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Subject: generally interpreted as an allegory of the Communist revolution and "the revolution's misguided attempt to radically transform mankind."
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PulpRoman added 1 item to Book Diary 2021 list
Subject: A future technology makes it possible for cops to catch criminals before a crime is committed. John Anderton is accused of one such crime and sets out to prove his innocence.
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Olivia Culpo - Vogue India July 2020 (13 fashion items)
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Jack Lemmon and Marilyn Monroe (on the set) (9 movies items)
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Top directors who ascended in the past 20 years (25 person items)
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20.1
Muraki: Ask anyone: I'm no good. Even I think so. I'm the scum of the earth. I have nothing in common with ordinary society. But still - I forgive myself.
3 years, 2 months ago
PulpRoman added 1 item to Book Diary 2021 list
Subject: The year is 1928. On the outskirts of a large German city, three young men are earning a thin and precarious living. Fully armed young storm troopers swagger in the streets. Restlessness, poverty, and violence are everywhere. For these three, friendship is the only refuge from the chaos around them. Then the youngest of them falls in love, and brings into the group a young woman who will become a comrade as well. . . .
A certain simplicity is necessary for love. You have it. Keep it.It is a gift of God. Never to be gotten again once it is lost.
She used her husband as other folk do the Bible—for quotations. And the longer he was dead the harder she worked him. He now had something for all occasions—just like the Bible.
Upright we sat on the high bar stools; the music chattered, the pulse of life was clear and strong; it beat bravely in our hearts; the cheerlessness of the beastly furnished rooms that awaited us, the hopelessness of existence, was forgotten; the counter of "The Bar" was the Captain's bridge of the Ship of Life, and we were set once more for the open sea.
So there they sat on top of one another, the woman grown hysterical and the man in constant dread of losing his little job. If that happened he would be done for. He was already forty-five. No one would take him on again if he once got out of work. Such is the modern misery—formerly one went under slowly and there was always a chance still of coming up again—but in these days on the farther side of every dismissal yawns the abyss of permanent unemployment.
I wanted to say something, but I could not. It is difficult to find words when one really has something to say. And even if one knows the right words, then one is ashamed to say them. All these words belong to other, earlier centuries. Our time has not the words yet to express its feelings. We can only be offhand—anything else rings false.
I looked at the audience. They were people of every calling clerks, little business people, civil servants, a sprinkling of workers and lots of women. They sat there in the hot hall, leaning back or looking forward, row upon row, cheek by jowl, the torrent of words pouring over them, and it was curious different as they all were, the faces had all the same absent expression, a sleepy yearning look into the remoteness of some misty Fata Morgana; there was vacancy in it, and at the same time a supreme expectancy that obliterated everything—criticism, doubt, contradictions and questions, the obvious, the present, reality. He, up there, knew everything—had an answer for every question, a help for every need. It was good to trust oneself to him. It was good to have someone to think for one. It was good to believe.
3 years, 2 months ago