Đồng Dao Vui Chơi 1: Chú Cuội Ngồi Gốc Cây Đa tải về miễn phí cuốn sách

максим елисеев eliseevmn — A decent, easy read. Flows very well. Graphic violence. Simplistic writing, but over all a fun read.

Jignesh Prajapati jigneshprajapati — This wasn't my favorite Discworld novel. It seemed to run in too many different directions.

Liis Mägi _iis_agi — Love this book!

Bernhard Oberdieck grafix — Right so this was a well written book, good even, but it did tend toward great and unnecessary length and because it was so sad that I wanted to die the length proved nigh unto unbearable...

Colleen Hancuch _olleen_ancuch — In a blog-post written years ago the "Penny Arcade" cartoonist "Gabe" posted a page or two from an old super-hero comic book he had written and drawn when he was a teen. The art was rough and predictably aped the prevailing artistic style of the time, but what shamed him most, he confessed, was the decidedly adolescent feel of it. It was exactly the sort of thing you'd expect a young male to write/draw, when he is first becoming aware of a world in which violence and sex are realities and somehow believes himself to be making a profound and revelatory statement by simplistically caricaturing those realities. He was trying so hard to make it bloody, bleak, brutal and grim that it was embarrassing, laughable, upon reflection. Some of us, however, fail to reflect and so fail to ever move past our childish fixation on certain aspects of existence, coming to believe that they are the only elements worth dwelling on. The author may potentially have some technical chops, but this relentlessly miserable story, with all its incredibly obvious plot points and utterly unsurprising twists, felt hollow and facile to me. There seem to be two types of modern authors: those who think everything has to be dark, dark, dark, dark (or transgressive, transgressive, transgressive, transgressive, in some cases) to be of any worth, and those who are true authors. Based solely on this book i would conclude that McCarthy is one of the former, a man who mistakenly believes that true meaning and literary power come only from miserable stories about miserable people behaving miserably (see my review of Lev Grossman's "The Magicians"). As noted above, this is not uncommon. Consider the adolescent fondness for "gritty" anti-heroes. Consider the movie and game studios who think "grey" and "brown" are the only way to indicate "real" or "serious". Consider the way critics fellate authors who mistake misery for depth and despair for insight. Then consider how similar these instincts are to those which impell so many to watch "Jersey Shore" and "Bad Girls Club" and "Cops" and "Jerry Springer". People tell themselves that what they want is "reality", an examination of profound truths which undergird the nature of humankind, but what they really want is the skadeglädje born of watching others suffer and debase themselves. I feel fairly sure that he, as an author, can do better; I know for a fact that I, as a reader, can.