Christeena Knowles từ Tepeče, Serbia

cjk1956

11/05/2024

Dữ liệu người dùng, đánh giá và đề xuất cho sách

Christeena Knowles Sách lại (10)

2019-06-09 04:30

Tấn Bi Kịch Z Thư viện Sách hướng dẫn

Sách được viết bởi Bởi: Ellery Queen

gyerekes,nem vettem eszre hogy 5 even felulieknek van

2019-06-09 05:30

Quyền Lực Đích Thực (Tái Bản 2015) Thư viện Sách hướng dẫn

Sách được viết bởi Bởi: Thích Nhất Hạnh

Old romance comics...new words. Oh yeah. Filling the gap Last Kiss left in our hearts. Can't go wrong.

2019-06-09 06:30

Bước Vào Thế Giới Hồi Giáo Thư viện Sách hướng dẫn

Sách được viết bởi Bởi:

My first encounter with the Portland poet Carl Adamshick’s work was “Out past the dead end sign,” a long poem in American Poetry Review in 2009. It’s a poem of great sustain, its plain statement crossed with sinuous thinking, a mad dream and a sensible conversation at once. Yet as skilled as he is at the long poem, the shorter poems in his first book, Curses and Wishes (LSU Press, 2011, winner of the Walt Whitman Award from the Academy of American Poets), are even more striking as bold, important announcements, aware of what poetry has done, and excited about what it has yet to do. Any alert graduate of an American high school could place Curses and Wishes in the tradition of Winesburg, Ohio and Spoon River Anthology, sharing as it does a placid Midwestern surface that masks beneath it ambiguity and complexity, but this is really international poetry: its geography is really chorography, the study of what is unobserved and borderless. Adamshick dissolves America into a form, turns of thought, shapes in the air, with a subtly detached, dissident vision. The committed imagism of his short poems offers a percussive clarity, and like any rhythm is as much about its rests as about its notes: what is left out moves us as much, if not more than, what is left in. Memoir I feel something impossibly small that might become pain as I slide a piece of paper under everything my mother has said. The title is partly tongue-in-cheek, referring to the vogue of memoir, and the tendency of contemporary poetry to be autobiographical, to distinguish the writer’s life from the six billion others through details, sensation, and sentiment. Here, though, the structure and substance of memoir become one. No details, no sensation, no revelation, only a breath-stopping emblem of memory and poetry. It starts as if still parodying the memoir—“I feel”—but by the third word the speaker has fractured the promise of the title’s humor, with the indistinct “something.” What unfolds from there is the entirety of the poet’s autobiography, an elaboration of the old joke about how many poets it takes to change a light bulb: “Two: one to change the bulb, and one to stare out the window, look at the rain, and think of his mother.” Whether you buy the idea from psychology that all human speech begins in the infant’s crying for its mother, this poem testifies to at least one individual’s poetic impulse toward this tableau. And how powerful is that “slip”! We slip paper under doors, sometimes under an insect to carry it outside, because paper is very slight, and “everything/ my mother has said” must be immense. Are the casually posited “everything” and “something” the same in this poem? One thing is impossibly small (suitable for a small poem) and the other thing is incalculably large, although without weight. A complicated matrix of dependencies emerges in these five lines, baffling until they are resolved the way the poet resolves them, with brevity and composition. The small thing only “might become pain,” in the second line. The poem is a snapshot, not a film. On the facing page of “Memoir” is “New Year’s morning,” another quickly-tied knot that asks something of the reader: New Year’s morning A low, quiet music is playing— distorted trumpet, torn bass line, white windows. My palms are two speakers the size of pool-hall coasters. I lay them on the dark table for you to repair. I hear the music at first literally, “low, quiet” perhaps because a well-celebrated Eve has led to a hangover, perhaps because the speaker is simply a quiet, orderly jazz aficionado: the trumpet’s distortion and the bass line’s tear could be due to a fuzzy needle, a bad radio signal, or intentional fragmented composition, perhaps Miles Davis and Ron Carter playing with an effects processor; but then, after a nice, orderly line break, we are presented with “white windows,” which in order to admit into this grouping we may have to redefine what sort of “music is playing” low and quiet this morning, as the year begins. Not music at all, maybe, but the torn, distorted self that has somehow managed to achieve another year. Judging from the state of the speaker’s hands (speaker!) and how they are arrayed before us, repair must begin immediately. His palms are on our dark table, either the counter where the repair arrangements and payment are discussed, or the work table itself, where we, as the professionals the poem has made us, will use our craft to restore them. And then we may listen clearly to the music he has to say. Repairing is a good job, the fixing of small engines, being able to service the objects of the house and farm. “Memoir” and “New Year’s morning” are poems of close relationships, but “Harvard, Illinois” broadens in scope to speak on behalf of a town. The poet’s choice in titling the poem “Harvard, Illinois” can’t avoid acknowledging the elite desire of the name, and the distance between the town and the college, and a sense that the town is no more interested in the institution than the town of Havre, Montana is interested in the sea, or Paris, Texas is in matters Eiffel and baguette. It’s 1,061 miles between Harvard, Illinois and Cambridge, Massachusetts according to Google maps, if the driver stays in I-80. And only 74 miles from downtown Chicago, hardly anything in modern distances. Here is the poem: Harvard, Illinois When someone moved to town, we went mad wondering what caused it. A whole family come to settle in the green house two doors down from the end. The grain elevator blocking the sun from three on. If he was going to work the fields or on cars. If her hair was the only toy the children had. Of course Adamshick’s Harvard, Illinois is a township of the mind, of his memory and artfulness and our speculation. It is polynomial, absolutely specific. And as in “Memoir” the promised precision is immediately upset by chosen indistinction: when “someone” moved to town. One must permit the echo of e.e. cummings’ “anyone lived in a pretty how town” in the first line, and then let that echo fade away in the “madness” of the neighbors, who have to come to terms with the new inhabitants of a place that is already theirs in language, the perfectly said “green house/ two doors down from the end,” followed by a sentence fragment whose predicate is supplied by regional accent: “The grain elevator/ blocking the sun from three on.” I marvel at “from three on,” which shouldn’t work, yet it pierces my heart. Fundamentally the poem is one sentence, voluntarily broken into fragmented clauses. The parallel and now independent “If” statements suggest “then” statements, but there is no “then” except teleology: yes, he is going to work the fields, yes her hair is the only toy, perhaps because the town has said so. Not in real life, of course, but this is a state of being rather than mere truth. Her hair as a toy indicates poverty, the gestures of children in her arms, pulling at her, but also the image of her hair, and of the townsfolk looking at her hair, which must be marvelous hair. It must be long. She is at least ten percent Medusa in my understanding, an automatic monster by being from somewhere else, a problem for the town to deal with, and a subject for a poem to distinguish. She is a mother, importantly, and as we learned in “Memoir,” mothers and poems are closely aligned, involuntarily, the way a child pulls a mother’s hair. It is what children must do. The speaker of the fourth poem I’d like to look at is no child, but is still speaking on behalf of the crowd, not just the residents of Harvard, Illinois, but everyone within earshot: HOPE I thought of a day— just one when we all lived perfectly. I thought of what that would do for us, how we would celebrate the anniversary of perfection. I dreamed so long I burned up on re-entry. Despite its focus on a space that allows both hope and hopelessness, “Hope” deploys its poetic effect in a way that radiates joy at composition, delight in singing. Much happens at the line breaks, with a hurry-up-and-push rhythm that speeds forward with good news about his visionary dream of living perfectly, and holds back the bad news about the dream, that to wake is annihilates. The short poem in Adamshick’s hands is a tool to affirm and deny human worth; they are poems of inner conflict after all. “Hope” delays its conceit for the final line: not a generalized “dreamer” but poetic impulse itself is the spaceship that cannot, have abandoned human experience, return to it. Compare this poem to Robert Frost’s “After Apple Picking,” whose speaker is “overtired/ Of the great harvest I myself desired” and recalls thousands of apples that escaped his grasp and fell to the ground, and were sent “surely to the cider-apple heap/ As of no worth.” Like Adamshick’s speaker, the result of trying to engage with the mysteries of perfection and imperfection is uneasy sleep: both poems stand alertly in front of us, with terrible shrug. Through deft attention to image and sound, Adamshick’s shorter poems suggest the character of being, inexplicitly. Certainly he jokes in all four of these poems with titles that could put at ease Norman Rockwell: memories of mother, a morning, small-town America, and the very vulnerable “Hope.” But these are not the real subjects, and each poem is a moon shoot. They are like Terrence Malick films, whose beauty we remember (headlights in the sagebrush of Badlands, tough geometries of fields in Days of Heaven, hillsides in smoke in The Thin Red Line) but wouldn’t have noticed without their tales of murder, cruelty, and exploitation. Curses and Wishes gives the darkness fuller space in its longer poems “Out past the dead end sign,” “The emptiness,” and “Our flag,” which in their mastery are admirable(—beyond that, I mean. “Our flag” is everything I didn’t know I wanted a poem to be.); these shorter poems occupy a big space space in my mind. They are like wood that has been heavily notched, used long, and discovered only now, removed from their original uses and almost forgotten. Intimate and familiar, these are poems that catch at the throat.

2019-06-09 07:30

Combo Sài Gòn Chở Cơm Đi Ăn Phở (Bộ 2 Cuốn) Thư viện Sách hướng dẫn

Sách được viết bởi Bởi: Ngữ Yên

I loved this book--maybe I should've given it five stars, because it was just so satisfying. The characters are well drawn, and the town just came to life. The protagonist reminded me a bit of Anne Shirley--stubborn and independent, sometimes at the expense of seeing the obvious. I liked her, even when she frustrated me. The story reminded me of Maeve Binchy at her best--stories that wrap you up in them like a warm blanket. It's just what I was in the mood for, and I can't wait to read part 2.

2019-06-09 08:30

Nụ Hôn Từ Biệt Thư viện Sách hướng dẫn

Sách được viết bởi Bởi: Jimmy Liao

I find Mike Huckabee to be entirely affable. He just seems like a nice man. Sure, he's a politician and sometimes says foolish things (as he did today on some radio show), but overall, he's incredibly likable. Does he have a snowball's chance in Hell of becoming President? I don't think so: he's too conservative, I think, to have wide appeal to the moderates and independents who actually elect Presidents in this country. With that said...who knows? Could anyone have predicted Barack Obama five or six years ago? I certainly didn't. Anyone truly can become President. What a great country! This is Governor Huckabee's latest book. He lays out twelve areas of concern about America, as well as telling about how he'd approach each issue. Much of what he writes is, in fact, common sense (secure borders, energy independence, etc.) I found myself nodding along much more often than I disagreed. The book is written with a very chatty tone, full of stories and anecdotes that make the author's point. It was a fast read. So here is my first political book for the POTUS 12 cycle which begins...last month. Newt Gingrich is ready to throw his hat into the ring sooner rather than later. Mike Huckabee may, or may not run (I'm thinking he will). Romney, of course. Personally I don't see an easy win for the GOP this time through: the President is excellent at getting elected, and there simply isn't a clear GOP front runner. With that said, there will be unlimited corporate and union spending this time around, so anything could happen. Would I vote for Mike Huckabee? For the time being, I'd have to give a definite maybe.

2019-06-09 09:30

An Island of Our Own Thư viện Sách hướng dẫn

Sách được viết bởi Bởi: Sally Nicholls

Margaret Atwood is pretty brilliant, at least based on the two books I've read by her (this and The Handmaid's Tale). While Oryx and Crake never reaches the soaring heights of fiction that The Handmaid's Tale tale, it's still a fantastic exploration of our future destination. She takes on a lot in this book. The sole character Snowman opens the novel in his post-apocalyptic world, dodging genetically engineered and dangerous animals, harrowing yet dependable weather, and keeping watch over a new species of humanoids (also genetically engineered). Through a series of flashbacks, Snowman relates his previous life as Jimmy, growing up in a dystopian America where the privileged live within walled compounds run by major corporations. Along the way he meets Crake, a genius with sociopathic tendencies who tries single-handedly to solve the world's population problem with modern science. Of course Crake does not account for the pull of human emotion, and his plans go horribly awry when the two boys jockey for the love of the beautifully damaged Oryx. While effective at creating a believable future (she succeeds in getting readers to buy into such ludicrous sounding imaginings as as a rat-snake hybrid called a "snat"), Atwood at times attempts to fill in too many holes. In The Handmaid's Tale, she trusts the reader to take the journey into Gilead without a handbook of what's what, yet in the end, the reader feels as though the story has been told to the furthest extent possible. The absence of total understanding the dystopia mirrors her protagonist's role in the oppressive society (something Cormac McCarthy does equally as well in The Road). Here though, Snowman almost knows too much, and the holes are more glaring in the plot. None of this detracts from the experience of the book though, and Atwood's creation is still fantastic. Perhaps too, judgment on this novel needs to be reserved until she completes the trilogy, as this is merely the first in a series of books focusing on the same dystopian vision.

2019-06-09 10:30

Toán Nâng Cao & Bồi Dưỡng Học Sinh Giỏi Lớp 4 (Tái Bản) Thư viện Sách hướng dẫn

Sách được viết bởi Bởi:

This book is great it shows you that highschool can be rough. Especially if you're new in it.

2019-06-09 11:30

Kỹ Năng Đàm Phán Thư viện Sách hướng dẫn

Sách được viết bởi Bởi: Nic Peeling

This was a pain in the ass to read, but has some major philisopical gems that have become a permanent part of my own philosopical/religious beliefs.

2019-06-09 12:30

Giải Đáp Các Tình Huống Mới Nhất Về Nghiệp Vụ Đấu Thầu Trong Xây Dựng Cơ Bản Thư viện Sách hướng dẫn

Sách được viết bởi Bởi:

The book is quite touching. The writing is interesting and very descriptive, which makes it quite good for reading. However, the blurb, cover design and first chapter don't really have much good content to it.

2019-06-09 13:30

Cẩm Nang Tư Duy Đạo Đức Thư viện Sách hướng dẫn

Sách được viết bởi Bởi: Richard Paul

A wonderful book about healing and friendship and returning to life after loss and trauma. Veronika, a young witer, rents the isolated house next to Astrid's, to hole up in after the death of her fiance. Astrid is an old woman, a recluse, living in the dark in her old house, nursing her grief and anger. Without intending to, they become interested in each other and become friends. As they come to trust each other they share their stories.

Người đọc Christeena Knowles từ Tepeče, Serbia

Người dùng coi những cuốn sách này là thú vị nhất trong năm 2017-2018, ban biên tập của cổng thông tin "Thư viện Sách hướng dẫn" khuyến cáo rằng tất cả các độc giả sẽ làm quen với văn học này.