, as we observed, no closure. and we dealt with something of the same issue in dealing with the character of prufrock. here, as in the waste land, the contrast is between the richness of the past or of the occasional inner vision up against the sterile, ugly, poverty of the outside world (like an argument of insidious intent or a rat's alley). prufrock has, we can see, potentially a rich imagination, and he is certainly intelligent enough to sense what is wrong with his life. but whatever values life offers exist only in his inner imagination: the world outside does not match these images, and his attempt to realize them somehow (for he knows life will be meaningless unless he can realize them) are futile. this becomes most apparent in the closing lines of the poem, in which we learn that prufrock does indeed understand in his mind what the full beauty, vitality, and purpose of life might involve. but these images exist only in his dreams. When human voices wake him, he drowns. the chasm between his inner life and the world around him is something he cannot bridge. woolf is, in a sense, doing the same thing. here the events surrounding the characters are anything but weird-this novel is full of what should be cozy domesticity: a family holiday in a beautiful setting, full of friends, children, communal get-togethers, drinks, dinners, walks along the beach. but the style is wholly inappropriate to such a view of the events, for the style insists upon the dramatic complexity, unpredictability, painful tensions, and dangers inherent in every minor social turn. like gregor, mrs ramsay and others in the novel want closure. big questions keep insisting on raising themselves: what is the meaning of life? but the thought processes, as revealed in the style, show that no answer to such a question is possible, since no quiet and complete thinking is possible. there are always the interruptions from outside, from the memory, from associations, from buried feelings. how can one achieve any form of closure, When the personality who is asking the questions is incapable of holding onto a firm sense of itself, of controlling what is going on? even mr ramsay, famous throughout the country for the power of his logical mind, cannot control his own sense of himself and is as subject as everyone else to the sudden terrors of an unexpected thought or feeling which, as often as not, is resolved equally unexpectedly. another way of making this point is to stress that these modernist characters experience life as a flux, a disordered succession of inner thoughts, ambitions, hopes, desires, fears, something over which they exercise no firm control. in a moment there is time for decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse. having no reassuring sense of a permanent order, they have nothing to measure themselves against, no firm model of who they are, socially or individually. thus, they are defined by the emotions and memories and impressions of each passing moment. and they are helpless in front of the major questions of life, like "what is the purpose of life?" or "what have I done with my life?" or "what is happening to me?" they cannot face these questions because they cannot deal with life as a totality, since they experience it as a ceaseless flux of often dissociated impressions, unwelcome memories, desires (many of which go unsatisfied), and fears. so we get the sense of characters, isolated individuals, who endlessly introspect, wondering about their identity, the meaning of their lives, the significance of their feelings. often they raise these questions only on the inside, sometimes in the midst of the most mundane activities (like mrs ramsay). generally, the questions don't get taken into anything like a community forum, simply because there isn't such a forum, and in some cases, as in gregor's, such communication is impossible; in others, like prufrock's and mrs ramsay's, social conventions stand in the way of an open confession about one's deepest concerns before others (who in any case would probably be incapable of assisting, because they are wrestling in the same inner space with the same questions). the result is that they seem to live much of their lives picking away at the leaves of their own psyches, searching for some final significance. the effect, to borrow a metaphor from ibsen's peer gynt, is like peeling an onion. every layer one removes reveals another one underneath; and if one persists to the very centre, there's nothing there but empty space. the fragmented self this sense of what I have called the "fragmented self" is a particular concern of modernist writers. it's clear that there is no possibility in their world of the old social self, since the shared communal understanding of value upon which that depends has disappeared. it's true that mrs ramsay devotes her whole life to a project of conferring social value on people, seeking always to place people in appropriate traditional social arrangements, like guests at her Home or table or partners in a marriage. but her society is too complex, too transitory, too vulnerable to provide any more, as it does in homer or shakespeare, a firm grounding for one's sense of who one is. in that sense, mrs ramsay is clearly a figure from the past, whose understanding of life, whose grasp on events, is shaped entirely by her ability as a social being to establish meaningful relationships among people. we can appreciate this quality in her by noting the difficulty mrs ramsay has in dealing with anyone or anything which does not fall immediately within her social orbit. people whom she does not have to care for as guests or family or as charitable cases, people who are beyond her social control, such people she does not like to think about; they make her uneasy (like her old friends the mannings). and, as we saw in that sample sentence with which I started, any sudden change in the quotidian daily environment fills her at once with a sense of terror, just as any reminder of his own potential mediocrity fills her husband with a sense of total inadequacy and mortality. the point is that even if someone like mrs ramsay would like to live in a society firm in its shared beliefs, that world is no longer available to her, except to a very limited and temporary extent. and the alternative, the enlightenment project for the creation of the "independent self," the goal of wollstonecraft, rousseau, kant, and marx seems equally impossible. for what is the modern self? it is a welter of confusing and often contradictory images, held together by a personality ruled, as much as anything, by anxiety, uncertainty, and a vague dread. we see all this in eliot's "love song of j. alfred prufrock," and there's a good deal of a sense of that in woolf's novel as well. in an external world where young men are blown up in an instant and young women noted for their beauty die in childbirth and the sea airs eventually destroy all domestic arrangements, what is Left of any social self? and in an internal world which is incapable of making any firm, lasting connections to the outer world and which is the prey of all sorts of transitory impressions and feelings, who can construct a firm sense of who one is? and without that, where is any answer to the value of life to be found? of course, in earlier times young women died in childbirth, and young men were killed in war. but because there was a structure of meaning to the world and because people understood themselves in terms of that structure they could understand the events within a given system of order, and that understanding was expressed in terms of the shared social rituals which conferred meaning on the events of daily life. in the world of gregor samsa, j. alfred prufrock, and the ramsays and their guests there are no longer any shared social rituals capable of withstanding the corroding effects of time and the constant shifting of the individual's perceptions, thoughts, and feelings. and thus any attempt to discover a meaning in the flux of experience, inner or outer, is bound to fail. death and decay remain the great mysteries of life, but now individuals stand before them isolated, confused, and anxious. so in a sense these modernists writers, woolf prominent among them, are taking direct aim at one of the highest goals of the enlightenment, the desire for a fully integrated, independent self, the autonomous individual who does not require a traditional social identity because she has learned through reason how to organize and direct her life. emancipating individuals from traditional social rituals, in these modernist works, seems to have resulted in something very different from what rousseau or kant or wollstonecraft hoped for. it has made them fragmented, anxious, weary, and confused about everything from their relationship to other people to their own sense of themselves. some final comments now, i've been focusing on just one aspect of the novel, and I don't want to suggest that's all there is to it. for this novel is, I think, in places a good deal more optimistic and joyful than either the metamorphosis or "prufrock." all that I have said may indeed be in the novel, and it may well be insisted upon throughout by the characteristic style woolf uses to guide the reader through the events. but there is something else, and i'd just like to refer to these before closing. it may be true that in this world there is no final meaning available, that the fragmented self in a disordered and rapidly changing world is not going to have its hopes for closure, for an end to alienation, satisfied. but things are not entirely hopeless. for life does grant moments of insight, flashes of meaning, in which something important is caught in the imagination, as if in the glare of the lighthouse beam. and if that moment inevitably passes by almost as soon as it has been realized, something has been discovered which one can at least remember. in this sense, there is a wordsworthian quality to parts of this novel, a sense that we can affirm things about life, even if what we affirm will never amount to anything like a statement about the meaning of the experience. the dinner party, for example, at the end of part 1, or lily briscoe's painting, or the eventual trip to the lighthouse-these events confer value on life. something important is accomplished. and if in themselves they cannot withstand the power of time to destroy all, if the painting ends up as junk in someone's attic, if those at the dinner party end up with a bad marriage or dead a few years later, that does not entirely negate the moment in which something was seen and felt to make life more than just a welter of inner ideas, impressions, fears, hopes, and feelings piling up in a linear sequence like so many stacked up grammatical constructions in a complex sentence without an ending. that may, indeed, be the general condition of life, but there are moments When something is affirmed. now she need not listen. I could not last, she knew, but at the moment her eyes were so clear that they seemed to go round the table unveiling each of these people, and their thoughts and their feelings, without effort like a light stealing under water so that its ripples and the reeds in it and the minnows balancing themselves, and the sudden silent trout are all lit up hanging, trembling. so she saw them; she heard them; but whatever they said had also this quality, as if what they said was like the movement of a trout When, at the same time, one can see the ripple and the gravel, something to the right, something to the left; and the whole is held together; for whereas in active life she would be netting and separating one thing from another; she would be saying she liked the waverley novels or had not read them; she would be urging herself forward; now she said nothing. for the moment she hung suspended. with a sudden intensity, as if she saw it clear for a second, she drew a line there, in the centre. it was done; it was finished. yes, she thought, laying down her brush in extreme fatigue, I have had my vision..
Woolf - To the lighthouse.fb2

Author: jacqueline lichtenberg book title: those of my blood publisher: st. martin’s press year: 1988 isbn: 0-312-02298-0 i jacqueline lichtenberg, author of the cult classic sime-gen series (“science fiction in the grand manner”-the new york times book review), has become known for her complex worldbuilding and fiery characters. those of my blood is her most ambitious work to date, a big, bold novel of alien contact, obsessive love, and lunar adventure. they have been living among us in secret: the luren, a race of extraterrestrial vampires. some luren, such as the brilliant scientist titus shiddehara, call themselves “residents” and consider earth their home; others, known as “tourists,” regard humans solely as food. a simmering conflict between the two groups has Left the luren divided for generations. when an alien starship crashes on the moon, titus and his allies must stop the tourists from using their technology to contact the luren homeworld-a move that would lead to the subjugation of all humanity. but When titus’s enemy on the moon is revealed as his “father”-the man who awakened him to the existence of a vampire-he knows he faces a battle he cannot win without taking humans as pawns. and breaking an oath he swore long ago. the wild card in the deck is a survivor of the crash, whose very existence is a guarded secret. neither tourist nor resident-but very definitely luren-the alien may hold the secret of salvation for both humanity and luren. if the ties of blood can be reconciled with the ties of honor. rich in the power of the vampire legend, those of my blood is a sf adventure of epic scope. jacqueline lichtenberg’s recent books include mahogany trinrose and the dushau trilogy (dushau, farfetch, outreach). she lives in spring valley, new york, and is currently at work on dreamspy, a companion volume to those of my blood..
Lichtenberg - Those of my blood.fb2

Author: jack kerouac book title: on the road jack kerouac's on the road is one of the most controversial american novels of the 20th century. When critics concede that the book and its author were instrumental in triggering the rucksack revolution, this is to damn with praise, as kerouac is reduced to a one-book author (though he published some twenty volumes containing a wide range of prose and poetry). moreover, the spiteful acknowledgement of a sociohistorical fact imports an aesthetic grudge against a novel that a close reading reveals to be far more conventional than most of its adversaries would would care to realize. nor does the book propagate the shameless adoration of libidinous licentiousness for which it has been castigated in conservative quarters. kerouac, too, never understood what his book meant to the hordes of youngsters taking to the highways after the fashion of the characters peopling the narrative; but then, he was ill-fitted to grasp what his book had kindled in generations of young readers who felt stifled by the limitations of their parental homes. he never realized that he had prefigured their longings. born, in 1922, in lowell ma and baptized jean-louis lebris de kerouac, he learned english only as a second language. his parents, french canadian immigrants, provided for a parochial, catholic conservative, working-class background dominated by the mother who, in keeping with her heritage, felt more comfortable at speaking to her children in her french-canadian dialect. the father, a printer, lost his job in the great depression and never recovered his standing. “ti-jean” (as jack was pet-named by his mother) was a brooding, introverted child, a voracious, if indiscriminate reader. in high school, he was a minor sensation on the football field, the performanance at half-back, rather than academic excellence, earning him a scholarship to columbia university after a preparatory year at horace mann, a private high school in new york city. college football, however, was more competitive than high-school games, and after breaking a leg in practice, he could not establish himself as a starter on the team. he also was in academic difficulties and had to make up for failing grades with extracurricular work during summer vacation. kerouac Left columbia during his sophomore year, came back for a brief spell the following year, and after various odd jobs at gas stations and an honorable discharge from the navy for an “indifferent character,” he joined the merchant marine in 1942. jack, who claimed he had completed his first novel at age eleven, had written for his high-school paper, contributed articles on local college sports to the columbia spectator, and, “… inspired by a new enthusiasm for the novels of thomas wolfe” (ann charters, kerouac), began to keep extensive journals. onboard the s.s. george weems, “bound for liverpool with 500-pound bombs in her hold, flying the red dynamite flag” (charters), he wrote the sea is my brother, which remained unpublished. after the war restless years followed, as jack grew involved in the emerging underground scene of new york. (in part he was to record those experiences in on the road.) during the winters he lived in his mother’s apartment in ozone park, l.I. (the father had died in the spring of 1946), from where he set out on frequent drinking bouts, often lasting for several days, to times square bars or to parties in greenwich village; the summers he spent roaming the country between new york, san francisco, and mexico city. intermittently he worked on what was to become the town and the city; accepted by harcourt, brace co. in 1949, the book appeared the following year and received lukewarm critical appraisal: “more often than not, the depth and breadth of his vision triumph decisively over his technical weaknesses,” the new york times book review noted in november 1950. during the spring of 1951 kerouac completed, in a three-week burst of writing, a typescript entitled variously “beat generation” and “on the road,” different names for “… a scroll of paper three inches thick made up of one single-spaced, unbroken 120 feet long paragraph,…” as a friend recalls. in spite of several revisions and persistent efforts, kerouac could not find a publisher for what he, according to ann charters, “… knew immediately… was the best writing he had ever done.” editors were more interested in stories dealing with the scandalous lifestyle of these young, “beat” bohemians than in their artistic work, until, in late 1955, malcolm cowley, senior adviser at viking, accepted the book on the proviso that he and kerouac go over the script together. When on the road finally came out in 1957, the original typescript had been cut by one-third and amended to approximate the text to literary, orthographic, and printing conventions. “… cowley riddled the original style of the manuscript there, without my power to complain,…,” kerouac indicted later in an interview for the paris review. (the tangled genesis of the text prior to publication-some seven typescript versions are known to exist-may well prove futile all attempts at establishing a definitive edition.) in the wake of the clamor raised over the publication of allen ginsberg's “howl” (the poem is dedicated to kerouac, among others),on the road made the bestseller lists and, except for a short lag in the early sixties, has continued to sell at a steady pace in america and western europe. the commercial success of on the road prompted viking to bring out more of kerouac’s writings. by 1958 he had completed several manuscripts (visions of cody, doctor sax, and the subterraneans, to name but a few), all autobiographical, loose in form, and written in the new prose style which he had developed in the meanwhile and called “spontaneous prose”: long, unpremeditated sentences full of associations, put to paper in the way they came to his mind; highly personal, often idiosyncratic accounts which were at times inherently contradictory; as he phrased it himself, in the vaguely programmatic “essentials of spontaneous prose”: no pause to think of proper word but the infantile pileup of scatological buildup words till satisfaction is gained, which will turn out to be a great appending rhythm to a thought and be in accordance with great law of timing. the editors insisted on something conventional and chose the dharma bums because it was close to on the road in scope, contents, and method of presentation. the book was inspired by kerouac’s friendship with the californian poet gary snyder, who became the model for japhy ryder, the hero of the dharma bums. snyder had introduced kerouac to buddhist texts, the influence of which is traceable in on the road and, more conspicuously, in the dharma bums. but kerouac 'a infatuation with eastern mysticism and religions was only transitory. at heart he always remained a devout catholic, in his own personal way. he writes in “the origins of the beat generation,” an article for playboy: i am not ashamed to wear the crucifix of my lord. it is because I am beat, that is, I believe in beatitude and that god so loved the world that he gave his own begotten son to it… so you people don’t believe in god. so you're all big smart know-it-all marxists and freudians, hey? why don’t you come back in a million years and tell me all about it, angels? kerouac had always been an introverted, brooding, melancholic loner who preferred watching from the side over actively participating in his friends' hullabaloos; during the sixties, his health deteriorating from continuous abuse of alcohol and benzedrine, he became utterly estranged from the world and retreated to his mother's Home. he felt his work was misunderstood by the reading public, for whom he had become, due to his semi-fictitious heroes dean moriarty and japhy ryder, a cult figure and a pioneer of the newly emerging liberal movement. his political attitude was diametrically opposed to that of the majority of his readers as well as to that of his former close friend allen ginsberg. kerouac spoke out in favor of the american engagement in vietnam; in the interview for the paris review he explained: i’m pro-american and the radical political involvements seem to tend elsewhere… the country gave my canadian family a good break, more or less, and we see no reason to demean said country. shadows of fatalism and a profound pessimism permeate his later writing, for instance, the vanity of duluoz. resignation, that all is “vanity,” rings through the last attempt at reshaping the legend he had begun with the town and the city. conspicuously, the two books cover roughly the same period of time, from the last years in lowell to the father's death in new york city; while not exactly cheerful, the tone of the town and the city, characterized by a longing to restore the happy days of childhood, had to give way to a deep sense of irrevocable loss. he wrote in the preface of visions of cody: “my work comprises one vast book like proust's remembrance of things past, except my remembrances are written on the run instead of afterwards in a sickbed.” the comparison, half-correct at best, sheds a distinct light on the author’s ambitions and misperceptions. jack kerouac died on october 21, 1969, “of hemorrhaging esophageal varices, the classic drunkard’s death,” according to gerald nicosia, the author of memory babe, a near-definitive critical biography..
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Author: ira levin book title: the stepford wives the wives in stepford are not exactly what you might call feisty, but they do keep nice homes. they wax and vacuum, and clean and dust all day long and late into the evenings, but they never complain. they are rather pleasing to look at too these stepford ladies. they are round and shapely in all of the right places and in many ways they are model wives. when the eberharts move to stepford joanna finds it hard to settle in the town. she finds the town's women weird. not one of them ever seems to have time to pop over for a cup of coffee. they are much too busy keeping house. they do find time to go out every once in a while though, to do the shopping, and even that is done neatly; every item is perfectly stacked in their trolleys. fortunately joanna does manage to find a couple of friends who are normal. in fact one of them, bobbie, is refreshingly slob-like. the other one, charmaine, exudes elegance and is obsessed with tennis. she even has her own court in the garden, and so things are not, perhaps, so bad in stepford after all. or so it seems. but When charmaine suddenly sacks her maid, and dons the pinny herself, joanna is shocked. and When she discovers that her tennis buddy is ripping up her tennis court so that her husband can have his own putting green, joanna realizes – for a fact – that something very strange indeed is going on in stepford the stepford wives is a much shorter read than I had anticipated. my copy is only 116 pages long, but it achieves a lot in those few pages and bulking out of the story would only have spoiled it. I would describe this as being a quietly scary story. the real nasty stuff always happens just out of sight, never right there in your face. if you have ever watched any really old films, you might remember how scenes sometimes ended with the loving couple closing the bedroom door. what happened next was Left to the viewer's imagination. in a similar way the nasty stuff in the stepford wives is Left to the reader's imagination. in the final pages, there is a scene where the stepford men-folk usher joanna into bobbie's kitchen and bobbie, who really doesn't seem like bobbie anymore and is holding a knife, calls her over to the sink so that she can prove to her that she isn't a robot. what happens next in that kitchen is Left to the reader's imagination. the horror is not depicted in glorious technicolor and if the claret flows it flows unseen, but it is still a very scary scene indeed and possibly one of the best ones in the book..
Levin - The Stepford Wives.fb2

Author: gao xingjian book title: one man one man's bible is the second novel by nobel prize-winning author gao xingjian to appear in english. following on the heels of his highly praised soul mountain , this later work is as candid as the first, and written with the same grace and beauty. in a hong kong hotel room in 1996, gao xingjian's lover, marguerite, stirs up his memories of childhood and early adult life under the shadow of mao zedong and the cultural revolution. gao has been living in self-imposed exile in france and has traveled to this western-influenced chinese city-state, so close to his homeland, for the staging of one of his plays. what follows is a fictionalized account of gao xingjian's life under the communist regime. whether in "beehive" offices in beijing or in isolated rural towns, daily life is riddled with paranoia and fear, as revolutionaries, counterrevolutionaries, reactionaries, counterreactionaries, and government propaganda turn citizens against one another. it is a place where a single sentence spoken ten years earlier can make one an enemy of the state. gao evokes the spiritual torture of political and intellectual repression in graphic detail, including the heartbreaking betrayals he suffers in his relationships with women and men alike. one man's bible is a profound meditation on the essence of writing, on exile, on the effects of political oppression on the human spirit, and on how the human spirit can triumph. *** one man's bible belongs to that sad class of books sold on the strength of their authors having won a prize. but a prize is rather a thin argument for reading it, especially in a wooden english translation. does one want to know more about gao xingjian than his first novel translated into english, soul mountain, told? that book had just enough exotic colour to survive its translation; from its portentous title onwards, one man's bible has much less going for it. it needs more story, structure, people, situations, atmosphere, ideas – anything strong enough to come through the obscuring veil of alien words. when, in 2001, gao became the first chinese writer to win a nobel prize for literature, it came as a surprise. the chinese literary bureaucrats – today's counterparts of the strange soviet creatures in bulgakov's the master and margarita – had long been pushing for one of their trusties to win. gao was certainly not one of those, but neither was he prominent in any of the exiled literary cliques. since being driven to leave china in the 1980s he had been living in france, writing supposedly experimental, sub-beckettian plays with chinese characteristics that some critics in the chinese-speaking world thought worth discussing. these plays also suited small, subsidised european theatre companies in search of uncommercial exotica full of the timeless wisdom of the east. while still in china, gao was best known for bus stop, a one-acter about people waiting for a bus that never came. what delighted audiences and infuriated the authorities When the play appeared some 20 years ago was its apparent implied message: the never-arriving bus was the wonderful future that the regime promised but could not deliver. soul mountain was fiction in the form of an autobiography (or vice versa) that told a fragmented tale of a writer on the run in the wilder reaches of the yangtze valley. the background chimed with gao's own flight from the thought police, as well as being a celebration of "authentic" china surviving 40 years of the party state in remote and picturesque areas. there was quite a lot of sex, too. one man's bible also invites us to read its central character, again an author, as an alter ego of gao's. as he looks back from cosmopolitan exile in the present – the book was written in the late 1990s – on his life in china, this author makes much of feeling uncomfortable, and wallows in sententiousness. the book starts with a bourgeois childhood before the communists seized power in 1949 (When the real gao was eight or nine), moving on to his family's and his own troubles in the unending series of political campaigns that ran through the mao era and its aftermath. much of it deals with the cultural revolution, with our hero as participant as well as victim in a hellish process, and with how all this made him what he is now. between the earlier life and the recent past there is a gap where soul mountain might fit. like gao, the central figure in one man's bible is an exile based in france who writes fiction and drama in his own language. he enjoys the freedom not to be caught up in politics, and wonders how he came to be what he is. invitations to events on the international cultural circuit give us scenes in hong kong, sydney, new york, perpignan and elsewhere, all of which are much the same. none of it seems to matter very much in comparison with the seriously deranged political movements of his youth which, though hindsight tells him they were wrong, he savours the discomfort of remembering. if soul mountain explored china and chineseness, one man's bible is all about enjoying feeling guilty, but not too guilty. it is about not being at Home anywhere, not even in your own skin, and making the best of it; about the middle-aged worry over what you were When you were younger. as the central figure looks back over his life, he tries to accept the great realisation that it hasn't meant anything. yet for all his attempts to be sophisticated, he can't help but feel disappointed at the pointlessness of life. he has not got over the maoist urge to preach, though it is now a different sermon. in the past 20 years, having a hard time under the communist party dictatorship has been the stuff of a commercially flourishing genre of autobiographical writing in english by people, especially women, who have got out. gao is not into that sort of soppy stuff. his fiction has rather more in common with a newer popular sub-genre of chinese fiction for foreign readers: unillusioned fucklit, by younger women writers. the china his central character has Left was an awful place, but one that gave him access to plenty of women's bodies. the west has given him freedom and more women for his bed, but not happiness or meaning. it has allowed him to hold forth on life and art, even if what he has to say is banal. as a self-conscious follower of european modernism, gao does not give us this fictional life in a chronological sequence. he assumes that readers can find their way through the cut-up narrative of the cultural revolution, picking up references as chinese people of his generation will be able to. yet most foreigners will simply be confused. they are more likely to follow the novel through the unending couplings with which its subject tries to fill the voids in his past and present lives. we start with a german-jewish woman in hong kong, where one of his plays is being staged. there is another in france, and others collected elsewhere on his travels, as well as the various sexual partners in his earlier life in china. but on the whole, the bodies do not seem to have brains. the ideas in one man's bible are commonplace, its characters are ciphers, and it is not redeemed by wit, grace or self-mockery. its solipsism is banal. I hope we will not have to endure a third novel in this series on the splendours and miseries of being a nobel prize-winner. wjf jenner is a translator and expert on chinese writing..
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Author: geoff ryman book title: pol pot's beautiful daughter pol pot's beautiful daughter is an exemplary story that sweeps up an entirely novel lane to transverse and exceed the boundaries of archetypal ghost stories. sith is moneyed and supremely fine looking but the haunting of her cambodian past refuses to let her be, tormenting her until she takes note of their unbidden laments. geoff ryman writes in charmed fashion to plant a new and almost welcome face to poltergeist. -eugen bacon, fictionwise recommender *** in cambodia people are used to ghosts. ghosts buy newspapers. they own property. a few years ago, spirits owned a house in phnom penh, at the tra bek end of monivong boulevard. khmer rouge had murdered the whole family and there was no one Left alive to inherit it. people cycled past the building, leaving it boarded up. sounds of weeping came from inside. then a professional inheritor arrived from america. she'd done her research and could claim to be the last surviving relative of no fewer than three families. she immediately sold the house to a chinese businessman, who turned the ground floor into a photocopying shop. the copiers began to print pictures of the original owners. at first, single black and white photos turned up in the copied dossiers of aid workers or government officials. the father of the murdered family had been a lawyer. he stared fiercely out of the photos as if demanding something. in other photocopies, his beautiful daughters forlornly hugged each other. the background was hazy like fog. one night the owner heard a noise and trundled downstairs to find all five photocopiers printing one picture after another of faces: young college men, old women, parents with a string of babies, or government soldiers in uniform. he pushed the big green off-buttons. nothing happened. he pulled out all the plugs, but the machines kept grinding out face after face. women in beehive hairdos or clever children with glasses looked wistfully out of the photocopies. they seemed to be dreaming of Home in the 1960s, When phnom penh was the most beautiful city in southeast asia. news spread. people began to visit the shop to identify lost relatives. women would cry, "that's my mother! I didn't have a photograph!" they would weep and press the flimsy a4 sheets to their breasts. the paper went limp from tears and humidity as if it too were crying. soon, a throng began to gather outside the shop every morning to view the latest batch of faces. in desperation, the owner announced that each morning's harvest would be delivered direct to the truth, a magazine of remembrance. then one morning he tried to open the house-door to the shop and found it blocked. he went 'round to the front of the building and rolled open the metal shutters. the shop was packed from floor to ceiling with photocopies. the ground floor had no windows-the room had been filled from the inside. the owner pulled out a sheet of paper and saw himself on the ground, his head beaten in by a hoe. the same image was on every single page. he buried the photocopiers and sold the house at once. the new owner liked its haunted reputation; it kept people away. the for sale sign was Left hanging from the second floor. in a sense, the house had been bought by another ghost. this is a completely untrue story about someone who must exist..
Ryman - Pol Pot's Beautiful Daughter.fb2

Author: karin slaughter book title: skin privilege it's no simple case of murder. lena adams has spent her life struggling to escape her past. she has only unhappy memories of reece, the small town which nearly destroyed her. she's made a new life for herself as a police detective in heartsdale, a hundred miles away – but nothing could prepare her for the violence which explodes When she is forced to return. a vicious murder leaves a young woman incinerated beyond recognition. and lena is the only suspect. When heartsdale police chief jeffrey tolliver, lena's boss, receives word that his detective has been arrested, he has no choice but to go to lena's aid – taking with him his wife, medical examiner sara linton. but soon after their arrival, a second victim is found. the town closes ranks. and both jeffrey and sara find themselves entangled in a horrifying underground world of bigotry and rage – a violent world which shocks even them. a world which puts their own lives in jeopardy. only jeffrey and sara can free lena from the web of lies, betrayal and brutality that has trapped her. but can they discover the truth before the killer strikes again? *** 'no one does american small-town evil more chillingly… slaughter tells a dark story that grips and doesn't let go' the times 'this is without doubt an accomplished, compelling and complex tale, with page-turning power aplenty' daily express 'beautifully paced, appropriately grisly, and terrifyingly plausible' time out 'slaughter knows exactly When to ratchet up the menace, and When to loiter on the more personal and emotional aspects of the victims. thoroughly gripping, yet thoroughly gruesome stuff' daily mirror 'an explosive thriller with plenty of twists – this is criminally spectacular!' ok! 'a great read… this is crime fiction at its finest' michael connelly 'slaughter's plotting is relentless, piling on surprises and twists… a good read that should come with a psychological health warning' guardian 'another brilliantly chilling tale from slaughter' beat a fast-paced and unsettling story… a compelling and fluid read' daily telegraph 'structured and paced brilliantly; the tension is unceasing throughout. slaughter's shock tactics don't allow the reader to relax for a single moment' the times 'slaughter deftly turns all assumptions on their head. her ability to make you buy into one reality then another, means that the surprises – and the violent scenes – keep coming' time out 'don't read this alone. don't read this after dark. but do read it' daily mirror 'a salutary reminder that slaughter is one of the most riveting writers in the field today' sunday express 'confirms her at the summit of the school of writers specialising in forensic medicine and terror… slaughter's characters talk in believable dialogue. she's excellent at portraying the undertones and claustrophobia of communities where everyone knows everyone else's business, and even better at creating an atmosphere of lurking evil' the times 'with blindsighted, karin slaughter Left a great many mystery writers looking anxiously over their shoulders. with kisscut, she leaves most of them behind' john connolly 'slaughter's narrative is superb, a game of show and tell that constantly exhilarates as the next unexpected piece of the jigsaw fits into place' birmingham post 'gripping, gruesome and definitely not for the faint-hearted' woman home 'karin slaughter is a fearless writer. she takes us to the deep, dark places other novelists don't dare to go. kisscut will cement her reputation as one of the boldest thriller writers working today' tess gerritsen 'unsparing, exciting, genuinely alarming… excellent handling of densely woven plot, rich in interactions, well characterised and as subtle as it is shrewd' literary review 'this gripping debut novel, filled with unremittingly graphic forensic details, is likely to have patricia cornwell and kathy reichs glancing nervously in their rearview mirrors because rookie karin slaughter is off the starting grid as quickly as michael schumacher and is closing on them fast' irish independent 'brutal and chilling' daily mirror 'energetic, suspenseful writing from slaughter, who spares no detail in this bloody account of violent sexual crime but also brings compassion and righteous anger to it' manchester evening news 'it's not easy to transcend a model like patricia cornwell, but slaughter does so in a thriller whose breakneck plotting and not-for-the-squeamish forensics provide grim manifestations of a deeper evil her mystery trumpets without ever quite containing' kirkus reviews 'a tension-filled narrative with plenty of plot twists… this is just the ticket for readers who like their crime fiction on the dark side' booklist 'wildly readable… [slaughter] has been compared to thomas harris and patricia cornwell, and for once the hype is justified… deftly crafted, damnably suspenseful and, in the end, deadly serious. slaughter's plotting is brilliant, her suspense relentless' washington post 'slaughter has created a ferociously taut and terrifying story which is, at the same time, compassionate and real. I defy anyone to read it in more than three sittings' denise mina 'wildly readable… hits the bull's eye' new york post 'taut, mean, nasty and bloody well written. she conveys a sense of time and place with clarity and definite menace – the finely tuned juxtaposition of sleepy southern town and urgent, gut-wrenching terror' stella duffy 'taut and tight and tinged with terror' houston chronicle 'a story that roars its way through the final pages, slaughter's thriller is scary, shocking and perfectly suspenseful' bookpage.com 'the undertone of violence is pervasive, even at quiet moments, amplifying slaughter's equation of intimacy with menace and placing her squarely in the ranks of cornwell and reichs' publishers weekly 'slaughter's gift for building multi-layered tension while deconstructing damaged personalities gives this thriller a nerve-wracking finish' usa today 'a page turner… has more twists than a slinky factory' people 'a debut novel that blows your socks off. karin slaughter has immediately jumped to the front of the line of first-rate thriller writers…' rocky mountain news.
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Author: karin slaughter book title: fractured ‘no one does american small-town evil more chillingly… slaughter tells a dark story that grips and doesn't let go' – the times ‘without doubt an accomplished, compelling and complex tale, with page-turning power aplenty' – daily express ‘slaughter deftly turns all assumptions on their head… her ability to make you buy into one reality, then another, means that the surprises – and the violent scenes – keep coming' – time out ‘a great read… crime fiction at its finest' – michael connelly ‘a fast-paced and unsettling story… a compelling and fluid read' – daily telegraph ‘criminally spectacular' – ok! ‘slaughter knows exactly When to ratchet up the menace, and When to loiter on the more personal and emotional aspects of the victims. thoroughly gripping, yet thoroughly gruesome stuff' – daily mirror ‘slaughter's plotting is relentless, piling on surprises and twists… a good read that should come with a psychological health warning' – guardian ‘the writing is lean and mean, and the climax will blow you away' – independent ‘karin slaughter is a fearless writer. she takes us to the deep, dark places other novelists don't dare to go… one of the boldest thriller writers working today' – tess gerritsen ‘confirms her at the summit of the school of writers specialising in forensic medicine and terror… slaughter's characters talk in believable dialogue. she's excellent at portraying the undertones and claustrophobia of communities where everyone knows everyone else's business, and even better at creating an atmosphere of lurking evil' – the times ‘brilliantly chilling' – heat ‘a salutary reminder that slaughter is one of the most riveting writers in the field today' – sunday express ‘don't read this alone. don't read this after dark. but do read it' – daily mirror ‘with blindsighted, karin slaughter Left a great many mystery writers looking anxiously over their shoulders. with kisscut, she leaves most of them behind' – john connolly ‘brilliant plotting and subtle characterisation make for a gruesomely gripping read' – woman home ‘unsparing, exciting, genuinely alarming… excellent handling of densely woven plot, rich in interactions, well characterised and as subtle as it is shrewd' – literary review ‘energetic, suspenseful writing from slaughter, who spares no detail in this bloody account of violent sexual crime but also brings compassion and righteous anger to it' – manchester evening news ‘it's not easy to transcend a model like patricia cornwell, but slaughter does so in a thriller whose breakneck plotting and not-for-the-squeamish forensics provide grim manifestations of a deeper evil her mystery trumpets without ever quite containing' – kirkus reviews ‘slaughter has created a ferociously taut and terrifying story which is, at the same time, compassionate and real. I defy anyone to read it in more than three sittings' – denise mina ‘wildly readable… [slaughter] has been compared to thomas harris and patricia cornwell, and for once the hype is justified…deftly crafted, damnably suspenseful and, in the end, deadly serious. slaughter's plotting is brilliant, her suspense relentless' – washington post ‘taut, mean, nasty and bloody well written. she conveys a sense of time and place with clarity and definite menace – the finely tuned juxtaposition of sleepy southern town and urgent, gut-wrenching terror' – stella duffy.
Slaughter - Fractured.fb2

Year: 2010 artist: chthonic comment: http://s3k.ocremix.org sonic 3 & knuckles: project chaos first things first: listen to moar project chaos. now, a story: my last Home computer fell out of the back of a jeep. the back door was Left open and When we pulled out of the driveway it fell into the street. as soon as I was out of the car and had sprinted all the way back, a 15-year-old student driver in a ford taurus ran over it and dragged it on the ground for 200 yards. dear lord, the sparks. her mo.
Sonic the Hedgehog 3 Red Sphere Blue Sphere OC ReMix.mp3