Tóm Lược Văn Phạm Tiếng Anh Căn Bản tải xuống LIT miễn phí

Andris K antee — I couldn't get further into this book than about 75 pages. It was very tragic right off the bat, and the tragedy just festered and soaked into everything. I put the book down for good when a second tragedy began to unfold. I just couldn't take it! It was well written and the story was compelling, but I found it generally miserable to pick up...

Ben Map perthfashionhunter — This book is not terribly long and has a fantastic story which illustrates living with the bad, and trying to make a difference.

Vidit Sachdeva vidit08 — A lot of people chock this book up to a bunch of bullshit. I remember a film critic from my hometown exclaiming (when the movie came out), "isn't this just about three women who are having a really bad day?" And it is. That's true. But the essence of the book is such a distant thing for Americans or men or whoever the fuck is complaining about bourgeois tedium. Busy bees don't get ennui. This book is about nothingness. It's a study of what Friedan wrote about in the Feminine Mystique amplified by the fictional Dalloway and versed in a contemporary context. It is basically a declaration (by a man, strangely) of how creepily things have and have not changed for women in their ability to express themselves freely. Michael Cunningham goes on long, loquacious rants twirling with flora and characterizing the epitomes of these lost souls, their endless potential and possibilities and the tiredness of their inevitable aging: She is still slim. She still exudes, somehow; an aspect of thwarted romance, and looking at her now, past fifty, in this dim and prosperous room, Louis thinks of photographs of young soldiers, firm-featured boys serene in their uniforms; boys who died before the age of twenty and who line on as the embodiment of wasted promise, in photo albums or on side tables, beautiful and confident, unfazed by their doom, as the living survive jobs and errands, disappointing holidays. At this moment Clarissa reminds Louis of a soldier. or ...the way morphine rescues a cancer patient; not be eradicating the pain but simply by making the pain cease to matter. It's almost as if she's accompanied by an invisible sister, a perverse woman full of rage and recriminations, a woman humiliated by herself, and it is this woman, this unfortunate sister, and not Laura, who needs comfort and silence. Laura could be a nurse, ministering to the pain of another. I like it, but i like flowers. Literary flowers. I like bullshit. I like unnecessary explanation. Don't get me wrong. I like stark and subtle too. I like baroque and minimalism. I think they both have their place. This is not minimal. The Hours are about time's great big visceral gaping smoking gun eyeball. It is about clock watching. This is very new yorker. Very "first world problems." It is at once fashionable and graceful and overly clean and full of repose--like Meryl Streep. It's interesting this was written by a man. I get that itch of a imposition, you know. Like, "i bet shit's like this!" It's why i won't read what is the what and why i was disappointed by Culture Jam (i thought Kalle Lasn was a girl. When i found out he was some estonian dude, i was like, 'Damn, it's just another white dude shouting at the television.'). White men writing for other people as a testament to their plight is such a strange bullshit. But, as an absurd wonderer, i have to let it slide. I mean, everyone wants to imagine. Sucks there's so much potential fiction out there which could have been written by women, or by natives of some land or by gang-members in Detroit. But we have to settle for how we think they think, because white men are writing and we've got to read something; we've got to read someone's imagination: Couldn't they have discovered something...larger and stranger than what they've got? It is impossible not to imagine that other future, that rejected future, as taking place in Italy or France, among big sunny rooms and gardens; as being full of infidelities and great battles; as a vast and enduring romance laid over friendship so searing and profound it would accompany them to the grave and possible even beyond. She could, she thinks, have entered another world. She could have had a life as potent and dangerous as literature itself. Or then again maybe not, Clarissa tells herself. That's who i was. That's who i am--a decent woman with a good apartment, with a stable and affectionate marriage, giving a party. Venture too far for love, she tells herself, and you renounce citizenship in the country you've made for yourself. You end up just sailing from port to port. I like it. It's a test. Cunningham is trying to see, 'can i think like a beautiful, intelligent, inexplicably sad woman?' And he's tryin' Ringo. He's tryin real hard to be that woman: Laura faces her little boy, who stares at her nervously, suspiciously, adoringly. She is, above all else, tired; she wants more than anything to return to her bed and her book. The world, this world, feels suddenly stunned and stunted, far from everything. There is the heat falling evenly on the streets and houses; there is the single string of stores referred to, locally, as dry cleaner's; there is the beauty parlor and the stationery shop and the five-and-dime; there is the one-story stucco library, with its newspapers on wooden poles and its shelves of slumbering books. ...life, London, this moment of June. When you get down to it, this is a very good book. It has a great rhythm and the characters are portrayed amazingly. I thought the movie adaptation was also really impressive. Although, i don't know why they cast Jeff Daniels as Louis, the "beaky nose and pale, astonished eyes; the wiry brows; the neck powerfully veined under a broad, bony chin. He was meant to be a farmer, strong as a weed, ravaged by weather, and age has done in fifty years what plowing and harvesting would have in half the time." mother fucker should have looked like Anderson Cooper, not dumb or dumber. It's a good bedside read. Good summer read. It is just about as worthwhile as a bouquet of flowers, which is appropriate considering the subject matter. It is ephemeral but it is keen, vibrant and sophisticated. It is also immensely complex when you notice the fibers, the hairs on the stem, the pattern with which it was decorated, and by whom, and what does she think, and what does she do when she's not arranging flowers... on the other side is London, and all London implies about freedom, about kisses, about the possibilities of art and the sly dark glitter of a party is about to begin; death is the city below, which Mrs. Dalloway loves and fears and which she wants, in some way, to walk into so deeply she will never find her way back again.