The Urantia Book
Written in the form of a revelation from divine beings, the classic guide to expanding consciousness presents texts discussing God, the universe, angels and other beings, the history of the world, the development of civilization, personal spiritual growth, and the life and teachings of Jesus.
The sacred hill
Maurice Barrès A été écrit sous une forme ou une autre pendant la plus grande partie de sa vie. Vous pouvez trouver autant d'inspiration de The sacred hill Aussi informatif et amusant. Cliquez sur le bouton TÉLÉCHARGER ou Lire en ligne pour obtenir gratuitement le livre de titre $ gratuitement.
A Perfect Stranger
After the collapse of his first marriage, Alex Hale fears he will never find happiness again. Young, rich and desperately lonely, Raphaella is sentenced to an empty life in her mansion, bound by a sense of honour and duty to her elderly husband. Alex and Raphaella are worlds apart when life conspires to bring them together. But theirs is a love affair of stolen moments and the promise of tomorrow. Is it possible to find happiness with a perfect stranger?
The Right To Be Lazy
Loafers, loungers, and malingers of the world, this is your manifesto. Though it may sound like little more than a slacker's bill of rights, Paul Lafargue's The Right to Be Lazy is actually a carefully considered philosophical defense of a life free of the demands of labor that is carried out purely in the service of capitalism. The thinker was true to his belief system, dying in a joint suicide pact with his wife (who happened to be Karl Marx's daughter) at the age of 69 to avoid burdening his family.
The Wandering Who
An investigation of Jewish identity politics and Jewish contemporary ideology using both popular culture and scholarly texts. Jewish identity is tied up with some of the most difficult and contentious issues of today. The purpose in this book is to open many of these issues up for discussion. Since Israel defines itself openly as the ‘Jewish State’, we should ask what the notions of ’Judaism’, ‘Jewishness’, ‘Jewish culture’ and ‘Jewish ideology’ stand for. Gilad examines the tribal aspects embedded in Jewish secular discourse, both Zionist and anti Zionist; the ‘holocaust religion’; the meaning of ‘history’ and ‘time’ within the Jewish political discourse; the anti-Gentile ideologies entangled within different forms of secular Jewish political discourse and even within the Jewish left. He questions what it is that leads Diaspora Jews to identify themselves with Israel and affiliate with its politics. The devastating state of our world affairs raises an immediate demand for a conceptual shift in our intellectual and philosophical attitude towards politics, identity politics and history.
Madonna is the biggest female pop star in the world yet there is no serious biography of her, and no biography at all by a woman. Existing books are either gossipy style manuals or rehashes of press cuttings and they all end in 2001 with Madonna's marriage to Guy Ritchie. Yet her story hardly ends there, as evinced by her two record breaking world tours since then... Lucy O'Brien's extensive and well-researched biography will look at Madonna the artist, giving detailed analysis of her music, complete with revealing interviews with musicians and producers. It will focus on her cultural impact and the way she uses cinema, photography, visual art, theatre and dance in her work. It will take an in-depth look at how - and, more to the point, why - Madonna has reinvented herself through her twenties, thirties, forties and will no doubt do so again in her fifties. It will also look at the wider context and include interviews with similarly crusading female artists like Tori Amos, Laurie Anderson, Jeanette Winterson and Tracey Emin. This will be, quite simply, the definitive Madonna biography.
BLUE BOY by JEAN GIONO. CHAPTER I. Mof my age here remember the time when he road to Sainte-Tulle was bordered by a erried row of poplars. It is a Lombard cus om to plant poplars along the wayside. This road came, with its procession of trees, from the very heart of Piedmont. It straddled Mont Genevre, it flowed along the Alps, it caine all the way with its burden of long creaking carts and its knots of curly-haired countrymen who strode along with their songs and their hussar pantaloons flutter ing in the breeze. It came this far but no farther. It came with all its trees, its two-wheeled carts, and its Pied monteses, as far as the little hill called Toutes-Aures. Here, it looked back. From this point it saw in the hazy distance the misty peak of the Vaucluse, hot and muddy, steaming like cabbage soup. Here it was assailed by the odors of coarse vegetables, fertile land, and the plain. From here, on fine days, could be seen the still pallor of the whitewashed farmhouses and the slow kneeling of the fat peasants in the rows of vegetables. On windy days, the heavy odors of dung heaps surged in waves along with the broken, bloody bodies of storms from the Rhone. At this point the poplars stopped. The carts rolled noisily into the jaws of the way side inns with their loads of corn flour and black wine. The carters said, Porca wwdona They sneezed like mules that have snuffed up pipe smoke, and they stayed on this side of the hill with the poplars and the carts. The chief inn was called Au Territoire de Piemont. In those days, our country was made up of meadows and fair orchards that used to unfold in a magnificent spring time as soon as the warm weather came up the Durance Valley. They knewhow to recognize the approach of the long days. By what means, no one knows. By some bird cry or by that burst of green flame that lights up the hills on April evenings. They would simply begin to flutter while the frost was still on the grass, and, one fine morning, just when the bluish heat weighed upon the rocky bed of the Durance, the gaily flowered orchards would begin to sing in the warm breeze. That we have all seen from the time we were mere urchins in our black school smocks. I remember my father's workroom. I can never pass by a shoemaker's shop without thinking that my father still exists, somewhere beyond this world, sitting at a spirit table with his blue apron, his shoemaker's knife, his wax-ends, his awls, making shoes of angel leather for some thousand legged god. I was able to recognize strange steps on the stairs. I could hear my mother saying below, It is on the third floor. Go up, you will see the light. And the voice would reply, Grazia, signora And then the sound of the feet. They stumbled on that soapstone step near the top of the first flight. The loose boards in the landing rattled be neath the heavy boots. Their hands pressed against the two walls in the darkness. Here comes one of them, said my father. Putamr That is a Romagnol, said my father. And the man would enter. I remember that my father always gave them the chair near the window, then he would lift his spectacles. He would begin to speak in Italian to the man who sat erect, hands on thighs, all perfumed with wine and new corduroy. Sometimes it took a long time. At others, the smile came almost at once. My father spoke without gestures, or with very slow ones, because he held a shoe in one hand and theawl in the other. He would talk until he saw the smile. It was useless for the other to haul out papers, to tap on his papers with the back of his hand. Porca di Dior Until the smile appeared my father talked on, and some times the other would say in a hushed tone, Che bellezza Then the man would smile. Moreover, they did not come to my father at once. I do not know by what miracle they came. ...