2019, ISBN: 9781843910015

Pasta dura

G.P. Putnam's Sons, 2018-12-31. Hardcover. Good. 9x6x1., G.P. Putnam's Sons, 2018-12-31, 2.5, Minotaur, 2009-09-29. Paperback. Good. 5x1x8., Minotaur, 2009-09-29, 2.5, Paperback. … Más…

G.P. Putnam's Sons, 2018-12-31. Hardcover. Good. 9x6x1., G.P. Putnam's Sons, 2018-12-31, 2.5, Minotaur, 2009-09-29. Paperback. Good. 5x1x8., Minotaur, 2009-09-29, 2.5, Paperback. Very Good., 3, Minotaur Books. Used - Very Good. Very Good condition. Very Good dust jacket. A copy that may have a few cosmetic defects. May also contain light spine creasing or a few markings such as an owners name, short gifters inscription or light stamp. Bundled media such as CDs, DVDs, floppy disks or access codes may not be included., Minotaur Books, 3, G.P. Putnam's Sons, 2019-07-23. Paperback. Very Good. Ships within 24 hours!Mass market paperback, minor wear and creasing to cover and spine, tight binding., G.P. Putnam's Sons, 2019-07-23, 3, Penguin Random House. Used - Good. Ships from the UK. Former library book; may include library markings. Used book that is in clean, average condition without any missing pages., Penguin Random House, 2.5, Pan Macmillan. Very Good. 5.12 x 1.1 x 7.76 inches. Paperback. 2013. "422 pages. <br>David Hosp's new standalone thriller When a CIA informant from Kandahar is gunned down in a suburban area of Virg inia outside D.C., special Agent Jack Saunders is tasked with unc overing a plot that could alter the fate of Afghanistan and unset tle a tepid peace in the Middle East. But when a raid on a radica l safe house goes horribly wrong, Jack finds himself without supp ort within his own government. Determined to find answers on his own, Jack enlists the aid of Cianna Phelan, a disgraced former w ar hero trying to put her life back together. When Cianna s broth er, Charlie, returns to South Boston from active duty in Afghanis tan and immediately goes missing, Cianna and Jack find themselves in a race against time not only to save his life, but to prevent an international conspiracy at the highest levels of the US inte lligence community. As lives are lost in the warrens of Boston s clannish underworld, Jack and Cianna realize they are on the trai l of one of the most sacred artefacts in all of Islam. And when t he bullets start to fly, they realize they can never know whom to trust, and nothing is what it seems. Praise for David Hosp Red -hot fiction rooted in stone-cold fact a legal thriller to rival the best from Grisham or Turow Lee Child 'It is the detail and subplots that make Hosp such a gripping writer. He creates real d ilemmas for his characters and saves the most touching resolution to the very end... Hosp is growing and developing with each new book' Daily Express" ., Pan Macmillan, 2013, 3, Awa Press. Very Good. 5.13 x 0.43 x 7.75 inches. Paperback. 2005. 144 pages. <br>This comprehensive overview reveals the secrets of one of the most enduring and soothing spirits-from the miraculou s process of turning grapes into wine and how the shape of a glas s affects its taste, to who decides if a wine is a winner and wha t makes it healthy to drink. Editorial Reviews Review If you're going to read only one book about wine, make it this one. And if you've read them all, try this as a marvelous refresher. -Simon Wilson, Cuisine magazine About the Author John Saker is one of N ew Zealand's best-known wine writers and a regular columnist for BMW Magazine. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights res erved. How to Drink a Glass of Wine By John Saker Awa Press Co pyright ® 2005 John Saker All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-0-958253 8-2-6 CHAPTER 1 In a French vineyard EVERY TIME I looked up, Ma rie-Thérèse's backside eclipsed the view. It was always moving aw ay from me, the pacesetter in a plodding patrol of backsides. Be nding double was the best way - or, more to the point, the least painful way - to attack the stout, un-trellised Provençal vines a nd strip them of their small dark orbs of juice. 'Back-breaking w ork' was, for once, the perfect description. If I stopped and unf olded I could temporarily tranquillise my angry spine, but I woul d also fall behind. Marie-Thérèse and her friends travelled down the vine rows like intent pecking hens among spilled seed. Tryin g to close the gap if their lead became embarrassing meant really stepping on the gas, and that held the potential for pain of a d ifferent sort. My left hand still carries traces of hurried misju dged lunges with those secateurs. We were a work gang of two hem ispheres: six New Zealanders - three young couples not long out o f university - and the rest mostly 60- and 70-something women fro m Flayosc, the nearby village perché that overlooked most of the vineyards in which we worked. The church bells of Flayosc dictate d the shape of our working days. Marie-Thérèse was the grande da me of Flayoscais grape-pickers. Her father had perished in the hu man abattoir of Verdun over 50 years earlier, and she had probabl y worked more vintages in these fields than anybody. She was hard -working, and shockingly provincial in outlook. When we shared ou r enthusiasm for someone we thought was a French cultural treasur e, Marie-Thérèse cut the conversation short. 'Piaf? She was nothi ng but a prostitute.' Yet behind the narrowed, assessing gaze an d blunt talk she seemed to like us, and made more effort than any one else to bridge the divide between our group's Old World old a nd New World young. She taught me the few lines of Provençal dial ect I can still muster, including Fa cao l'estiu, which translate s roughly as, 'She's hot out here, all right.' On the stroke of noon we'd stop for lunch, about a dozen of us gathering around ro ugh tables in cool stone huts. We usually brought our own food: b aguettes filled with saucisson, the French salami, or camembert c heese. Occasionally, a crop of home-grown pois chiches, or chick- peas, would appear in a huge bowl on the table. We'd help ourselv es, adding chopped onion, tomato, cornichon - pickled cucumber - and boiled egg. After a drenching in olive oil, it was ready to e at. And we drank. How we drank. We glugged down the red wine mad e the year before with fruit drawn from the same vineyards in whi ch we worked. It was a rough-and-ready blend of the workhorse gra pe varieties that clothe the southern French littoral - Grenache, Carignan, Cinsault, perhaps a bit of Syrah. It was light - usual ly only about 11 percent alcohol - simple, and improved by being slightly chilled. The hearty draughts we downed from Arcoroc tumb lers barely touched the sides. We drank for every possible reaso n: for refreshment; for taste - it was a dependable companion for the simple foods we ate; and for the effect the alcohol had on u s. The wine took the edge off our soreness, raised our spirits an d emboldened us for the long hot afternoons that lay ahead. It ga ve us energy. I used to marvel at the ferocity of my post-lunch a ttack on the vines. At the time I was ignorant of the process tha t occurs in the liver whereby alcohol is transformed i </div ., Awa Press, 2005, 3, Penguin Books. Good. 8.2 x 5.1 x 1.2 inches. Paperback. 2006. 414 pages. Cover worn.<br>A #1 New York Times Bestseller! Funny, insightful, illuminating . . . --The Boston Globe Twelve years ago, Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil exploded into a monu mental success, residing a record-breaking four years on the New York Times bestseller list (longer than any work of fiction or no nfiction had before) and turning John Berendt into a household na me. The City of Falling Angels is Berendt's first book since Midn ight, and it immediately reminds one what all the fuss was about. Turning to the magic, mystery, and decadence of Venice, Berendt gradually reveals the truth behind a sensational fire that in 199 6 destroyed the historic Fenice opera house. Encountering a rich cast of characters, Berendt tells a tale full of atmosphere and s urprise as the stories build, one after the other, ultimately com ing together to portray a world as finely drawn as a still-life p ainting. Editorial Reviews Review Funny, insightful, illuminati ng . . . [Venice] reveals itself, slowly, discreetly, under Beren dt's gentle but persistent prying. --The Boston Globe Berendt ha s given us something uniquely different . . . . Thanks to [his] s plendid cityportrait, even those of us far from Venice can marvel . --The Wall Street Journal About the Author John Berendt has be en a columnist for Esquire and the editor of New York magazine, a nd is the author of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, whic h was a finalist for the 1995 Pulitzer Prize in general nonfictio n. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. An E vening in Venice THE AIR STILL SMELLED OF CHARCOAL when I arriv ed in Venice three days after the fire. As it happened, the timin g of my visit was purely coincidental. I had made plans, months b efore, to come to Venice for a few weeks in the off-season in ord er to enjoy the city without the crush of other tourists. If the re had been a wind Monday night, the water-taxi driver told me as we came across the lagoon from the airport, there wouldn't be a Venice to come to. How did it happen? I asked. The taxi driver shrugged. How do all these things happen? It was early February, in the middle of the peaceful lull that settles over Venice ever y year between New Year's Day and Carnival. The tourists had gone , and in their absence the Venice they inhabited had all but clos ed down. Hotel lobbies and souvenir shops stood virtually empty. Gondolas lay tethered to poles and covered in blue tarpaulin. Unb ought copies of the International Herald Tribune remained on news stand racks all day, and pigeons abandoned sparse pickings in St. Mark's Square to scavenge for crumbs in other parts of the city. Meanwhile the other Venice, the one inhabited by Venetians, was as busy as ever-the neighborhood shops, the vegetable stands, th e fish markets, the wine bars. For these few weeks, Venetians cou ld stride through their city without having to squeeze past dense clusters of slow-moving tourists. The city breathed, its pulse q uickened. Venetians had Venice all to themselves. But the atmosp here was subdued. People spoke in hushed, dazed tones of the sort one hears when there has been a sudden death in the family. The subject was on everyone's lips. Within days I had heard about it in such detail I felt as if I had been there myself. IT HAPPENED ON MONDAY EVENING, January 29, 1996. Shortly before nine o'cloc k, Archimede Seguso sat down at the dinner table and unfolded his napkin. Before joining him, his wife went into the living room t o lower the curtains, which was her long-standing evening ritual. Signora Seguso knew very well that no one could see in through t he windows, but it was her way of enfolding her family in a domes tic embrace. The Segusos lived on the third floor of Ca' Capello, a sixteenth-century house in the heart of Venice. A narrow canal wrapped around two sides of the building before flowing into the Grand Canal a short distance away. Signor Seguso waited patient ly at the table. He was eighty-six-tall, thin, his posture still erect. A fringe of wispy white hair and flaring eyebrows gave him the look of a kindly sorcerer, full of wonder and surprise. He h ad an animated face and sparkling eyes that captivated everyone w ho met him. If you happened to be in his presence for any length of time, however, your eye would eventually be drawn to his hands . They were large, muscular hands, the hands of an artisan whose work demanded physical strength. For seventy-five years, Signor Seguso had stood in front of a blazing-hot glassworks furnace-ten , twelve, eighteen hours a day-holding a heavy steel pipe in his hands, turning it to prevent the dollop of molten glass at the ot her end from drooping to one side or the other, pausing to blow i nto it to inflate the glass, then laying it across his workbench, still turning it with his left hand while, with a pair of tongs in his right hand, pulling, pinching, and coaxing the glass into the shape of graceful vases, bowls, and goblets. After all those years of turning the steel pipe hour after hour, Signor Seguso's left hand had molded itself around the pipe until it became perm anently cupped, as if the pipe were always in it. His cupped hand was the proud mark of his craft, and this was why the artist who painted his portrait some years ago had taken particular care to show the curve in his left hand. Men in the Seguso family had b een glassmakers since the fourteenth century. Archimede was the t wenty-first generation and one of the greatest of them all. He co uld sculpt heavy pieces out of solid glass and blow vases so thin and fragile they could barely be touched. He was the first glass maker ever to see his work honored with an exhibition in the Doge 's Palace in St. Mark's Square. Tiffany sold his pieces in its Fi fth Avenue store. Archimede Seguso had been making glass since t he age of eleven, and by the time he was twenty, he had earned th e nickname Mago del Fuoco (Wizard of Fire). He no longer had the stamina to stand in front of a hot and howling furnace eighteen h ours a day, but he worked every day nonetheless, and with undimin ished pleasure. On this particular day, in fact, he had risen at his usual hour of 4:30 A.M., convinced as always that the pieces he was about to make would be more beautiful than any he had ever made before. In the living room, Signora Seguso paused to look out the window before lowering the curtain. She noticed that the air had become hazy, and she mused aloud that a winter fog had se t in. In response, Signor Seguso remarked from the other room tha t it must have come in very quickly, because he had seen the quar ter moon in a clear sky only a few minutes before. The living ro om window looked across a small canal at the back of the Fenice O pera House, thirty feet away. Rising above it in the distance, so me one hundred yards away, the theater's grand entrance wing appe ared to be shrouded in mist. Just as she started to lower the cur tain, Signora Seguso saw a flash. She thought it was lightning. T hen she saw another flash, and this time she knew it was fire. P apa! she cried out. The Fenice is on fire! Signor Seguso came qu ickly to the window. More flames flickered at the front of the th eater, illuminating what Signora Seguso had thought was mist but had in fact been smoke. She rushed to the telephone and dialed 11 5 for the fire brigade. Signor Seguso went into his bedroom and s tood at the corner window, which was even closer to the Fenice th an the living room window. Between the fire and the Segusos' hou se lay a jumble of buildings that constituted the Fenice. The par t on fire was farthest away, the chaste neoclassical entrance win g with its formal reception rooms, known collectively as the Apol lonian rooms. Then came the main body of the theater with its ela borately rococo auditorium, and finally the vast backstage area. Flaring out from both sides of the auditorium and the backstage w ere clusters of smaller, interconnected buildings like the one th at housed the scenery workshop immediately across the narrow cana l from Signor Seguso. Signora Seguso could not get through to th e fire brigade, so she dialed 112 for the police. The enormity o f what was happening outside his window stunned Signor Seguso. Th e Gran Teatro La Fenice was one of the splendors of Venice; it wa s arguably the most beautiful opera house in the world, and one o f the most significant. The Fenice had commissioned dozens of ope ras that had premiered on its stage-Verdi's La Traviata and Rigol etto, Igor Stravinsky's The Rake's Progress, Benjamin Britten's T he Turn of the Screw. For two hundred years, audiences had deligh ted in the sumptuous clarity of the Fenice's acoustics, the magni ficence of its five tiers of gilt-encrusted boxes, and the baroqu e fantasy of it all. Signor and Signora Seguso had always taken a box for the season, and over the years they had been given incre asingly desirable locations until they finally found themselves n ext to the royal box. Signora Seguso had no luck getting through to the police either, and now she was becoming frantic. She call ed upstairs to the apartment where her son Gino lived with his wi fe and their son, Antonio. Gino was still out at the Seguso glass factory in Murano. Antonio was visiting a friend near the Rialto . Signor Seguso stood silently at his bedroom window, watching a s the flames raced across the entire top floor of the entrance wi ng. He knew that, for all its storied loveliness, the Fenice was at this moment an enormous pile of exquisite kindling. Inside a t hick shell of Istrian stone lined with brick, the structure was m ade entirely of wood-wooden beams, wooden floors, wooden walls-ri chly embellished with wood carvings, sculpted stucco, and papier- mâché, all of it covered with layer upon layer of lacquer and gil t. Signor Seguso was aware, too, that the scenery workshop just a cross the canal from his house was stocked with solvents and, mos t worrisome of all, cylinders of propane gas that were used for w elding and soldering. Signora Seguso came back into the room to say she had finally spoken with the police. They already knew ab out the fire, she said. They told me we should leave the house at once. She looked over her husband's shoulder and stifled a screa m; the flames had moved closer in the short time she had been awa y from the window. They were now advancing through the four small er reception halls toward the main body of the theater, in their direction. Archimede Seguso stared into the fire with an apprais ing eye. He opened the window, and a gust of bitter-cold air rush ed in. The wind was blowing to the southwest. The Segusos were du e west of the theater, however, and Signor Seguso calculated that if the wind did not change direction or pick up strength, the fi re would advance toward the other side of the Fenice rather than in their direction. Now, Nandina, he said softly, stay calm. We' re not in any danger. The Segusos' house was only one of many bu ildings close to the Fenice. Except for Campo San Fantin, a small plaza at the front of the theater, the Fenice was hemmed in by o ld and equally flammable buildings, many of them attached to it o r separated from it by only four or five feet. This was not at al l unusual in Venice, where building space had always been at a pr emium. Seen from above, Venice resembled a jigsaw puzzle of terra -cotta rooftops. Passages between some of the buildings were so n arrow one could not walk through them with an open umbrella. It h ad become a specialty of Venetian burglars to escape from the sce ne of a crime by leaping from roof to roof. If the fire in the Fe nice were able to make the same sort of leap, it would almost cer tainly destroy a sizable swath of Venice. The Fenice itself was dark. It had been closed five months for renovations and was due to reopen in a month. The canal along its rear façade was also cl osed-empty-having been sealed off and drained so work crews could dredge the silt and sludge from it and repair its walls for the first time in forty years. The canal between the Segusos' buildin g and the back of the Fenice was now a deep, muddy gulch with a t angle of exposed pipes and a few pieces of heavy machinery sittin g in puddles at the bottom. The empty canal would make it impossi ble for fireboats to reach the Fenice, and, worse than that, it w ould deprive them of a source of water. Venetian firemen depended on water pumped directly from the canals to put out fires. The c ity had no system of fire hydrants. THE FENICE WAS NOW RINGED BY A TUMULT OF SHOUTS and running footsteps. Tenants, routed from t heir houses by the police, crossed paths with patrons coming out of the Ristorante Antico Martini. A dozen bewildered guests rolle d suitcases out of the Hotel La Fenice, asking directions to the Hotel Saturnia, where they had been told to go. Into their midst, a wild-eyed woman wearing only a nightgown came stumbling from h er house into Campo San Fantin screaming hysterically. She threw herself to the ground in front of the theater, flailing her arms and rolling on the pavement. Several waiters came out of the Anti co Martini and led her inside. Two fireboats managed to navigate to a water-filled canal a short distance from the Fenice. Their hoses were not long enough to reach around the intervening buildi ngs, however, so the firemen dragged them through the kitchen win dow at the back of the Antico Martini and out through the dining room into Campo San Fantin. They aimed their nozzles at flames bu rning furiously in a top-floor window of the theater, but the wat er pressure was too low. The arc of water barely reached the wind owsill. The fire went on leaping and taunting and sucking up grea t turbulent currents of air that set the flames snapping like bri lliant red sails in a violent wind. Several policemen struggled with the massive front door of the Fenice, but to no avail. One o f them drew his pistol and fired three shots at the lock. The doo r opened. Two firemen rushed in and disappeared into a dense whit e wall of smoke. Moments later they came running out. It's too la te, said one. It's burning like straw. The wail of sirens now fi lled the air as police and firemen raced up and down the Grand Ca nal in motorboats, spanking up huge butterfly wings of spray as t hey bounced through the wakes of other boats. About an hour after the first alarm, the city's big fire launch pulled up at the lan ding stage behind Haig's Bar. Its high-powered rigs would at last be able to pump water the two hundre, Penguin Books, 2006, 2.5, Hesperus Press. Very Good. 4.8 x 0.36 x 7.7 inches. Paperback. 2002. 112 pages. <br>Rich with hilarious episodes, Scriblerus is an ing enious satire of false learning and bad taste that has much to sa y to the pseudo-intellectual world of today. By taking one ambiti ous father and his determination to do everything in his power to produce a child of genius, Pope exposes the true folly of the me n of his age and their absurd veneration of the ancients. As this hallowed child grows into a man, it becomes clear that instead o f being the scholar his father so desired, he is simply the inevi table offspring of a laughable generation of pseudo-intellectuals and literati. Editorial Reviews Review I didn't know that ther e was also a bogus biography of the person, but here it is. -- Th e Guardian, Nicolas Lezard From the Publisher Hesperus Press, as suggested by their Latin motto, Et remotissima prope, is dedicat ed to bringing near what is far--far both in space and time. Work s by illustrious authors, often unjustly neglected or simply litt le known in the English-speaking world, are made accessible throu gh a completely fresh editorial approach or new translations. Thr ough these short classic works, which feature forewords by leadin g contemporary authors, the modern reader will be introduced to t he greatest writers of Europe and America. An elegantly designed series of exceptional books. About the Author Alexander Pope is the greatest English poet of the eighteenth century, with The Rap e of the Lock universally regarded as his masterpiece. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. After Martin had satisfied his curiosity here, he was conducted into another apart ment. Just at the entrance of the door appeared a negro prince. H is habiliments bespoke him royal; his head was crowned with the f eather of an ostrich, his sable feet and legs were interlaced wit h purple and gold, spangled with the diamonds of Cornwall and the precious stones of Bristol. Though his stature was of the lowest , yet he behaved himself with such an air of grandeur as gave evi dent tokens of his regal birth and education. He was mounted upon the least palfrey in the universe; a palfrey whose natural beaut y stood not in need of those various coloured ribbons which braid ed his mane and were interwoven with his tail. Again the crystal clarion sounded, and after several courteous speeches between the black Prince and Martin, our youthful philosopher walked into th e midst of the room, to bless his sight with the most beautiful c uriosity of nature. On a sudden entered at another door the two B ohemian sisters, whose common parts of generation had so closely allied them that nature seemed here to have conspired with fortun e that their lives should run in an eternal parallel. The sun h ad twice eight times performed his annual course since their moth er brought them into the world with double pangs. Lindamira's eye s were of a lively blue; Indamora's were black and piercing. Lind amira's cheeks might rival the blush of the morning; in Indamora the lily overcame the rose. Lindamira's tresses were of the paler gold, while the locks of Indamora were black and glossy as the p lumes of a raven. How great is the power of love in human breas ts! In vain has the wise man recourse to his reason, when the ins inuating arrow touches his heart and the pleasing poison is diffu sed through his veins. But then how violent, how transporting mus t that passion prove, where not only the fire of youth, but the u nquenchable curiosity of a philosopher, pitched upon the same obj ect! For how much soever our Martin was enamoured on her as a bea utiful woman, he was infinitely more ravished with her as a charm ing monster. What wonder then if his gentle spirit, already human ized by a polite education to receive all soft impressions, and f ired by the sight of those beauties so lavishly exposed to his vi ew, should prove unable to resist at once so pleasing a passion a nd so amiable a phenomenon? </div ., Hesperus Press, 2002, 3<

2002, ISBN: 1843910012

[EAN: 9781843910015], Gebraucht, sehr guter Zustand, [PU: Hesperus Press], 112 pages. Rich with hilarious episodes, Scriblerus is an ing enious satire of false learning and bad taste that… Más…

[EAN: 9781843910015], Gebraucht, sehr guter Zustand, [PU: Hesperus Press], 112 pages. Rich with hilarious episodes, Scriblerus is an ing enious satire of false learning and bad taste that has much to sa y to the pseudo-intellectual world of today. By taking one ambiti ous father and his determination to do everything in his power to produce a child of genius, Pope exposes the true folly of the me n of his age and their absurd veneration of the ancients. As this hallowed child grows into a man, it becomes clear that instead o f being the scholar his father so desired, he is simply the inevi table offspring of a laughable generation of pseudo-intellectuals and literati. Editorial Reviews Review I didn't know that ther e was also a bogus biography of the person, but here it is. -- Th e Guardian, Nicolas Lezard From the Publisher Hesperus Press, as suggested by their Latin motto, Et remotissima prope, is dedicat ed to bringing near what is far--far both in space and time. Work s by illustrious authors, often unjustly neglected or simply litt le known in the English-speaking world, are made accessible throu gh a completely fresh editorial approach or new translations. Thr ough these short classic works, which feature forewords by leadin g contemporary authors, the modern reader will be introduced to t he greatest writers of Europe and America. An elegantly designed series of exceptional books. About the Author Alexander Pope is the greatest English poet of the eighteenth century, with The Rap e of the Lock universally regarded as his masterpiece. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. After Martin had satisfied his curiosity here, he was conducted into another apart ment. Just at the entrance of the door appeared a negro prince. H is habiliments bespoke him royal; his head was crowned with the f eather of an ostrich, his sable feet and legs were interlaced wit h purple and gold, spangled with the diamonds of Cornwall and the precious stones of Bristol. Though his stature was of the lowest , yet he behaved himself with such an air of grandeur as gave evi dent tokens of his regal birth and education. He was mounted upon the least palfrey in the universe; a palfrey whose natural beaut y stood not in need of those various coloured ribbons which braid ed his mane and were interwoven with his tail. Again the crystal clarion sounded, and after several courteous speeches between the black Prince and Martin, our youthful philosopher walked into th e midst of the room, to bless his sight with the most beautiful c uriosity of nature. On a sudden entered at another door the two B ohemian sisters, whose common parts of generation had so closely allied them that nature seemed here to have conspired with fortun e that their lives should run in an eternal parallel. The sun h ad twice eight times performed his annual course since their moth er brought them into the world with double pangs. Lindamira's eye s were of a lively blue; Indamora's were black and piercing. Lind amira's cheeks might rival the blush of the morning; in Indamora the lily overcame the rose. Lindamira's tresses were of the paler gold, while the locks of Indamora were black and glossy as the p lumes of a raven. How great is the power of love in human breas ts! In vain has the wise man recourse to his reason, when the ins inuating arrow touches his heart and the pleasing poison is diffu sed through his veins. But then how violent, how transporting mus t that passion prove, where not only the fire of youth, but the u nquenchable curiosity of a philosopher, pitched upon the same obj ect! For how much soever our Martin was enamoured on her as a bea utiful woman, he was infinitely more ravished with her as a charm ing monster. What wonder then if his gentle spirit, already human ized by a polite education to receive all soft impressions, and f ired by the sight of those beauties so lavishly exposed to his vi ew, should prove unable to resist at once so pleasing a passion a nd so amiable a phenomenon? <

2002, ISBN: 1843910012

[EAN: 9781843910015], Gebraucht, sehr guter Zustand, [PU: Trafalgar Square], May have light to moderate shelf wear and/or a remainder mark. Complete. Clean pages., Books