100% Trọng Tâm Ôn Kiến Thức - Luyện Kỹ Năng Hóa Học 12 tải xuống LIT miễn phí

Mohamed Elsayed 3_friends — This is one of the better chick-lit books I've read in a long time. It's fast-paced, witty, juicy, and fun. It's about entertainment agent Tess Drake, and she lets you know right away that she's not perfect. I could guess where some of the plot lines were going, but couldn't put the book down anyway!

Tiago Sousa 333tiago3315ce — One of the few times I remember reading a second novel and liking it more than the first (Kiterunner--which I also loved)

Gate2eight Gate2eight gatetoeight — This was one of the very first romantic suspense novels I ever read. The plot is gripping, the characters are sexy. I've read it about a million times since I first picked it up and always manage to somehow compare other contemporary romances to Dream Man.

Elisa Lanconeli elisalanco0f5c — Having ignored any of the celebrated “Top 100” or any of the works often cited as “Must-Reads” for quite some time, I finally decided it was time to tackle one of those daunting relics everyone seems to go totally apeshit over; either hoping to enlarge my understanding of the human condition via a top-notch literary effort, or at least to find something worth talking some shit about in disgust. I was due for a break from my standard fare, anyway, I’d flooded my damaged brain with a string of absolute garbage; to prove just how bad it was, about the only time I felt I was reading anything of substance was while checking out reviews of the latest releases by emo bands in Alternative Press, or the Penthouse Letters while perusing back issues of smut. When these things start looking like insightful literature, you’ve got some problems. Looking back, approximately a fifth of all my books on goodreads have exactly one review, mine, and for good reason. Obviously, I needed to break this disparaging streak. About six months back I finally got around to tackling some Dickens after many fruitless failures, and while another of his works seemed like a pretty sure bet, I decided I’d take a risk and go for something a little farther out on the limb than I’d usually go, something really daring and preposterous, perhaps even something written by a chick, or a Skeksi. So, when I came across a fifty-cent copy of Emma, I was pretty much open to anything. I couldn’t have picked a better time to read Emma, a book which focuses solely on the delightful and pampered existence of upper-crust wastrels and dandies residing in some backasswards little county in England. While I was completely ignorant of Austen’s oft-praised body of work and had no idea what I was in for when I began reading it, I was soon lulled into a near-coma of blissful escapism from the woes of the modern day; a perfect read during a complete economic collapse. I couldn’t help feeling less-than completely enlightened reading about the exploits of Emma Woodhouse, who has never and will never work a day in her privileged life, as she immerses herself into one self-created and imbecilic folly (usually concerning ‘affairs of the heart’) after another in this sweeping novel, and real life afforded a poignant converse as I watch my ‘stable’ friends (those who quit smoking grass and shotgunning beers, ceased throwing a bone to any old whore that came around salivating for schlong, and embarked on something called a career) lose their homes, their life savings, and sell their children to sweatshops in Myanmar. I can’t say that their misfortune has been without personal benefit for me, as I can now look at my meager savings and accomplishments with some sort of pride in light of their tragic downfall, and have no qualms bragging to them that I’m living high on the hog. Yes, I am a bastard like that, which is probably why I don’t have many friends. I’ll be honest, Emma was starting to win me over on these disgustingly vain grounds; anything capable of making a half-literate slob working in a warehouse after failing to attend even one full semester of college feel like a success definitely has some fantastic powers of persuasion, but after reassessing the situation, I came to the conclusion that I hadn’t actually done more than these unfortunates, I just that I had less to lose when the bottom fell out. It’s true that a cheap evasion tactic isn’t everything, though. Nearing the halfway mark of the book (about the point Emma has totally fucked up about twenty things without a care as she’ll never have to worry about falling from grace) I briefly reconnected with reality; paid the bill for the cell phone I never use, paid the car insurance for the accidents I’ve never had, regretted money siphoned from my paycheck to provide the for schools I’ll never put children in and a police force that’s done nothing but ruin my good times and beat my honky ass, before sitting down and making a turkey sandwich with expired bread and meat, while drinking tap water containing twenty-parts-per-million Canadian goose shit . What a fucking wake-up call this ordeal was! I recognized that life is simply to difficult for me, whimpered long enough for a single, cool tear to trickle out, and I dove back into Emma like a syphilitic into a pool of penicillin. The story itself isn’t much to brag about; Emma Woodhouse (generously described on page one as “handsome, clever, and rich”) is hesitantly approaching adulthood, as her sister and childhood confidant/governess/slave Miss Taylor are both removed from her via matrimony. In a rather ironic twist of fate, Emma prides herself on her matchmaking abilities, and it appears that this singular gift resulted in the loss of the two women who would be best able to assist her in stepping into the world confidently with the style deserving one of her social standing. A solid back-up plan emerges when Harriet Smith enters her life, a girl of substantially lower standing and willing to act as a witless puppet, for whom Emma decides to provide direction and guidance in her own humble quest for a mate, often with disastrous consequences which a Woodhouse can completely ignore as mere trifles, but leave a lingering stigma on a Smith. With these follies providing a constant backdrop, Emma herself starts getting into the mix and trying to capture the fancy of a deserving gentleman, at which time she becomes engaged with an equally-admired adversary (the minx Jane Fairfax) and eventually entangles herself in a rather uninteresting web of deceit. Just when it seems that all is going to end well for all involved, the astute reader is torn between the glowing satisfaction that almost every endearing member of the charming cast apparently finds true, lasting love, and the reader’s own impending return to the evils of modern life outside the covers of a book, Jane Austen has one last, wholly unexpected surprise. One of the very first things we learn is that Mrs. Woodhouse, Emma’s mother has been dead for many long years, but we never know what the cause of death was. Austen can’t leave her to rest in peace however, and in closing the book, we discover that she succumbed in the first global H1N1 epidemic, and that Mr. Woodhouse has been harboring a Super-Swine-Flu germ for years, which is spread at Emma’s nuptials, resulting in the devastating demise of these colorful characters we can’t help but love. Note to some Important Dude at Quirk Books: the last paragraph is my plea for you to consider allowing me to co-author your first mass-market flop, Emma and Extinction-Level Epidemics. C’mon man, Emma with a little end-of-days catastrophe tossed into the mix, including the marketing bonanza promised by swine-flu association…. I’ll be cool with whatever cover art you want; you want the portrait/cameo looking thing of Emma, but wearing a surgical mask, I can roll with this, selling books is your business, I’ll take your keen advice. Shit, I’ll even promise to personally buy a copy myself if that somehow helps in your sage consideration of this proposition (since I’ll certainly delete the original from my computer).