ცნობილი მწერალი,  პოეტი,  ირანის სულიერი ლიდერების მიერ სასიკვდილოდ გამეტებული სალმან რუშდი,  რომელსაც ,,შაჰინშაჰის”  ინგლისური გამოცემის წინასიტყვაობა ეკუთვნის,  წერს:  ამ ნაწარმოების წაკითხვისას გვეუფლება გრძნობა, როგორიც ხელოვნების ნამდვილი ნიმუშის კითხვისას:  ჩვენს ფანტაზიას ფრთები ესხმება.  ნაწარმოების შესახებ რეცენზიები დაიწერა London Review of Books-ში, The Observer-ში, Sunday Times-ში New York Times Book Review-ში, New Yorker-ში, Time-ში და Newsweek-ში.  ხოლო Sunday Times-მა 1983  წელს ,,შაჰინშაჰი”  წლის საუკეთესო ნაწარმოებად გამოაცხადა.

  სარჩევი :

1 იქ, სადაც ახსოვთ შვეიცარია; 2 ეჰ, ჩვენ, ქართველები; 3 არც ამერიკა და არც რუსეთი! ამის თქმა მხოლოდ სუფრაზეა ლამაზი; 4 პრესა ოპიუმია; 5 ასე იწყებოდა; 6 როცა ტვინში ვირუსებია; 7 ერთი ქალის თეატრი და რა არ მოსწონთ რუსებს?; 8 ლუდმილა გურჩენკოდან შერონ სტოუნამდე; 9 დარწმუნებული ვარ; 10 მოდი და დაარქვი ამას ექსპერტი; 11 რისთვის?; 12 ვორონეჟში გატარებული სტუდენტობა და სამაღარიჩო დისერტაციები; 13 სახალხო კრება თუ შულავერის კომიტეტი?; 14 მაისის წვიმით გადარეცხილი ილუზიები; 15 აქაც საჭიროა გენერაცია; ეპილოგი.

‘My mother,’ answered Telemachus, ‘tells me I am son to Ulysses, but it is a wise child that knows his own father. Would that I were son to one who had grown old upon his own estates, for, since you ask me, there is no more ill-starred man under heaven than he who they tell me is my father.’

And Minerva said, ‘There is no fear of your race dying out yet, while Penelope has such a fine son as you are. But tell me, and tell me true, what is the meaning of all this feasting, and who are these people? What is it all about? Have you some banquet, or is there a wedding in the family—for no one seems to be bringing any provisions of his own? And the guests—how atrociously they are behaving; what riot they make over the whole house; it is enough to disgust any respectable person who comes near them.’

Considering the difficulties which men have had to hold to a newly acquired state, some might wonder how, seeing that Alexander the Great became the master of Asia in a few years, and died whilst it was scarcely settled (whence it might appear reasonable that the whole empire would have rebelled), nevertheless his successors maintained themselves, and had to meet no other difficulty than that which arose among themselves from their own ambitions.

I answer that the principalities of which one has record are found to be governed in two different ways; either by a prince, with a body of servants, who assist him to govern the kingdom as ministers by his favour and permission; or by a prince and barons, who hold that dignity by antiquity of blood and not by the grace of the prince. Such barons have states and their own subjects, who recognize them as lords and hold them in natural affection. Those states that are governed by a prince and his servants hold their prince in more consideration, because in all the country there is no one who is recognized as superior to him, and if they yield obedience to another they do it as to a minister and official, and they do not bear him any particular affection.

MR. UTTERSON the lawyer was a man of a rugged countenance, that was never lighted by a smile; cold, scanty and embarrassed in discourse; backward in sentiment; lean, long, dusty, dreary, and yet somehow lovable. At friendly meetings, and when the wine was to his taste, something eminently human beaconed from his eye; something indeed which never found its way into his talk, but which spoke not only in these silent symbols of the after-dinner face, but more often and loudly in the acts of his life. He was austere with himself; drank gin when he was alone, to mortify a taste for vintages; and though he enjoyed the theatre, had not crossed the doors of one for twenty years. But he had an approved tolerance for others; sometimes wondering, almost with envy, at the high pressure of spirits involved in their misdeeds; and in any extremity inclined to help rather than to reprove.

Once upon a time there was a gentleman who married, for his second wife, the proudest and most haughty woman that ever was seen. She had two daughters of her own, who were, indeed, exactly like her in all things. The gentleman had also a young daughter, of rare goodness and sweetness of temper, which she took from her mother, who was the best creature in the world.

The wedding was scarcely over, when the stepmother’s bad temper began to show itself. She could not bear the goodness of this young girl, because it made her own daughters appear the more odious. The stepmother gave her the meanest work in the house to do; she had to scour the dishes, tables, etc., and to scrub the floors and clean out the bedrooms. The poor girl had to sleep in the garret, upon a wretched straw bed, while her sisters lay in fine rooms with inlaid floors, upon beds of the very newest fashion, and where they had looking-glasses so large that they might see themselves at their full length. The poor girl bore all patiently, and dared not complain to her father, who would have scolded her if she had done so, for his wife governed him entirely.

The Trial (German: Der Prozess) is a novel by Franz Kafka about a character named Josef K., who awakens one morning and, for reasons never revealed, is arrested and prosecuted for an unspecified crime. 

According to Kafka's friend Max Brod, the author never finished the novel and wrote in his will that it was to be destroyed. After his death, Brod went against Kafka's wishes and edited The Trial into what he felt was a coherent novel and had it published in 1925.

1801. I have just returned from a visit to my landlord the solitary neighbour that I shall be troubled with. This is certainly a beautiful country! In all England, I do not believe that I could have fixed on a situation so completely removed from the stir of society. A perfect misanthropist’s heaven: and Mr. Heathcliff and I are such a suitable pair to divide the desolation between us. A capital fellow! He little imagined how my heart warmed towards him when I beheld his black eyes withdraw so suspiciously under their brows, as I rode up, and when his fingers sheltered themselves, with a jealous resolution, still further in his waistcoat, as I announced my name.

There was once a poor Prince, who had a kingdom. His kingdom was very small, but still quite large enough to marry upon; and he wished to marry.

It was certainly rather cool of him to say to the Emperor’s daughter, ‘Will you have me?’ But so he did; for his name was renowned far and wide; and there were a hundred princesses who would have answered, ‘Yes!’ and ‘Thank you kindly.’ We shall see what this princess said.

Listen!

It happened that where the Prince’s father lay buried, there grew a rose tree—a most beautiful rose tree, which blossomed only once in every five years, and even then bore only one flower, but that was a rose! It smelt so sweet that all cares and sorrows were forgotten by him who inhaled its fragrance.

Down, down, down. Would the fall never come to an end! ‘I wonder how many miles I’ve fallen by this time?’ she said aloud. ‘I must be getting somewhere near the centre of the earth. Let me see: that would be four thousand miles down, I think—’ (for, you see, Alice had learnt several things of this sort in her lessons in the schoolroom, and though this was not a VERY good opportunity for showing off her knowledge, as there was no one to listen to her, still it was good practice to say it over) ‘—yes, that’s about the right distance—but then I wonder what Latitude or Longitude I’ve got to?’ (Alice had no idea what Latitude was, or Longitude either, but thought they were nice grand words to say.)

The Sick Lion

A Lion had come to the end of his days and lay sick unto death at the mouth of his cave, gasping for breath. The animals, his subjects, came round him and drew nearer as he grew more and more helpless. When they saw him on the point of death they thought to themselves: ‘Now is the time to pay off old grudges.’ So the Boar came up and drove at him with his tusks; then a Bull gored him with his horns; still the Lion lay helpless before them: so the Ass, feeling quite safe from danger, came up, and turning his tail to the Lion kicked up his heels into his face. ‘This is a double death,’ growled the Lion.

Our booked passenger showed in a moment that it was his name. The guard, the coachman, and the two other passengers eyed him distrustfully.

‘Keep where you are,’ the guard called to the voice in the mist, ‘because, if I should make a mistake, it could never be set right in your lifetime. Gentleman of the name of Lorry answer straight.’

‘What is the matter?’ asked the passenger, then, with mildly quavering speech. ‘Who wants me? Is it Jerry?’

Once upon a time and a very good time it was there was a moocow coming down along the road and this moocow that was coming down along the road met a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo...

His father told him that story: his father looked at him through a glass: he had a hairy face.

He was baby tuckoo. The moocow came down the road where Betty Byrne lived: she sold lemon platt.

Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it. And Scrooge’s name was good upon ‘Change, for anything he chose to put his hand to.

Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail.

Mind! I don’t mean to say that I know, of my own knowledge, what there is particularly dead about a door-nail. I might have been inclined, myself, to regard a coffin-nail as the deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade. But the wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile; and my unhallowed hands shall not disturb it, or the Country’s done for.

The houses themselves were substantial and very decent. One could walk all round, seeing little front gardens with auriculas and saxifrage in the shadow of the bottom block, sweet-williams and pinks in the sunny top block; seeing neat front windows, little porches, little privet hedges, and dormer windows for the attics. But that was outside; that was the view on to the uninhabited parlours of all the colliers’ wives. The dwelling-room, the kitchen, was at the back of the house, facing inward between the blocks, looking at a scrubby back garden, and then at the ash-pits. And between the rows, between the long lines of ash-pits, went the alley, where the children played and the women gossiped and the men smoked.

 გიუსტავ ფლობერის რომანი. მისი სრული სახელია „მადამ ბოვარი – პროვინციული ზნე–ჩვეულებები“. მეორე სათაური მკითხველს განუმარტავს ნაწარმოების არსს. რომანში ნაჩვენებია, თუ როგორ უხუთავს ადამიანს სულს დამყაყებული პროვინციული ყოფა.
ნაწარმოების მთავარმა მოქმედმა პირმა – ემამ ვერ ჰპოვა იდეალი ვერც მეუღლეში და ვერც თაყვანისმცემლებში. მისმა ცხოვრებამ რთული ხასიათი მიიღო, სადაც ზნეობრივი და უზნეო საქციელი გადაეხლართა ერთმანეთს. ემამ ყველაფერზე გული აიცრუა და ცხოვრება თვითმკვლელობით დაასრულა. ფლობერისთვის ემა განზოგადებული სახეა, ამიტომაც ავტორმა აღნიშნა: „ჩემი ემა ტირის საფრანგეთის ყოველ პროვინციულ ქალაქში“.

Когда у вас появляется ребенок, многие дела и проблемы становятся малозначимыми, отходят на второй план. Отныне дети — ваша главная забота и радость в жизни.

Хорошими родителями не рождаются, ими становятся. Сегодня мы знаем все о том, как нужно обращаться с детьми. Вы тоже сможете этому научиться. Любовь, терпение, уважение к личности маленького человека — вот главные составляющие правильного воспитания. Только в такой атмосфере ребенок вырастет здоровым,

ეს არის ელექტრონული რესურსები ფოტოგრაფებისთვის.თუ გინდათ, რომ უფრო ბევრი ელექტრონული რესურსები( ფოტოგრაფიასთან დაკავშირებული ჟურნალები,წიგნები და სხვა) გამოქვეყნდეს ჩვენ ბლოგზე მაშინ მიიღე მონაწილეობა გამოკითხვაში.

This ebook the basics on guitar playing. it also has alot of free resources.

Somewhere far in the north, in the middle of a dense forest, two girls have embarked on a sacred journey: a journey that is to end their carefree days among the children of their tribe. Grim as their world is, the destiny that is set upon them seems even darker, but such is often the way for the people of this land. End of Innocence is the first part of Fargoer, a series of fantasy short stories.