dijous, 30 de juny de 2016

In the future, ainda se ouve telefonia telefones têm visor mas ainda se escrevem cartas cinemas sensoriais vidros polarizados und so weiter ....os voluntários recebem mulher primeiro e 100 dólares para comer qualquer coisinha antes de partirem ...2 mega colonos por ano 20 mil planetas colonizados ainda há barões de pitrol no texas logo até 2116 não há falta de gasolina ....mankind has unified in the idea of colonizing the stars. The only problem with that is nobody, or at least very few, actually want to go. A lottery is created to conscript people to start new colonies. The holes in the plot begin The computer had chosen them - a small cross-section of humanity to serve Mankind's Destiny. Out of seven billion people on Earth mechanical chance had selected them as involuntary colonists on an unknown planet. In seven days they would be on their way, on a sink-or-swim mission to a lonely world beyond the limits of the Solar System. It was a summons each had privately dreaded, yet always been prepared for. But no one had prepared them for the vicious attacks of sinister aliens

Dave Mulholland, mid-level bureaucrat who got the cushy job of determining who’s sent off to colonize space. In this world, in order to jump-start Earth’s space colonialism, rockets are sent off in a near-constant chain, each containing fifty men and fifty women; these lucky souls are paired off, married, and dumped off on a habitable solar body of some kind to colonize it. Someone had come up with the brilliant idea that, if mankind didn’t want to colonize the stars on its own, they’d do so by force, with the rather unsavory means justifying the major advantages it’d reap for future generations. Mulholland has a number of qualms about his job, but by keeping the selected colonists as numbers on a card, he manages to stay sane.

So, were you expecting Dave to end up on a rocketship blasting off to a colony world, as upcoming elections could see him out of a job? No, they already wrote that book, and it was called The Space Merchants. Instead, we’re taken to our cast of characters, who are, in order: a collegiate sad-sack (Mike Dawes), a singing tramp (Cherry Thomas), the cockiest swingin’ dick ever to come down the pike (“Ky” Noonan), and a whimpering ditz (Carol Herrick). The process is interesting—we see these characters’ daily lives up until they receive their space conscription letter, and how they take the news of their selection—and then, they’re off!
At their new home planet, things take a dramatic turn, and we enter the third act, or plot, as it were: the one advertised on the cover. Our four characters are dragged off by these crazy aliens, furry tentacled things, who are studying human actions and relationships. The last thirty or forty pages has passable tension and development as these four characters are stuck together and forced to make the best of it. While it’s a bit late in the story, it has some good tension, friction, and developing insights into the characters.

The Seed of Earth feels like two good ideas crammed together to make one novel: the idea of systematic forced colonization, and the idea of aliens capturing space colonists and pitting them against each other. Neither are bad ideas; the shallowness is a problem related to Ace and its size constraints. It’s an average example of early Silverberg, and mediocre early Silverberg at that: it has nothing of the grandeur of his later works, though it’s passable as a hundred-forty-page adventure yarn

dimecres, 29 de juny de 2016

O GERADOR MURMUROU NA SUA CABEÇA A normal man would have lain down and died, but to Hugh Valland the task before him seemed simple enough. It was necessary to organize a revolution by a group of primitives against their telepathic overlords; build with the help of those same primitives a spaceship virtually from scratch; contact, via that spaceship, a third group of aliens, and enlist their aid in returning home across the galactic abyss. At worst it would take a lifetime...and Valland's one true love, Mary O'Meara was waiting.

a place between galaxies. There was also some interesting anthropological efforts, at figuring out the culture of a group of psychic creatures that have slowly evolved for tens of millions of years and how that would affect their perspective of themselves. There were definitely some gaps in terms of plot and character development so I wouldn't credit this book as an example of excelling writing

Number 99 was an eviscerated ceramics plant. During the war a succession of blazing explosions had burst among the stock of thousands of chemical glazes, fused them, and splashed them into a wild rainbow reproduction of a lunar crater. Great splotches of magenta, violet, bice green, burnt umber, and chrome yellow were burned into the stone walls. Long streams of orange, crimson, and imperial purple had erupted through windows and doors to streak the streets and surrounding ruins with slashing brush strokes. This became the Rainbow House of Chooka Frood.” “The mind is the reality. You are what you think. A PROVA DA INTELIGÊNCIA É A RECUSA DE LUTAR CONTRA O ÓBVIO - Be grateful that you only see the outward man. Be grateful that you never see the passions, the hatreds, the jealousies, the malice, the sicknesses... Be grateful you rarely see the frightening truth in people.” ― Alfred Bester, The Demolished Man 60 likes Like “Eight, sir; seven, sir; Six, sir; five, sir; Four, sir; Three, sir; Two, sir; one! Tenser, said the Tensor. Tenser, said the Tensor. Tension, apprehension, And dissension have begun

If a man's got talent and guts to buck society, he's obviously above average. You want to hold on to him. You straighten him out and turn him into a plus value. Why throw him away? Do that enough and all you've got left are the sheep.


Listen, normals! You must learn what it is. You must learn how it is. You must tear the barriers down. You must tear the veils away. We see the truth you cannot see... That there is nothing in man but love and faith, courage and kindness, generosity and sacrifice. All else is only the barrier of your blindness. One day we'll all be mind to mind and heart to heart...”

O PONTO MAIS ALTO DO ANTI-EROTIKON SÃO OS NUS DE PICASSO E DE PIKACHU .....Аркадий Стругацкий, Boris Strugatsky, Борис Стругацкий IN THE FAR FUTURE... Mankind knows contentment until the Earth is besieged by a wave of unexplained phenomena. First come the mass phobias. Then, the creatures. Finally, the transformations. Is this the work of the mysterious Wanderers? Could they be manipulating humanity - and to what end? When agent Toivo Glumov is sent to investigate, he's in for some superhuman surprises.

OS SOLDADOS ROMANOS SÓ TÊM O AR 

E A LUZ DO SOL É PELA RIQUEZA DE 

OUTROS HOMENS QUE VÃO À GUERRA

TIBÉRIO GRACO  

O TRABALHO DO SOLDADO É GRATUITO

POIS NÃO HÁ DINHEIRO QUE 

PAGUE A VIDA - MOUZINHO 


SEPARAÇÃO DA FAMÍLIA DESCONHECE 

OS FILHOS E OS FILHOS IGNORAM QUEM É  O SOLDADO QUE RETORNA 

OU O DECURIÃO PARA O CASO TANTO FAZ 

Аркадий Стругацкий, Boris Strugatsky, Борис Стругацкий really liked it 4.00 · Rating Details · 420 Ratings · 16 Reviews IN THE FAR FUTURE... Mankind knows contentment until the Earth is besieged by a wave of unexplained phenomena. First come the mass phobias. Then, the creatures. Finally, the transformations. Is this the work of the mysterious Wanderers? Could they be manipulating humanity - and to what end? When agent Toivo Glumov is sent to investigate, he's in for some superhuman surprises.

OS SOLDADOS ROMANOS SÓ TÊM O AR 

E A LUZ DO SOL É PELA RIQUEZA DE 

OUTROS HOMENS QUE VÃO À GUERRA

TIBÉRIO GRACO  

O TRABALHO DO SOLDADO É GRATUITO

POIS NÃO HÁ DINHEIRO QUE 

PAGUE A VIDA - MOUZINHO 


SEPARAÇÃO DA FAMÍLIA DESCONHECE 

OS FILHOS E OS FILHOS IGNORAM QUEM É  O SOLDADO QUE RETORNA 

OU O DECURIÃO PARA O CASO TANTO FAZ 

Thomas Blaine awoke in a white bed in a white room, and heard someone say, "He's alive now." 1. Suicide Booths (yes, fans of Futurama, this is where they got the idea). 2. Legalized Hunts, in which a rich person says goodbye to the world by hiring a group of hunters to kill him in an exciting fashion. 3. Beserkers and Murder Pacts (You get to find out about these on your own). 4. Ghosts and the technology to communicate with the dead 5. Zombies and zombie colonies which is wonderfully handled by Sheckley. 6. Hedonism run amok in new and interesting ways. 7. The raging debate between science and religion regarding the afterlife. Then they asked him his name, age and marital status. Yes, that seemed normal enough---but what was this talk about "death trauma"? Thus was Thomas Blaine introduced to the year 2110, where science had discovered the technique of transferring a man's consciousness from one body to another. Where a man's mind could be snatched from the past, when his body was at the point of death, and brought forward into a "host body" in this fantastic future world. But that was only a small part of it. For the future had proved the reality of life after death, and discovered worlds beyond or simultaneous with our own---worlds where, through scientific techniques, a man could live again, in another body, when he died here. And in the process, the reality of ghosts, poltergeists, and zombies was also established. What did it all mean? How had this discovery of what they called the "hereafter" shaped the world of 2110? Thomas Blaine found himself living in a future where the discoveries and techniques imagined by people of his time, while having come about, were completely overwhelmed by discoveries no one had ever dreamed of

Written in 1959, the main plot involves a yacht-designer, Thomas Blaine, who is returning from vacation when he loses control of his car and slams head on into an oncoming vehcle:i
At the moment he knew he was dying. An instant later he knew that he was quickly, commonly, messily, painlessly dead.
Uh…not so fast.
arquitectura oriental domina o mundo 

chineses potência espacial desde Marte em 97

então entraste? isso é a pior coisa toda a gente a perguntar então entraste ? caralho acho que tem um carro novo agora

também o carro tá todo coiso

acho que vou ver os ballet rose (soap opera)

um gajo esfalfa-se e diz quem tu?

o diálogo na realidade destoa do diálogo literário 

mais conciso mais compreensível etc.....


escrita marciana em pedra mas marcianos estão out 

herói diz que vem de plantação de borracha no amazonas para se inserir em 2110 com falsa identidade e ninguém questiona o gajo 

 
Thomas wakes up in the year 2110 to discover that his mind has been rescued and brought forward into the future where it has been given a new body. The operation was part of a marketing campaign for a company called the Rex Corporation that specializes in reincarnation and life extension procedures.
 
However, the day after Thomas awakes he learns that the CEO of the company has elected not to proceed with the advertising and that Thomas is free to go. Thomas leaves the hospital and finds himself strolling around New York in the year 2110.
 
What Thomas finds, and what the rest of the short novel explores, is a society that has proven the existence of life after death. In addition, science has evolved to the point where life can be extended almost indefinitely through the use of body-replacement and similar procedures…but, of course, only for those with the money to pay for the procedure. As one character explains to Thomas,

We got this high-tension energy web. When the body dies, that web should be able to go on existing, like a butterfly coming out of the cocoon. Death is simply the process that hatches the mind from the body. But it doesn't work that way because of the death trauma...Dying is a tremendous psychic shock, and most of the time the energy web gets disrupted, ripped all to hell. It can't pull itself together, it dissipates, and you're completely dead.
It is then explained to Thomas that, through a combination of science application and eastern philosophies such as yoga, the energy web can be strengthened to the point that it survives the death trauma.

This is the book of Poilar Crookleg, who has been to the roof of the World at the top of the Wall, who has seen the strange and bewildering gods that dwell there, who has grappled with them and returned rich with the knowledge of the mysteries of life and of death. It is a tremendous presence towering over the world—Kosa Saag, the Wall—a monstrous assemblage of cliffs, ravines, and mountains. At its Summit, on the highest peak of all, far above the clouds, live the gods themselves. Each year, from the village of Jespodar at the foot of the imposing Wall, twenty men and twenty women, selected and trained at arduous length, set forth on a Pilgrimage. Against overwhelming odds they will attempt to scale the Summit, meet with the gods, and gain new knowledge. A few Pilgrims will return as madmen. Most will never be seen again. For Poilar Crookleg, the Pilgrimage has been a lifelong dream. Years ago he and his childhood friend Traiben vowed that they would one day make the Pilgrimage together, converse with the gods, and return not as madmen but as teachers of wisdom. Now it is their year of selection, and the two young men set forth among the chosen forty, determined to succeed where so many before them have failed. Along the way, they must brave ghosts and ravenous Wall-hawks, traverse terrifying Kingdoms and blasted landscapes of heat and ice, and then face the greatest challenge of all…the temptation of eternal life in a paradise of pleasure. At the end, for the few who endure, lies the Summit itself, and with it the secret of the gods—a secret so strange and unsettling that it will shatter centuries of belief and change the world forever. In Kingdoms of the Wall, Robert Silverberg has crafted a masterpiece of the first order, an adventure filled with awesome mystery and disturbing revelation, a voyage to the heart of creation itself as the inhabitants of an alien world strive to learn the truth about themselves and their gods, a truth as harsh and unforgiving as the forbidding heights of Kosa Saag.

In Kingdoms of the Wall all the natives have to do is effect some metamorphosis of their bodies, an innate adaptive feature of their physique. In this (and in other physical features) they resemble the Metamorphs or Shapeshifters

or by dior an alternative to this book or a thousand alternatives to this book: A thousand places to avoid before you die or a thousand places to die at or a thousand middle of the road, boring, corporate, manufactured experiences, exercises in tedium to have before you die or a thousand places to have sex in public before you die or a thousand places to shoplift from before you die or a thousand books to burn before you die or a thousand pages of unremarkable material to read before you die or a thousand places to have your picture taken in front of before you die or a thousand moments of boredom and filth to contemplate before you die or a thousand people you should meet before you die

If you love luxury hotels, you will love this book. Otherwise - if you are looking for the places in the world to see before you die, look at UNESCO's ever-growing list of heritage sites, which isn't quite to 1000 yet, but will be in just a few years. As a world traveler, I can tell you that Schultz misses the mark again and again regarding the most beautiful or most interesting or most historic places to see in any given country (when she doesn't skip entire countries!)

dimarts, 28 de juny de 2016

DO FIM DAS UNIÕES DESDE A UNIÃO HAIJAC ATÉ AO FIM DO US OF A IN 1861 ..Hal Yarrow is a lowly joat linguist living in the oppressive Haijac Union, one of the major World powers in 3050 A.C. The Haijac Union is a puritan Theocracy based on a future religion founded by a prophet called Isaac Sigmen called Serialism , an offshoot of Judeochristian beliefs mixed with a pseudo-scientific temporal theory called Dunnology. Adherence to realist actions is a matter of life and death, as citizens are rated regularly in their morals and those who consistently slip are "sent to H". Yarrow, unfortunately, is prone to unreal thinking, and he's not helped by his wife Marie, a proper, frigid, passive-agressive Sigmenite who feels forced to rat out every minor unreality to their resident gapt Pornsen, a combination of confessor and political commisary. Eventually Yarrow's stubborn lack of specialization is his salvation, as he gets recruited (and thus saved from "H") for a top secret mission; be the resident linguist for a diplomatic expedition to Ozagen, the first inhabitable world found by the Haijac space program. Ozagen is populated by friendly, highly evolved sentient arthropods whose technological level is comparable to that of the early 20th century, derisively named wogglebugs (wogs for short) by the Haijacs; the expedition, though, is actually a genocidal mission who plans to kill the whole species using a Synthetic Plague. Wogs would join in extinction the other sentient species they used to share their planet with, a mammalian anthropoid astonishingly similar to humans. It is while exploring some ruins of these man-like aliens that Yarrow meets one mysterious girl that shouldn't be there, or even exist, who makes him feel for the first time what his Sturch-appointed wife never did. This and his growing friendship with Fobo, a wog psychologist, sends him into a downward spiral of unreality. This novel launched the career of Philip José Farmer, won an Hugo in 1953, it is often listed as a landmark in Science Fiction... and it pretty much stopped Farmer's professional writing career for the next decade, as it was a shining example of a book ahead of its time that no publisher in The Fifties would touch with a ten foot pole (in fact, it wasn't published in book form until 1961). The Lovers is credited with introducing Sex into Science Fiction beyond the Green-Skinned Space Babe, and mixing it with Religion, Politics, Psychology and Pulp, Farmer's favourite subjects. There's another novel by Farmer sharing the same setting, Day of Timestop (a.k.a. as Timestop or A Woman A Day), but it's not actually a sequel. The Lovers has shib examples of: A Taste of the Lash: The favoured disciplining tool of gapts and urielites (priests) is the scourge. Acceptable Break from Reality: The book's twist hinges on Ozagen evolution leading to an Human Alien, something highly unlikely made more so since Ozagen evolution took very different paths early on. Against My Religion Alien Lunch: Beetle juice, Exactly What It Says on the Tin. All There Is to Know About "The Crying Game": This book is mostly known for its Twist Ending, to the point that pretty much every SF history article and essay mentioning the book or Farmer's work in general gives it away. This wiki included. Alternate Calendar: 3050 A.C. becomes 550 A.S. for the Haijac Union. Arranged Marriage: Marriages are arranged by the Sturch through their gapts. Citizens can disagree, theoretically. As You Know: It is a tad weird having Fobo explain how the gapt system is structured to Yarrow..Haijac Union, one of the major World powers in 3050 A.C. The Haijac Union is a puritan Theocracy ...

  • Depopulation Bomb: Used by the Martian colonists in the past to wipe out most of Mankind on Earth, giving rise to the ethnic and political variety of the world of 3050 A.C. The Haijacs decide to borrow the idea to solve the Wog problem.
  • The Dulcinea Effect: A short conversation under the moonlight and Yarrow is out to risk his life for Jeannette.
  • Dystopia: The Haijac Union is an overbearing theocracy.
  • Dystopian Edict: Among many prohibitions and taboos, eating is given the same treatment as sex; people must wear special "eating hats" to cover their mouths and chew silently.
  • Ethical Slut: Jeannette, very much so.
  • Everyone Looks Sexier If French: Jeannette Rastignac is half French.
  • Everything Sounds Sexier in French: Corrupted French, though.
  • The Evils of Free Will: Stray from reality (Sigmen's path) too much and you'll be sent to "H" for the crime of hindering the coming of the Timestop, the day Sigmen will return and give every good sigmenite an universe to rule over. Oh, and everything bad that ever happens to you is your fault for straying off the real path.
  • Fat Bastard: Pornsen.

dilluns, 27 de juny de 2016

DA DIFICULDADE DE LEITURA DE TEXTOS LONGOS NA INTERNET AND IN OTHERS MAGIC KINGDOM'S OF NEITHER IN NIHIL NULL - Pollony's dream formed around a glare of light, a tang of men's lotion. Then she was awake to Brendel poking her. "I'm hungry." She struggled to burrow back into sleep. "I'm starving, kid. I can't sleep." She bleared at the timespot. It was three a.m. "Go 'way." "Aw, gimme an omelette." Brendel ate a lot lately. His features were coarsening from it; his body was plumpening. She argued and protested and whined, and he hit her. But it didn't make her feel good any more when he hit her. Kitchen Central was inop for the night. She punched Storage. Dried ingredients materialized on the cookgrid, a flat metal sheet set into the countertop. Later, as she took the omelette up, she heard Brendel setting the opera tapes. She scowled. But when opera shattered their live she dropped the skillet and cried, "Oh! Do we have to listen to that trash?" Her voice was more weary than shrill. The opera routine was getting old. "What you calling trash?" He twitched his plump shoulders. "It makes me sick!" He spat profanity. It wasn't a good fight. He knew something was wrong and he hit her too hard. She slugged back, hurt her hand, cursed, ran and locked herself into the sleep. She was asleep when he came pounding. She woke and pointed the lock open. She glared. He said nothing. He ordered his smaller collections—his miniature horses, his ballpoint pens and his old-time cereal box missiles—on to his storeshelf before mounting his sleepshelf and pointing out the light. She could hear him not sleeping. Finally he muttered, "Too damn much cheese but it was okay." She said nothing. She didn't almost cry as she might have a month before. Brendel had appeared on their grid a year before, a dark, pugnacious young man, jittering and nervous. "Clare Webster around?" "Mother isn't here." Her mother collected men. She met them at drinking clubs or collector meets. She gave them her grid card and took theirs, making them promise to come see her. If a man came, she tacked his card on her bulletin board. If he came twice or three times, she marked his card with colored pencil. Brendel twitched his shoulders. "I got the evening. Wanta have dinner, kid?" She was seventeen and tired of collecting china roosters and peach-can labels. She was tired of seeing the same stupid people every day. Somewhere there was someone handsome and perfect, and she had to find him and become perfect too. She couldn't waste all her life being stupid like her mother. It took her two hours to see that Brendel was the perfect person. He was handsome, aggressive, easy to be with. He quarreled all the time and he even had a full-time job. She married him. She dropped her little-girl collections and diversions. She was no longer a formless adolescent. She was very solid, very adult. But the solidness had gone. She had found that Brendel's aggressiveness masked fear; his quarrelsomeness masked insecurity. Worst, he had no imagination. He plodded. It had begun two weeks before. Brendel had come home from work tight and tense. He tried eating, he tried opera and quarreling, he tried exercises. Finally he said, "I'm gonna go see Latsker Smith. Wanta come?" "Who the hell's Latsker Smith?" Already she was sick of the opera routine—and a little sick of Brendel. "Drives a car. From Boston. Fella at the plant told me he's in centercity." Minutes later they gridded out of the suburban maze. They materialized on a corner grid in centercity. There was no one on the dusty street. There was no car near the gaunt brick building where Latsker Smith was staying. They plopped on the doorstep. Brendel fidgeted and talked. Latsker Smith was the son of a rich industrialist. His father wouldn't support him unless he worked, and Latsker wouldn't work. So he had to live on government non-employment allowance. His pre-grid automobile and airplane were his only diversions. Since he couldn't leave Boston by automobile, Boston being walled up like any city by the streetless suburbs, he saved his allowance until he could commercial-grid his car to another city. There he raced and squealed and spun through the deserted streets of centercity until he had saved enough to commercial-grid the car elsewhere. A throbbing split the air. A red splinter of car hurtled around the corner and squealed to the curb. A tall, lank man unfolded, ignoring them. Brendel sprang to overwhelm him. He pulled him to the steps to make introductions. But Latsker Smith peered absently at Pollony and she was embarrassed that Brendel acted like an eager child confronting some heroic figure from a dream. "Latsker's pop got money." Brendel launched into his story again. When the story fizzled she said, "Why couldn't you get a job?" Smith held his head tilted. "Don't want a job." "If you had a job you wouldn't have to stay one place so long." "No use being anyplace if I have to leave my car." She pursed her lips. Inside the car she could see seats, straps, a wheel. It was incomprehensible that he strapped himself in and hurtled through the streets. "It's a stupid thing to do," she said. "You'll get killed." "No," he said. "If you hit something you will. I've heard those atrocity stories. There were more people killed in automobiles from—" "Nothing to hit," he said. She flung out her arms. "Buildings! Poles!" His lack of response offended her. "No need to hit them." "I've seen the films!" She had seen the crumpled metal, the severed limbs, the spreading blood. "Driver error. No drivers left. Too expensive on government allowance." "No one stupid enough left, you mean!" But it was stupid to glare when he wouldn't frown. "Okay, what's it feel like?" she demanded. He lifted his shoulders and dropped them. "It must feel some way." She peered down into the machine, trying to imagine herself hurtling in it. "You fly an airplane too," she accused. He nodded. "I bet it feels just like gridding. And it takes longer." "Gridding." He snorted, mildly. "There's no sensation at all to gridding." "Then how does it feel to fly?" she prodded. Brendel moved restlessly, bored. "Let's get going." "We just got here, stupid," she protested. He was already pulling her to the corner grid. "I'm getting hungry." She tried to jerk her arm free but couldn't. "How long will you be here?" she called back, swatting Brendel's arm. He lifted his shoulders and dropped them. "If I come—" But Brendel had given their number. They were outside their own door, and she hadn't felt a thing. Today she resented not feeling a thing. "These weird-o's, they talk too much. I'm hungry." She resented punching his food and didn't even want to quarrel. She drowsed back into sleep, remembering. Everything was empty. She ate, she slept, she quarreled, she gridded around seeing friends. What else was there? She couldn't get a job; there weren't that many jobs. And with the government allowance for not working, who needed a job? Who needed anything? A time of plenty, her school machine had called it. You just gridded around collecting and arguing to make it interesting. There were so many people moving so fast that you had to quarrel and push or you'd get stepped on. It was all stupid. Brendel didn't help a bit. He was stupid too. She tried to imagine Latsker Smith echoing through the empty streets in his scarlet splinter of car. Latsker Smith couldn't be stupid. She slept three hours before the gridbell rang. Elka, her cousin, stood on the grid, loose-haired, big-toothed. She swung a hatbox. "I didn't get you up?" "No," Pollony said hopelessly. "I'm gridding to NYC hatting and—" "It's not even seven." "Poll, I'm contritest but you weren't sleeping and—" "I don't need hats." "You haven't seen the darling I got in Paris. I gridded over with Sella Kyle and, honestly, there was a shop that—" She convinced Elka that she was not going hatting. Elka took her toll in coffee and gridded after her Paris hat. Pollony barely admired it and Elka left. Before she could dial Brendel's breakfast her mother was on the grid, fluffy, fleecy, thrusting a wad of bills at her. "Just on my way to Mexico, toodle. Punch me some coffee?" Breathless moments later she was gone. "What took so long?" Brendel demanded when she woke him. "Momma stopped." She hated him like this, his face creased and puffy from sleep. She had never thought he would get fat. He gulped his breakfast and left. Sometimes she hated him for just being. The gridbell rang. It was a salesman. He insinuated she didn't have the money to buy his product. She said his merchandise stank. He left grinning but she didn't feel better. The bell rang. A young man muttered, "Mis-grid," and disappeared. She had gotten to the dress when she heard the door open. She eyed the hall reflector and saw Ferren, her mother's brother, slip into the cook. She dressed hastily. Ferren would order breakfast and keep the silver to turn in from his own grid for the deposit. He was plumped up to the counter, a wooly haired man, attacking a stack of eggcakes. "Let me have them." He purred, taking spoon and knife from a pocket. "The government allowance is hardly sufficient for a man of my tastes. Shielded by your father's fortune as you are—" "You could get a job." She punched coffee. She wished he would go away. He was always watching, smiling, spinning together soft words. "And add to the work shortage?" He wagged his wooly head. "Then don't complain. There should be a syrup pitcher too." He produced it, purring. The gridbell rang. Two pig-faced men in black Gridco uniforms blocked the doorway. "You got Ferren Carmichaels inside, lady." "No." You always lied to Gridco collectors. "We traced him here from Dallas." "Well, he isn't here now." "How come we heard him talking?" "He isn't here." Gridco could not remove a grid even though the subscriber refused to pay his quarterly bill. The grid was held by law to be essential to human existence in the twisting, walled alleys of suburbia. Gridco could only send collectors to follow until their quarry fell or was pushed into their hands. And a man who had once fallen into Gridco hands paid eagerly forever after. "We can pull another trace." "Do that!" She slammed the door. She had time for a quick swallow of coffee before the bell rang. "He didn't go no farther." She sighed. "Well, he won't come out. I can't make him." "He'll come sometime." They leaned back against nothing, waiting. "You're blocking my grid." Dutifully they stepped into the narrow corridor. She slammed the door. "They are going to stand there until you go out." Ferren drained his coffee cup. "I'll settle here, then." "If you—" He tutted. "Thank you for the lunch invitation." "I—" She bit her tongue. She would not get mad. He wagged his head. "I'll peruse Brendel's books. Fine collection for a young man, books." Gritting her teeth, she hurtled back to the dress. The collectors rang every five minutes after that. They kept ringing until she went and told them Ferren would not come out. It wasn't the way she had imagined it would be when she was married. What with punching Brendel's meals, sending out his clothes, going collecting with him and quarreling, she hardly had a minute. And the same stupid people, Elka, Ferren, her mother and father, were always there. The bell rang. Her father scowled, seeing Ferren on Brendel's best sitshelf. "Where?" he said grimly. "Mexico," she said. "Pottery," he said, going. The bell rang. A heavy-jawed youth said, "Miss Webster gave me—" "My mother has gone to Mexico." She slammed the door. Minutes later Sella Kyle gridded in, crisp, prim, blonde. "I haven't seen you in such a time, Poll. Coffee?" She entertained Sella and wished she would go and knew Ferren knew she wanted Sella to go and found it amusing. Every five minutes the collectors rang. She had just talked Sella out the door when Lukia Collins gridded in. Lukia had never been Pollony's close friend in school. But now Lukia was always near, pushing, prodding at Pollony, smiling too brightly at Brendel. "You two are coming to lunch with me." "I've already asked Ferren to lunch." "Silly, he can punch his own." "Oh, no," Pollony said. "I take the silver." Ferren smiled comfortably. Lukia flipped her hand at him. "Atrocious man. Now, Pollony—" It ended with Lukia inviting herself to come back to lunch. She had hardly vacated the grid when Elka appeared. She unwrapped her purchases, smirking at Ferren. "You'd be surprised the number of hats a girl needs." She stayed half an hour. Another young man came for her mother. Two salesman, a traveling circular and a friend came. Then Brendel was on the grid. "Who these lugs for?" "Uncle Ferren," she said shortly. He lifted a lip at them, then bounced inside. "Forget your bill, Ferry? Hey, kid, punch drinks." "I refused to honor it," Ferren said. Brendel was already fishing in his pocket. "Drinks, kid." She went to punch. She hated his trying to give money to everyone who came along. "No, no, it is a matter of principle," Ferren insisted. But the money changed hands. "And there were certain other obligations." "How much you need?" Brendel fished into his pocket again, grinning. The bell rang. It was Lukia. "All these ravenous people waiting on me?" She had changed into a fire-red daysuit. "Dobble, you should have fed the beasts." She snapped her fingers. "Up, beasts. I'll help you punch, dob." Glowering, Pollony moved toward the cook. Brendel followed, chattering and arguing with Lukia. Pollony was beginning to think again of a swiftly accelerating car, of her body encased beside that of Latsker Smith and hurtled through dusty streets. Brendel said, "How many for opera?" She whirled and glared. "Pollony's a bug on opera. Tell them how you like opera, kid." She glared. The last time Lukia and Ferren had been here he had done this, and the time before. Didn't he have any imagination? "Tell them, kid." Fool! Didn't he know they were laughing at him? She wanted to tear loose from her whole life. It was trivial. It was everyday. It was gossip and collections and stupid people. She had to tear loose or she would go on and on, all her life, being nothing but—herself. She was too good for that. She was too good for Brendel. He had tricked her and turned into a fattening fool. It was stupid to stay with him. "Aw, come on, kid." She drew herself up very straight and imagined she must look imposing. "I'll ask you all to leave," she said calmly. Gone were the smiles. "I'm closing my grid to public access. I'll ask you to leave immediately." The words came out stiffly and precisely. She imagined she must already be more than just herself. "What the hell!" "Brendel, you may come back when I am gone. I shall not return." She smiled, remotely. "I'm tired of punching your food and going collecting and quarreling and being hit around." "I never hit you hard!" he said indignantly. Lukia stared at him. "Dobble!" "Well, she made me do it. What'm I supposed to do?" "Dobble, you're perfectly justified!" But Lukia's eyes remained on Brendel, bright and greedy. Pollony glared. She would not stay and fight Lukia for Brendel. She flung the door open. The two collectors snapped alert. "I want to be alone," she intoned. Brendel eyed her balefully. But he had already noticed Lukia's interest. "Where we gonna go?" "We can go to my live," Lukia said. "I think Dobble deserves her little whim." Brendel could not believe she was not going to fight. "You, kid! You're acting like a kid." Ferren took Brendel's arm. "Don't stoop to conventional pettiness, Brendel." Brendel flushed. "I'm coming back. You're not rooking me out of my collections." He turned abruptly and stepped on the grid. Giving a three-passenger order, he disappeared. Lukia followed. Ferren stepped on, tossed bills to the collectors, and disappeared. Pollony closed the door. She leaned against it, breathing the silence. Then she hurried through the live, setting it in order. She straightened the books Ferren had been examining and found two missing. Even as Lukia was punching dinner and saying all the things designed to make Brendel want Pollony back only briefly, as a point of pride, Pollony was whisking into a brisk trousersuit and wondering how much had piled up in the account where she kept her parents' gifts. Even as Brendel was feeling Lukia's face with his eyes, letting her excitement speak to his own, Pollony was at the bank having her balance marked into her deposit clip. Even as Ferren was smiling and wondering how much the two books would bring, Pollony was rapping at the door of the apartment house in centercity and being told that, yes, Mr. Smith still lived there. Presently Latsker Smith roared around the corner and braked his car. He unfolded from the cockpit. He nodded. "Have you got money to go to Boston yet?" She held herself very straight. He shook his head. "I have money," she said. The pale eyes clung to her. "My parents give me an allowance, and I could get jobs wherever we were. I just want to ride with you. I wouldn't even talk unless you wanted me to." She had to be with him. She had to sit and stand beside him, as relaxed and withdrawn as he was. She had to freeze people with her words and with her unrespondingness. She had to make an end of stupidness. He took a deposit clip from a pocket. He pointed to a figure. "Match that?" She withdrew her own clip and showed him a figure that exceeded his. "How much allowance?" She told him. He nodded to the car. "Wait there. Take me five minutes to pack." Dreadingly, joyously, she folded into the car. She watched as he lanked up the steps. She settled back, holding her shoulders rigid and her head straight. She would sit and stand by him. She would chill people with her reserve. She would be very solid and very adult. But minutes later she looked at her wrist and saw that he had been more than five minutes. She wished he wouldn't take so long. When he came down the steps two at a time, she tried not to remember that she hated people who came down steps two at a time. She didn't like the way his hair flopped against his forehead either. And she almost got out of the car when she saw his trousersuit was much too short. It made him look off-balance. He got into the car. "Don't touch this." He pointed to the starter button. He scowled. "Or this or this or this." He pointed to the pedals, to the gearshift lever. He reached out and heaved his suitcase into her lap. He said brusquely, "Don't let it bump the door panel." A corner dug into her stomach. And then he turned his head and ignored her. Completely. And she forgot the steps, the hair and the trousersuit and knew she would not get out of the car so long as he was in it.

GUTENBERG PROJECT 

5,000 WORDS OR SO



 Pollony's dream formed around a glare of light, a tang of men's lotion. Then she was awake to Brendel poking her.
"I'm hungry."
She struggled to burrow back into sleep.
"I'm starving, kid. I can't sleep."
She bleared at the timespot. It was three a.m. "Go 'way."
"Aw, gimme an omelette." Brendel ate a lot lately. His features were coarsening from it; his body was plumpening.
She argued and protested and whined, and he hit her. But it didn't make her feel good any more when he hit her.
Kitchen Central was inop for the night. She punched Storage. Dried ingredients materialized on the cookgrid, a flat metal sheet set into the countertop.
Later, as she took the omelette up, she heard Brendel setting the opera tapes. She scowled. But when opera shattered their live she dropped the skillet and cried, "Oh! Do we have to listen to that trash?" Her voice was more weary than shrill. The opera routine was getting old.
"What you calling trash?" He twitched his plump shoulders.
"It makes me sick!"
He spat profanity.
It wasn't a good fight. He knew something was wrong and he hit her too hard. She slugged back, hurt her hand, cursed, ran and locked herself into the sleep.
She was asleep when he came pounding. She woke and pointed the lock open. She glared.
He said nothing. He ordered his smaller collections—his miniature horses, his ballpoint pens and his old-time cereal box missiles—on to his storeshelf before mounting his sleepshelf and pointing out the light.
She could hear him not sleeping.
Finally he muttered, "Too damn much cheese but it was okay."
She said nothing. She didn't almost cry as she might have a month before.

Brendel had appeared on their grid a year before, a dark, pugnacious young man, jittering and nervous. "Clare Webster around?"
"Mother isn't here." Her mother collected men. She met them at drinking clubs or collector meets. She gave them her grid card and took theirs, making them promise to come see her. If a man came, she tacked his card on her bulletin board. If he came twice or three times, she marked his card with colored pencil.
Brendel twitched his shoulders. "I got the evening. Wanta have dinner, kid?"
She was seventeen and tired of collecting china roosters and peach-can labels. She was tired of seeing the same stupid people every day. Somewhere there was someone handsome and perfect, and she had to find him and become perfect too. She couldn't waste all her life being stupid like her mother.
It took her two hours to see that Brendel was the perfect person. He was handsome, aggressive, easy to be with. He quarreled all the time and he even had a full-time job.
She married him. She dropped her little-girl collections and diversions. She was no longer a formless adolescent. She was very solid, very adult.
But the solidness had gone. She had found that Brendel's aggressiveness masked fear; his quarrelsomeness masked insecurity. Worst, he had no imagination. He plodded.
It had begun two weeks before. Brendel had come home from work tight and tense. He tried eating, he tried opera and quarreling, he tried exercises. Finally he said, "I'm gonna go see Latsker Smith. Wanta come?"
"Who the hell's Latsker Smith?" Already she was sick of the opera routine—and a little sick of Brendel.
"Drives a car. From Boston. Fella at the plant told me he's in centercity."

Minutes later they gridded out of the suburban maze. They materialized on a corner grid in centercity. There was no one on the dusty street. There was no car near the gaunt brick building where Latsker Smith was staying. They plopped on the doorstep.
Brendel fidgeted and talked. Latsker Smith was the son of a rich industrialist. His father wouldn't support him unless he worked, and Latsker wouldn't work. So he had to live on government non-employment allowance. His pre-grid automobile and airplane were his only diversions. Since he couldn't leave Boston by automobile, Boston being walled up like any city by the streetless suburbs, he saved his allowance until he could commercial-grid his car to another city. There he raced and squealed and spun through the deserted streets of centercity until he had saved enough to commercial-grid the car elsewhere.
A throbbing split the air. A red splinter of car hurtled around the corner and squealed to the curb. A tall, lank man unfolded, ignoring them.
Brendel sprang to overwhelm him. He pulled him to the steps to make introductions. But Latsker Smith peered absently at Pollony and she was embarrassed that Brendel acted like an eager child confronting some heroic figure from a dream.
"Latsker's pop got money." Brendel launched into his story again.
When the story fizzled she said, "Why couldn't you get a job?"
Smith held his head tilted. "Don't want a job."
"If you had a job you wouldn't have to stay one place so long."
"No use being anyplace if I have to leave my car."
She pursed her lips. Inside the car she could see seats, straps, a wheel. It was incomprehensible that he strapped himself in and hurtled through the streets. "It's a stupid thing to do," she said. "You'll get killed."
"No," he said.
"If you hit something you will. I've heard those atrocity stories. There were more people killed in automobiles from—"
"Nothing to hit," he said.
She flung out her arms. "Buildings! Poles!" His lack of response offended her.
"No need to hit them."
"I've seen the films!" She had seen the crumpled metal, the severed limbs, the spreading blood.
"Driver error. No drivers left. Too expensive on government allowance."
"No one stupid enough left, you mean!" But it was stupid to glare when he wouldn't frown. "Okay, what's it feel like?" she demanded.
He lifted his shoulders and dropped them.
"It must feel some way." She peered down into the machine, trying to imagine herself hurtling in it. "You fly an airplane too," she accused.
He nodded.
"I bet it feels just like gridding. And it takes longer."
"Gridding." He snorted, mildly. "There's no sensation at all to gridding."
"Then how does it feel to fly?" she prodded.
Brendel moved restlessly, bored. "Let's get going."
"We just got here, stupid," she protested.
He was already pulling her to the corner grid. "I'm getting hungry."
She tried to jerk her arm free but couldn't. "How long will you be here?" she called back, swatting Brendel's arm.
He lifted his shoulders and dropped them.
"If I come—" But Brendel had given their number. They were outside their own door, and she hadn't felt a thing. Today she resented not feeling a thing.
"These weird-o's, they talk too much. I'm hungry."
She resented punching his food and didn't even want to quarrel.

She drowsed back into sleep, remembering. Everything was empty. She ate, she slept, she quarreled, she gridded around seeing friends. What else was there? She couldn't get a job; there weren't that many jobs. And with the government allowance for not working, who needed a job? Who needed anything? A time of plenty, her school machine had called it. You just gridded around collecting and arguing to make it interesting. There were so many people moving so fast that you had to quarrel and push or you'd get stepped on.
It was all stupid. Brendel didn't help a bit. He was stupid too.
She tried to imagine Latsker Smith echoing through the empty streets in his scarlet splinter of car. Latsker Smith couldn't be stupid.
She slept three hours before the gridbell rang.
Elka, her cousin, stood on the grid, loose-haired, big-toothed. She swung a hatbox. "I didn't get you up?"
"No," Pollony said hopelessly.
"I'm gridding to NYC hatting and—"
"It's not even seven."
"Poll, I'm contritest but you weren't sleeping and—"
"I don't need hats."
"You haven't seen the darling I got in Paris. I gridded over with Sella Kyle and, honestly, there was a shop that—"
She convinced Elka that she was not going hatting. Elka took her toll in coffee and gridded after her Paris hat. Pollony barely admired it and Elka left.
Before she could dial Brendel's breakfast her mother was on the grid, fluffy, fleecy, thrusting a wad of bills at her.
"Just on my way to Mexico, toodle. Punch me some coffee?" Breathless moments later she was gone.
"What took so long?" Brendel demanded when she woke him.
"Momma stopped." She hated him like this, his face creased and puffy from sleep. She had never thought he would get fat.
He gulped his breakfast and left. Sometimes she hated him for just being.
The gridbell rang. It was a salesman. He insinuated she didn't have the money to buy his product. She said his merchandise stank. He left grinning but she didn't feel better.
The bell rang. A young man muttered, "Mis-grid," and disappeared.
She had gotten to the dress when she heard the door open. She eyed the hall reflector and saw Ferren, her mother's brother, slip into the cook. She dressed hastily. Ferren would order breakfast and keep the silver to turn in from his own grid for the deposit.

He was plumped up to the counter, a wooly haired man, attacking a stack of eggcakes.
"Let me have them."
He purred, taking spoon and knife from a pocket. "The government allowance is hardly sufficient for a man of my tastes. Shielded by your father's fortune as you are—"
"You could get a job." She punched coffee. She wished he would go away. He was always watching, smiling, spinning together soft words.
"And add to the work shortage?" He wagged his wooly head.
"Then don't complain. There should be a syrup pitcher too."
He produced it, purring.
The gridbell rang. Two pig-faced men in black Gridco uniforms blocked the doorway. "You got Ferren Carmichaels inside, lady."
"No." You always lied to Gridco collectors.
"We traced him here from Dallas."
"Well, he isn't here now."
"How come we heard him talking?"
"He isn't here." Gridco could not remove a grid even though the subscriber refused to pay his quarterly bill. The grid was held by law to be essential to human existence in the twisting, walled alleys of suburbia. Gridco could only send collectors to follow until their quarry fell or was pushed into their hands. And a man who had once fallen into Gridco hands paid eagerly forever after.
"We can pull another trace."
"Do that!" She slammed the door.
She had time for a quick swallow of coffee before the bell rang.
"He didn't go no farther."
She sighed. "Well, he won't come out. I can't make him."
"He'll come sometime." They leaned back against nothing, waiting.
"You're blocking my grid."
Dutifully they stepped into the narrow corridor.
She slammed the door. "They are going to stand there until you go out."
Ferren drained his coffee cup. "I'll settle here, then."
"If you—"
He tutted. "Thank you for the lunch invitation."
"I—" She bit her tongue. She would not get mad.
He wagged his head. "I'll peruse Brendel's books. Fine collection for a young man, books."
Gritting her teeth, she hurtled back to the dress.

The collectors rang every five minutes after that. They kept ringing until she went and told them Ferren would not come out.
It wasn't the way she had imagined it would be when she was married. What with punching Brendel's meals, sending out his clothes, going collecting with him and quarreling, she hardly had a minute. And the same stupid people, Elka, Ferren, her mother and father, were always there.
The bell rang. Her father scowled, seeing Ferren on Brendel's best sitshelf. "Where?" he said grimly.
"Mexico," she said.
"Pottery," he said, going.
The bell rang. A heavy-jawed youth said, "Miss Webster gave me—"
"My mother has gone to Mexico." She slammed the door.
Minutes later Sella Kyle gridded in, crisp, prim, blonde. "I haven't seen you in such a time, Poll. Coffee?"
She entertained Sella and wished she would go and knew Ferren knew she wanted Sella to go and found it amusing.
Every five minutes the collectors rang.
She had just talked Sella out the door when Lukia Collins gridded in. Lukia had never been Pollony's close friend in school. But now Lukia was always near, pushing, prodding at Pollony, smiling too brightly at Brendel.
"You two are coming to lunch with me."
"I've already asked Ferren to lunch."
"Silly, he can punch his own."
"Oh, no," Pollony said.
"I take the silver." Ferren smiled comfortably.
Lukia flipped her hand at him. "Atrocious man. Now, Pollony—"
It ended with Lukia inviting herself to come back to lunch. She had hardly vacated the grid when Elka appeared.
She unwrapped her purchases, smirking at Ferren. "You'd be surprised the number of hats a girl needs." She stayed half an hour.
Another young man came for her mother. Two salesman, a traveling circular and a friend came. Then Brendel was on the grid.
"Who these lugs for?"
"Uncle Ferren," she said shortly.
He lifted a lip at them, then bounced inside. "Forget your bill, Ferry? Hey, kid, punch drinks."
"I refused to honor it," Ferren said.
Brendel was already fishing in his pocket. "Drinks, kid."
She went to punch. She hated his trying to give money to everyone who came along.
"No, no, it is a matter of principle," Ferren insisted. But the money changed hands. "And there were certain other obligations."
"How much you need?" Brendel fished into his pocket again, grinning.

The bell rang. It was Lukia. "All these ravenous people waiting on me?" She had changed into a fire-red daysuit. "Dobble, you should have fed the beasts." She snapped her fingers. "Up, beasts. I'll help you punch, dob."
Glowering, Pollony moved toward the cook. Brendel followed, chattering and arguing with Lukia.
Pollony was beginning to think again of a swiftly accelerating car, of her body encased beside that of Latsker Smith and hurtled through dusty streets.
Brendel said, "How many for opera?"
She whirled and glared.
"Pollony's a bug on opera. Tell them how you like opera, kid."
She glared. The last time Lukia and Ferren had been here he had done this, and the time before. Didn't he have any imagination?
"Tell them, kid."
Fool! Didn't he know they were laughing at him?
She wanted to tear loose from her whole life. It was trivial. It was everyday. It was gossip and collections and stupid people. She had to tear loose or she would go on and on, all her life, being nothing but—herself.
She was too good for that.
She was too good for Brendel. He had tricked her and turned into a fattening fool. It was stupid to stay with him.
"Aw, come on, kid."
She drew herself up very straight and imagined she must look imposing. "I'll ask you all to leave," she said calmly.
Gone were the smiles.
"I'm closing my grid to public access. I'll ask you to leave immediately." The words came out stiffly and precisely. She imagined she must already be more than just herself.
"What the hell!"
"Brendel, you may come back when I am gone. I shall not return." She smiled, remotely. "I'm tired of punching your food and going collecting and quarreling and being hit around."
"I never hit you hard!" he said indignantly.
Lukia stared at him. "Dobble!"
"Well, she made me do it. What'm I supposed to do?"
"Dobble, you're perfectly justified!" But Lukia's eyes remained on Brendel, bright and greedy.
Pollony glared. She would not stay and fight Lukia for Brendel.

She flung the door open. The two collectors snapped alert. "I want to be alone," she intoned.
Brendel eyed her balefully. But he had already noticed Lukia's interest. "Where we gonna go?"
"We can go to my live," Lukia said. "I think Dobble deserves her little whim."
Brendel could not believe she was not going to fight. "You, kid! You're acting like a kid."
Ferren took Brendel's arm. "Don't stoop to conventional pettiness, Brendel."
Brendel flushed. "I'm coming back. You're not rooking me out of my collections." He turned abruptly and stepped on the grid. Giving a three-passenger order, he disappeared. Lukia followed. Ferren stepped on, tossed bills to the collectors, and disappeared.
Pollony closed the door. She leaned against it, breathing the silence.
Then she hurried through the live, setting it in order. She straightened the books Ferren had been examining and found two missing.
Even as Lukia was punching dinner and saying all the things designed to make Brendel want Pollony back only briefly, as a point of pride, Pollony was whisking into a brisk trousersuit and wondering how much had piled up in the account where she kept her parents' gifts.
Even as Brendel was feeling Lukia's face with his eyes, letting her excitement speak to his own, Pollony was at the bank having her balance marked into her deposit clip.
Even as Ferren was smiling and wondering how much the two books would bring, Pollony was rapping at the door of the apartment house in centercity and being told that, yes, Mr. Smith still lived there.
Presently Latsker Smith roared around the corner and braked his car. He unfolded from the cockpit. He nodded.
"Have you got money to go to Boston yet?" She held herself very straight.
He shook his head.
"I have money," she said.
The pale eyes clung to her.
"My parents give me an allowance, and I could get jobs wherever we were. I just want to ride with you. I wouldn't even talk unless you wanted me to." She had to be with him. She had to sit and stand beside him, as relaxed and withdrawn as he was. She had to freeze people with her words and with her unrespondingness. She had to make an end of stupidness.
He took a deposit clip from a pocket. He pointed to a figure. "Match that?"
She withdrew her own clip and showed him a figure that exceeded his.
"How much allowance?"
She told him.
He nodded to the car. "Wait there. Take me five minutes to pack."

Dreadingly, joyously, she folded into the car. She watched as he lanked up the steps. She settled back, holding her shoulders rigid and her head straight. She would sit and stand by him. She would chill people with her reserve. She would be very solid and very adult.


But minutes later she looked at her wrist and saw that he had been more than five minutes. She wished he wouldn't take so long.
When he came down the steps two at a time, she tried not to remember that she hated people who came down steps two at a time. She didn't like the way his hair flopped against his forehead either. And she almost got out of the car when she saw his trousersuit was much too short. It made him look off-balance.
He got into the car. "Don't touch this." He pointed to the starter button. He scowled. "Or this or this or this." He pointed to the pedals, to the gearshift lever. He reached out and heaved his suitcase into her lap. He said brusquely, "Don't let it bump the door panel." A corner dug into her stomach.
And then he turned his head and ignored her. Completely. And she forgot the steps, the hair and the trousersuit and knew she would not get out of the car so long as he was in it.

diumenge, 26 de juny de 2016

BOOKS FOR BREXIT AND BREWIN WITH ECONOMIC DEMI-COMIC JOKES What would happen if pigs could fly? Bacon would go up! DAS KAPITAL HEARD THE JOKE ABOUT THE BUTTER ? BETTER DON'T SPREAD IT AROUND......

BETTER NOT SPREAD IT AROUND 

ERRARE UH MANO BEAU GESTE

EVERYBODY THINKS I'AM A LIAR

DOCTOR OH! COME NOW I DON'T 

BELIEVE THAT

HEARD ABOUT THE GUYS THAT 

STOLE A CALENDAR?

EACH GOT SIX MONTHS 

WHAT GOES UP DRY AND COMES 

DOWN WET?

OBVIAMENTE ADMITO-O AN UMBRELLA


WHAT GOES UP BUT NEVER GOES DOWN?

YOUR AGE ....

dissabte, 25 de juny de 2016

And it's loaded with sex and violence. But honestly it's pretty disposable and silly and was obviously written in a week for some quick money. I wouldn't recommend but you gotta respect the sort of mind that can write this sort of crap-in-a-week in a week. Operation Timestop: Post-holocaust Paris is a pretty seedy stand-in for the original, but what can you expect when the goverment's main function is Orgasm Prevention & when the national hero is wandering around in Nowhen. But things are changing! Rumor has it that the Timetraveler is coming back in a few months. At which point, Time itself will come to an end. This story, originally published in Startling Stories as Moth & Rust, is the sequel to The Lovers. In Moth & Rust the woman are being smuggled in from Ozagen but in A Woman A Day they are genetically altered humans. ......Dayworld leads a sf trilogy by Philip José Farmer set in a dystopian future in which an overpopulated world allocates people only one day a week. The other six days they're in suspended animation. The focus is on Jeff Caird, a daybreaker living more than a day a week. He's not like most daybreakers. He belongs to the radical Immer group working to create a better government. Not all Immers are daybreakers, but send information from one day to the next they've daybreakers like Jeff. Immer daybreakers assume seven different personalities & jobs, slipping from culture to culture in seven different worlds. While Jeff & the other six go day to day, they run into problems while working as Immer daybreakers. They must cover their tracks while trying to keep up with seven different lives, families & jobs. It could drive a man crazy. It does & the Immers must dispose of Jeff to keep the rest safe. Jeff, wanting to live, tries to escape, but they have undercover Immers in every job & government level. Jeff is caught & put in an asylum, classified with multiple personality disorder. If considered incurable he'll be killed. But Jeff has an escape plan. The sequels are Dayworld Rebel, '87 & Dayworld Breakup, '90

world of tiers shaped like a stepped MAyan/Incan pyramid, four steps high. The individual layers are separated from each other, connected only in the middle by massive monoliths. Each layer is massive, containing entire continents.

The world exists in a pocket universe, created by an alien race of immense power. It is orbited by one sun and one moon. When the sun goes behind the monoliths in the middle of the world, that's when night occurs.

People get from level to level by climbing the nooks and crannies of the massive monoliths in the middle of each level. This is forbidden by the "god" of the world of tiers, though.

Most of the inhabitants were kidnapped from earth and their physical bodies altered by the "god" to resemble creatures of earth's myths, such as centaurs and mermaids.

All of this is really cool, and very inventive, in my opinion. I liked this world building aspect of the novel the most.

The Not-So-Good 

The not-so-good? Pretty much everything else. The book read like a summary of another, longer book. For instance, while climbing the central monoliths, one of the character's girlfriends becomes pregnant and later loses the baby. I didn't really spoil anything here, because this happens in the space of a couple of pages. No psychological ramifications and no blaming or hurt feelings occur. 

The characters were also not very compelling. There was one who was kind of a trickster, but it was obviously a "mary sue"

dimarts, 21 de juny de 2016

the poems to come are for you and for me and are not for mostpeople... you and i are human beings; mostpeople are snobs.” ― E.E. Cummings when man determined to destroy himself he picked the was of shall and finding only why smashed it into because “For whatever we lose (like a you or a me), It's always our self we find Like “when man determined to destroy himself he picked the was of shall and finding only why smashed it into because” ― E.E. Cummings, 100 Selected Poems tags: poetry, reasoning 232 likes Like “Love is the whole and more than all.” ― E.E. Cummings, 100 Selected Poems 141 likes Like “What if a dawn of a doom of a dream bites this universe in two, peels forever out of his grave, and sprinkles nowhere with me and you?” “i thank You God for most this amazing day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything which is natural which is infinite which is yes (i who have died am alive again today, and this is the sun's birthday; this is the birth day of life and of love and wings: and of the gay great happening illimitably earth) how should tasting touching hearing seeing breathing any---lifted from the no of all nothing---human merely being doubt unimaginably You? (now the ears of my ears awake and now the eyes of my eyes are opened)” ― E.E. Cummings, 100 Selected Poems tags: faith, gratitude, prayer 10 likes Like “god's terrible face brighter than a spoon collects the image of one fatal word; so that my life(which liked the sun and the moon) resembles something that has not occurred: i am a birdcage without any bird a collar looking for a dog a kiss without lips;a prayer lacking any knees but something beats within my shirt to prove he is undead who living noone is. I have never loved you dear as now i love.” ― E.E. Cummings, 100 Selected Poems 9 likes Like “if i or anybody don't know where it her his my next meal's coming from i say to hell with that that doesn't matter (and if he she it or everybody gets a bellyful without lifting my finger i say to hell with that i say that doesn't matter) but if somebody or you are beautiful or deep or generous what i say is whistle that sing that yell that spell that out big (bigger than cosmic rays w ar earthquakes famine or the ex prince of whoses diving into a whatses to rescue miss nobody's probably handbag) because i say that's not swell (get me) babe not (understand me) lousy kid that's something else my sweet (i feel that's true)” ― E.E. Cummings, 100 Selected Poems tags: poetry 9 likes Like “i St ep into the not merely immeasurable into the mightily alive the dear beautiful eternal night” ― E.E. Cummings, 100 Selected Poems 6 likes Like “my blood approves, and kisses are a far better fate than wisdom” ― E.E. Cummings, 100 Selected Poems 6 likes Like “when god lets my body be From each brave eye shall sprout a tree fruit that dangles therefrom the purpled world will dance upon Between my lips which did sing a rose shall beget the spring that maidens whom passion wastes will lay between their little breasts My strong fingers beneath the snow Into strenuous birds shall go my love walking in the grass their wings will touch with her face and all the while shall my heart be With the bulge and nuzzle of the sea” ― E.E. CummingLike “for every mile the feet go the heart goes nine”

somewhere i have never traveled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

Time is what keeps everything from happening at once.”The Flight Into Size and Space" was interesting because instead of trying to travel fast through space, they just kept getting larger until eventually they were larger than the universe and kind of emerged into a larger universe. Kind of like a cosmic marble, -- while that chapter was still boring and entirely too long....... The Girl in the Golden Atom is the story of a young chemist who finds a hidden atomic world within his mother’s wedding ring. Under a microscope, he sees within the ring a beautiful young woman sitting before a cave. Enchanted by her, he shrinks himself so that he can join her world. Having worked for Thomas Alva Edison, Ray Cummings (1887–1957) was inspired by science’s possibilities and began to write science fiction. The Girl in the Golden Atom was enormously successful at its publication in 1923, and Cummings went on to write an equally successful sequel, The People of the Golden Atom. DA INIMPUTABILIDADE LITERÁRIA Raymond King Cummings. His career resulted in some 750 novels and short stories, using also the pen names Ray King, Gabrielle ..

Xenephrene, enters into an orbit around our Sun, passing fairly close to Earth every 17 months. Close enough that its initial passage causes Earth to tilt on its axis, disrupting weather patterns and making much of the planet uninhabitable. If that isn't bad enough, while humankind scrambles toward the relatively hospitable climes of the equatorial regions, the aliens, armed with their superior "infrared" weaponry, begin an invasion against which Earth appears all but defenseless.

Meanwhile, our hero, Peter Vanderstuyft, falls in love with an alien girl named Zetta.

Metaphorically, the aliens are the Enemy du jour, and this is one of those funky utopian novels in which millions must die in order for human beings to see that they really aren't so different, after all. If people are that stupid, though, then "utopia" isn't oneness and peace, it is war and wasted lives. Peter may see hope in the way the world's nationalities unite to fight the invaders, but I see only an ad hoc coalition destined to crumble the first time someone screams "democracy" or "God."

Literally, the aliens are rather disappointing, being chiefly different from humans in their weight. They look just like us, but for some reason they weigh much less. Zetta, if I remember correctly, appears to be a normal woman, but weighs only 18 pounds. (Well, at least she and Peter can effortlessly enjoy the Clasp.) Otherwise, they are, like us, ruled by greed, jealousy, and the lust for power.

It wasn't always that way. The aliens used to be a peace-loving race. But, writes Cummings -- in another of those remarkable statements for 1928 (if indeed that's when it was written) -- one man changed all that, through the eloquence of his oratory. "It is a frightening thing," Peter's father says, "what one evil man can do."

That the problems of the world are only temporarily forgotten is evident in the novel's one real claim to "alienness": man-sized multi-legged insects that the aliens use as guards and cannon fodder. Combine the two worlds and the insects are second in intelligence only to men. Yet Peter isn't fascinated by them; he is repulsed by them. So much for tolerance and equality.

Cummings is by no means an exceptional writer and A Brand New World is by no means a good book. But it is competent, on the level of pulp. And I doubt many people read old science fiction for the quality of the writing. Personally, I was hooked by the blurb: "Xenephrene...made a pretty vision in the evening sky -- until flying things and strange visitants appeared. Xenephrene was inhabited...and its inhabitants had discovered Earth." I was half hoping for an atmospheric first act full of mystery and menace. Of course, at the time, I'd forgotten the story had started its life as a serial and that there was clearly no time for that.

dilluns, 20 de juny de 2016

People looking for easy answers to big problems. People that blame the Jews or colored folks for all the bad things that happen to ‘em. People that can’t realize that a heck of a lot of things are bound to go wrong in a world as big as this one. And if there is any answer to why it’s that way – and there ain’t always – why, it’s probably not just one answer by itself, but thousands of answers. But that’s the way my daddy was – like those people. They buy some books by a fella that don’t know a god-danged thing more than they do (or he wouldn’t be having to write books). And that’s supposed to set ‘em straight about everything. Or they buy themselves a bottle of pills. Or they say the whole trouble is with other folks, and the only thing to do is to get rid of ‘em. Or they claim we got to war with another country.” ― Jim Thompson, Pop. 1280 DO GRADUAL ESCURECER DO MUNDO - ANANKE - a heck of a lot of things are bound to go wrong in a world as big as this one. And if there's an answer to why it's that way - and there ain't always - why, it's probably not just one answer by itself, but thousands of answers.” ― Jim Thompson, Pop. 1280... I looked at her, with her hair spilled out on the pillows and the warmth of her body warming mine. And I thought, god-dang, if this ain't a heck of a way to be in bed with a pretty woman. The two of you arguing about murder, and threatening each other, when you're supposed to be in love and you could be doing something pretty nice. And then I thought, well, maybe it ain't so strange after all. Maybe it's like this with most people, everyone doing pretty much the same thing except in a different way. And all the time they're holding heaven in their hands.- Pop. 1280 is the first-person narrative of Nick Corey, the listless sheriff of Potts County, the "47th largest county in the state" (probably Texas). He lives in Pottsville which has a population of "1280 souls" (a number much reduced by the story's end). The narrative suggests that Sheriff Nick's tale dates to the Russian Revolution in 1917. Sheriff Nick Corey presents himself as a genial fool, simplistic, over-accommodating, and harmless to a fault (given he is Pottsville's sole lawman). Early chapters are related in comic style representative of farce rather than hard-boiled crime fiction. From the outset Nick's problems appear to be those of a harmless fool, managing his shrew wife and idiot brother-in-law while simultaneously having affairs in town; a difficult election campaign against a more worthy candidate; negotiations with criminals and undesirables in Pottsville; and the evasion of work and physical exertion. Throughout a narrative that plumbs psychological depths particular to the novels of Jim Thompson, the farcical tone of Pop. 1280 is undermined by the emergence of a man far more cunning, ruthless, and psychotic than he presents himself. TODOS ESTAMOS SÓS MAS ALGUNS MAIS QUE OUTROS CADA UM CONSTRÓI OS SEUS MUROS DE SOLIDÃO E MEDO - SÃO ESSENCIAIS A TODA A RELIGIÃO - SOU RELIGIOSO. TENHO MEDO - ESSENCIAL TER MEDO DA VIDA E AINDA MAIS DA MORTE E CRER NO PARAÍSO NO CASO DE TER FALTA DE REQUISITOS ANTERIORES TER MEDO DA MORTE DO FINAL DA EXTINÇÃO -DESDE A GRANDE GUERRA DEIXÁMOS DE VER FANTASMAS - DEUS PROIBIU-OS DE VIR À TERRA HAVIA MUITOS - COUP DE TOURCHON - RAPARIGAS VENDIDAS POR UM ESPELHO ....UM NEGRO EM ÁFRICA -UM CRIADO

Coup de Torchon is a 1981 French film


 adaptation of Jim Thompson's 


1964 novel Pop. 1280,

FAZ TAMBÉM PARTE DO MEU TRABALHO

DE CHEFE DE POLICE DA ÁFRICA

 FRANCESA  TER PRAZER COM OS 

PROBLEMAS DOS OUTROS 

 But you could,” Ken said. “You could. We got a fella over in the jail right now for pleasurin’ a pig.” “Well, I’ll be dogged,” I said, because I’d heard of things like that but I never had known of no actual cases. “What kind of charges you makin’ against him?” Buck said maybe they could charge him with rape. Ken gave him a kind of blank look and said no, they might not be able to make that kind of charge stick. “After all, he might claim he had the pig’s consent, and then where would we be?” 
― Jim Thompson
“It looked like I’d sold my pottage for a mess of afterbirth, as the saying is. I’d been chasing females all my life, not paying no mind to the fact that whatever’s got tail at one end has teeth at the other, and now I was getting chomped on.” 

diumenge, 19 de juny de 2016

DOS LEILÕES DE PAPEL VELHO E DAS TRANSFEGAS DE BICHOS QUE GOSTAM DE LIVROS DE UM LADO PARA OUTRO ATÉ ENCHER CASAS E CASOTAS

PANEGYRICI // VETERES // JACOBUS DE LA BAUNE SOC. JESU, // JUSSUJ // CHRISTIANISSIMI DELPHINI. // AD VSVM // EDITIO ALTERA ITALICA, // CUI ACCEDUNT OBSERVATIO NES CRITICAE // IN LATINUM PRACATUM // V. C. CHRISTIANI SCHUUARZII // PROFESS.ALTORFINI. // VENETIIS, // Apud Bartolomaeu Javarina // M.DCC.XXVIII. In Fólio de [20], 364, [152 págs. Enc . [€ 75 / 150]

Ilustrada com uma bela gravura alegórica junto ao frontispício, gravada por Juliani. Com cortes de traça que atingem letras do texto. Encadernação inteira de pergaminho.



715. LOBKOWITZ, Juan de Caramuel e.  DECLARACION // Mystica de las Armas de España. // invictamente beliciosas. // En Bruselas. En casa de Luca de Meerbeque. // 1636. In Fólio de 237, [1] Fls. Enc. [€ 200 / 400]

De Extrema Raridade. Ilustrada no texto e em separado com 12 brasões de armas abertos a buril em chapa de cobre. Um deles representa “Da luz a glorias que con diuinos Symbolos encierran las armas Lusitanas”. As primeiras dez folhas, incluindo o frontispício, com restauros na margem direita que por vezes atinge letras das notas. Encadernação da época inteira de pergaminho. Salvá, 3544.



849. MENESES, D. Gonçalo de Cespedes y.  VARIA // FORTVNA // DEL SOLDADO // PINDARO. // Por... vezino y na  // tural de Madrid. Al Excellentissimo señor don Manuel Alonso Perez de // Guzman el Bueno Duque de Medina Sidonia. // Lisboa. Por Geraldo de la Viña. 1626. In 8º de [4], 188 Fls. Enc. [€ 100 / 200]

Edição original. Rara. Exemplar muito manuseado e com manchas de água. Encadernação da época inteira de pergaminho.

Na literatura é que iremos ter, talvez mais problemas, pois que desde autores brasileiros, como Jorge Amado (lote 043) e Carlos Drumond de Andrade (lotes 051 a 052), Cecília Meireles (lotes 837 e 838) de grande projecção mundial, bem como outros autores lusófonos caso de Mia Couto (lotes 368 a 370) José Craveirinha (lote 375), Luís Bernardo Honwana (lote 611), Baltasar Lopes (Lote 720) e José Luandino Vieira (lotes 1394 a 1397)



611. HONWANA, Luis Bernardo.  NÓS MATAMOS O CÃOTINHOSO. Lourenço Marques. 1964. In 8º de 135 págs. Br. [€ 30 / 60]

1ªedição desta obra que hoje é considerada como uma dos mais significativas da literatura africana do século XX. Honwana escreveu este livro em 1964, com 22 anos, e foi preso no mesmo ano pelas autoridades coloniais, permanecendo detido durante três anos. Depois da independência de Moçambique, veio a ser Secretário de Estado da Cultura. Muito rara. Arranjo gráfico de Pancho. Assinado pelo autor.



720 LOPES, Baltasar.  CHIQUINHO. Romance. S. Vicente. Cabo Verde. Edições “Claridade”. 1947. In 8º de 298, [2] págs. Enc. [€ 40 / 80]

Edição original deste raro romance cabo-verdiano. Muito rara. Encadernação meia de pele.



1060. POESIA NEGRA DE EXPRESSÃO PORTUGUESA. Organizado por Francisco Tenreiro e Mário Pinto de Andrade. Vinheta e arranjo gráfico de António Domingues. Lisboa. Editora Gráfica Portuguesa. 1953. In8º de 13, [2] págs. Br. [€ 50 / 100]

Colaboração de Mário Pinto de Andrade, Agostinho Neto, Alda Espírito Santo, António Jacinto, Francisco José Tenreiro, Noémia de Sousa e Viriato Cruz. Vinheta e arranjo gráfico de António Domingues. De grande raridade. Juntamos a edição publicada em 1982.

Os autores portugueses com lugar cativo em qualquer boa biblioteca estão muito bem representados e deles refiro alguns (com desculpas antecipadas por alguma falha…): Sophia de Mello Breyner Andersen(lotes 058 a 061), Ruy Belo (lotes 122 a 124),  



123. BELO, Ruy.  AQUELE GRANDE RIO EUFRATES. Lisboa. Edições Ática. 1961. In 8º de 141, [1] págs. Br. [€ 75 / 150]
Edição primitiva do primeiro livro de poesia do autor. Muito raro. Com uma dedicatória do escritor. Capas de brochura plastificadas.
António Botto (lotes 143 a 147), Teófilo Braga (lotes 154 a 157), Luís de Camões (lotes 178 a 180),Camilo Castelo Branco (lotes 227 a 251) – interessante camiliana com algumas obras pouco frequentes,António Feliciano de Castilho (lotes 255 a 257).



257. CASTILHO, António Feliciano de.  QUADROS HISTORICOS DE PORTUGAL. Lisboa. Na Typographia da Sociedade Propagadora dos Conhecimentos Uteis. 1838. InFólio de 58 págs. Enc. [€ 150 / 300]

Rara. Ilustrada com o retrato do autor e nove litografias, que representam alguns dos mais célebres motivos da história de Portugal, assinadas por Sendim, sendo os títulos de cada estampa gravados a ouro. Encadernação da época em tela. Com dois rasgões restauráveis nas folhas do frontispício e na antepenúltima.

E. M. de Melo e Castro (lotes 264 a 268), Eugénio de Castro (lotes 269 a 272).



272. CASTRO, Eugénio de.  SAUDADES DO CÉO. Poema. Coimbra. F. França Amado. 1899. In 8º de 58, [2] págs. Enc. [€ 40 / 80]

Primeira edição. Tiragem restrita. Encadernação meia de pele. Capas de brochura preservadas. Muito bem conservado.

Fernanda de Castro (lotes273 a 279), Ferreira de Castro (lotes 280 e 281)



280. CASTRO, Ferreira de.  A MORTE REDIMIDA. Novela. Porto. Livraria e Imprensa Civilização, Editora. 1925. In 8º de 75 págs. Enc. [€ 40 / 80]

Edição original de um dos livros renegados pelo autor. Da “Biblioteca Civilização”. Carimbos e assinaturas no frontispício.

Natália Correia (lotes 342 a 346), José Daniel Rodrigues da Costa (lotes 358 a 360), Júlio Dinis (lotes 419 a 422)



422. DINIS, Júlio.  AS APPREHENSÕES DE UMA MÃI E UMA FLOR D´ENTRE O GELO. Rio de Janeiro. Na Livraria Popular de A. A. da Cruz Coutinho. 1870. In 8º de [4], XII, [1], 212 págs. Enc. [€ 35 / 70]

Primeira edição deste raro livro impresso no Rio de Janeiro. Com prefácio de Augusto Malheiro Dias. As págs. 201 e seguintes constituem o catálogo da Livraria Popular de A. A. da Cruz Coutinho. Exemplar um pouco aparado. Pequena assinatura na primeira página do texto. Encadernação recente. Sem capas da brochura.

José Duro (lotes 434 e 435) com Fel e Flores (ainda que não seja a sua obra mais conhecida Flores é, na minha modesta opinião de muito maior raridade – pena o seu estado senão ver-se-ia o valor que atingiria no final!)



435 DURO, José.  FLORES. Portalegre. Fragozo & Leonardo. 1896. In 8º peq. de 31 págs. Br. [€ 175 / 350]
Edição primitiva. De grande raridade. Com três carimbos no frontispício. Capas de brochura com defeitos e a necessitarem de restauro.

José Gomes Ferreira (lotes 477 a 480), Manuel Ferreira (lotes 481 a 485), Vergílio Ferreira (lotes 487 a 492 e 1419).



1419. FERREIRA, Vergílio.  APARIÇÃO. Romance. Lisboa. Portugália Editora. S. data. (1959). In8º de 254, [3] págs. Br. Lisboa. Portugália Editora. S. data. (1959). In8º de 254, [3] págs. Br. [€ 60 / 120]
Primeira edição. Da Colecção Contemporânea. Capa de brochura ilustrada por Charrua.

 Branquinho da Fonseca (lotes 506 e 507), Manuel da Fonseca (lotes 508 e 509), Manuel da Silva Gaio(lotes 537 a 541), J. B. de Almeida Garrett (lotes 549 a 554), Ana Hatherly (lotes 588 a 596), Herberto Helder (lote 597)



598. HELDER, Herberto.  O AMOR EM VISITA. Lisboa. Contraponto. (1958). In 8º de 14, [1] págs. [€ 250 / 500]