Yêu Sao Để Không Đau (Tái bản) tải về miễn phí cuốn sách

Iliya Trudenov _rudenov — Bit of a letdown for me...

Vernon Blanche vernonblanche — Much like Eragon - good fun, but more plot-driven than literary.

Pedro Paulo _edro_aulo_ — One of 10 million ways of reading The Odyssey. ...So a middle-aged, battle-scarred soldier loses his way home after the war while traversing the wine dark sea. He resembles A Crazy Homeless Guy, straight from Central Casting. His neurotransmitters are fried with a serious case of PSTD. He moves into a cave with a nurturing woman who begins to remind him of his mother. Her clinginess gets to him, so he moves to another cave to do battle with his raging libido. Having successfully blinded said libido (with the help of a pointy stick and some- cough- sheep) he regains his identity and a certain sense of direction. On the circuitous route home he evades the charms of other tempting women: some with dangerously enchanting voices; others with several heads. He is haunted by the ghosts of his brothers-in-arms. They talk to him and remind him that the time for trusting women is gone. Once home he doesn't recognize the place. Frightened, he conjures up his imaginary friend, a disguised goddess who will help him destroy all those men who have been chasing his wife for the past 20 years. He tells himself he isn't just another PSTD scarred old homeless guy. He tells himself that his wife hasn't fooled around with any of those younger men who've been wooing her in his absence. He tells himself that with the help of his imaginary friend, the magically disguised goddess, he can kick the ass of any of those muscular young whippersnappers. His wife hasn’t been sleeping with any of them. She’s just been feeding them with his food and wine for 20 years because she’s a great hostess. She’s been weaving all this time. In the middle of the godsent night he commits mass murder. By the time rosy fingered dawn appears, there is carnage visible all around. He feels better: blood and severed heads, these are familiar, after all. His wife now recognizes him, cleans him up and takes him back. Flash forward, a decade later. He's good at telling this story in a way that makes him seem like Captain James T. Kirk and Bond, James Bond both. He was never a brain fried soldier/bum who lost his way. His wife was WEAVING for 20 years, not fooling around with younger men. He displays his scars proudly and tells his story the way he chooses to frame it. He is Odysseus, and a blind, wandering storyteller named Homer hears the story and has a friend take notes. Don't we all have the right to tell our stories the way we choose? Whoever thinks the unreliable narrator is a recent literary invention needs to do his/her homework. Its written form is at least 3,500 years old. But the unreliable narrator as a device is as old as talking to friends in order to feel better, and oral storytelling itself.