krainaksiazek getting him off quickly 20168854
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Książki & Multimedia > Książki
Opis - 'Only with the greatest of simplifications, for the sake of convenience, can we say Africa. In reality, except as a geographical term, Africa doesn't exist'. Ryszard Kapuscinski has been writing about the people of Africa throughout his career. In a study that avoids the official routes, palaces and big politics, he sets out to create an account of post-colonial Africa seen at once as a whole and as a location that wholly defies generalised explanations. It is both a sustained meditation on the mosaic of peoples and practises we call 'Africa', and an impassioned attempt to come to terms with humanity itself as it struggles to escape from foreign domination, from the intoxications of freedom, from war and from politics as theft. The Beginning: Collision, Ghana 1958 More than anything, one is struck by the light. Light everywhere. Brightness everywhere. Everywhere, the sun. Just yesterday, an autumnal London was drenched in rain. The airplane drenched in rain. A cold, wind, darkness. But here, from the morning's earliest moments, the airport is ablaze with sunlight, all of us in sunlight. In times past, when people wandered the world on foot, rode on horseback, or sailed in ships, the journey itself accustomed them to the change. Images of the earth passed ever so slowly before their eyes, the stage revolved in a barely perceptible way. The voyage lasted weeks, months. The traveller had time to grow used to another environment, a different landscape. The climate too, changed gradually. Before the traveller arrived from a cool Europe to the burning Equator, he already had left behind the pleasant warmth of Las Palmas, the heat of Al-Mahara, and the hell of the Cape Verde islands. Today, nothing remains of these gradations. Air travel tears us violently out of snow and cold and hurls us that very same day into the blaze of the tropics. Suddenly, still rubbing our eyes, we find ourselves in a humid inferno. We immediately start to sweat. If we've come from Europe in the wintertime, we discard overcoats, peel off sweaters. It's the first gesture of initiation we, the people of the North, perform upon arrival in Africa. People of the North. Have we sufficiently considered the fact that northerners constitute a distinct minority on our planet? Canadians and Poles, Lithuanians and Scandinavians, some Americans and Germans, Russians and Scots. Laplanders and Eskimos, Evenkis and Yakuts - the list is not very long. It may amount to o more than 500 million people: less than 10 per cent of the earth's population. The overwhelming majority live in hot climates, their days spent in the warmth of the sun. Mankind first came into being in the sun, the oldest traces of his existence have been found in warm climes. What was the weather like in the biblical paradise? It was eternally warm, hot even, so that Adam and Eve could go about naked and not feel chilled even in the shade of a tree. Something else strikes the new arrival even as he descends the steps of the airplane: the smell of the tropics. Perhaps he's had intimations of it. It is the scent that permeated Mr Kanzman's little shop, Colonial and Other Goods, on Perec Street in my hometown of Pinsk. Almonds, cloves, dates, and cocoa. Vanilla and laurel leaves, oranges and bananas, cardamom and saffron. And Drohobych. The interiors of Bruno Schulz's cinnamon shops. Didn't their
Shadow of the Sun Penguin
'Only with the greatest of simplifications, for the sake of convenience, can we say Africa. In reality, except as a geographical term, Africa doesn't exist'. Ryszard Kapuscinski has been writing about the people of Africa throughout his career. In a study that avoids the official routes, palaces and big politics, he sets out to create an account of post-colonial Africa seen at once as a whole and as a location that wholly defies generalised explanations. It is both a sustained meditation on the mosaic of peoples and practises we call 'Africa', and an impassioned attempt to come to terms with humanity itself as it struggles to escape from foreign domination, from the intoxications of freedom, from war and from politics as theft. The Beginning: Collision, Ghana 1958 More than anything, one is struck by the light. Light everywhere. Brightness everywhere. Everywhere, the sun. Just yesterday, an autumnal London was drenched in rain. The airplane drenched in rain. A cold, wind, darkness. But here, from the morning
The Bondage Edition Fischer, Frankfurt
Książki / Literatura obcojęzyczna
CHASING SHADOWS So here is the Third Ring Road. Yaroslav Station is just around the corner. My brain is no longer being stoked with opium fuel. The agonies are beginning, the precursor to abstinence, to put it in medical terms, when the body loses the last glow from the dying embers of that very thing. I urgently need another dose, but I, Peter Petrovich Parfenchikov, have run out. With the last remnants of willpower I suppress my desperate craving for the enchanting bloom. I am suffering a coughing attack, my mouth is filling with saliva, my nose is running, my eyes are watering, and beads of sweat are popping out on my forehead. My undershirt and shirt are sticking to my back. My socks are damp, it feels as though I have been walking through puddles. My stomach hurts, my heart feels heavy, my pulse has quickened, my eyes are clouding over, and a stubborn thought bores into my mind, "If only I can hold out another thirty minutes or so. Otherwise my withdrawal symptoms threaten to knock me flat right here in the street. I might find myself in the hospital suffering from horrendous convulsions or kicking the bucket in hellish torment without fulfilling my promise to myself: to leave this detestable Moscow and finally attain freedom!" I look out of the window. The gray May morning nods despondently at me with a frown. Drizzle falls silently on the windscreen, fragmenting my moribund thoughts even more. My mind is becoming increasingly impartial, I seem to have lost it altogether. Only fragments of earlier experiences flash chaotically before my eyes. Now I assiduously wipe the sweat from my forehead with a satin handkerchief and greedily chew on it, hoping to deaden the pain of abstinence, now the five-cubic syringe of morphine does not have a needle and is impossible to find... In a kind of profound frenzy I try unsuccessfully to stick it with all my might into my vein. The fight with my unyielding body finally gets the better of me. I am covered in blood... Suddenly I find myself in a poppy field. I am surrounded by the cherished plant as far as the eye can see. The size of a fist, it stands tall, its blooms with their yellowish, white-blue petals are driving me crazy; I have this overwhelming desire to eat them until I burst. But I am helpless, my arms are tightly clamped to my thighs. I want to break off the heads with my teeth and chew them as quickly as possible, enjoying the wondrous milk, feeling the luxurious high, but my mouth will not open. My teeth are clenched as though pinched closed by an overwhelming weight. Damnation!. At that moment, the scene changes. Not understanding what is happening, I lose my last sense of reason, I am on the brink of insanity. I swallow codeine pills by the fistful, but the withdrawal symptoms do not abate. Usually five or six pills not only relieve me of the agonies, they provide quite a reasonable high. But now I feel nothing! My agony not only continues, it is getting worse. I am feeling worse and worse. Now I no longer feel human. I have become a faceless, senseless, unrecognizable creature. "Is this really me? Is it me? Me?" Parfenchikov harped on to himself in confusion. His state was becoming intolerable. At this juncture it should be noted that Peter Petrovich had the habit of thinking about himself now in the third, now in the first person. Incidentally, this was not the only strange thing about him. Thank goodness that a new topic distracted him from his awful conclusions, otherwise he would have driven himself to complete hysterics with his questioning. .
Realm of Shadows ZEBRA BOOKS
Książki / Literatura obcojęzyczna
Tara Mason wants more than tourist sights out of her trip to the city of dreams, something strange and off the beaten path. But is it her own curiosity that draws her to an ancient cemetery on the outskirts of Paris? Or is she lured by a dark, immortal force she is powerless to resist? When she realizes someone is chasing after her, a shadowy figure getting closer and closer, how quickly the dream becomes nightmare...He calls himself a guardian. He is sworn to protect the innocent from an evil most never see. Now that he has caught up to her in the abandoned ruins of a country estate, he insists Tara must trust him. She has carelessly exposed herself. The evil has seen her, but he vows it will not claim her...
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