| | Where are books ? | |
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+23C'linekdr pandora marieeeeeeeeeeeee Clairouille faudel Boogini souin crok luluE Sally Jenko SanJi PinK Wooz forcejaune Andy Canard X Sylvain stephane Lily armellodie †cendr2lune† No_More_Angel... MoL morgane 27 participants | |
Auteur | Message |
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Wooz Merlin
Nombre de messages : 299 Age : 52 Localisation : Here Today, Tomorrow Next Week! Date d'inscription : 28/03/2006
| | | | Diente Claro Illusionniste
Nombre de messages : 113 Age : 33 Localisation : Bois Fleuri, Seine et Marne Date d'inscription : 01/09/2006
| Sujet: Re: Where are books ? Jeu 15 Fév à 20:55 | |
| Exact.
Je suis sur que tu le connais du forum Ghinzu. | |
| | | Wooz Merlin
Nombre de messages : 299 Age : 52 Localisation : Here Today, Tomorrow Next Week! Date d'inscription : 28/03/2006
| Sujet: Re: Where are books ? Ven 16 Fév à 15:13 | |
| Exact, je l'ai même rencontré au Paléo le petit Clément, juste avant le concert des Dionysos. | |
| | | Jess Apprenti sorcier
Nombre de messages : 45 Age : 38 Date d'inscription : 25/03/2007
| Sujet: Re: Where are books ? Dim 25 Mar à 15:29 | |
| Pour l'instant rien, je digère mon dernier livre, mais j'ai bien envie de tester le dernier Amélie Nothomb! | |
| | | No_More_Angel... Red Heel
Nombre de messages : 866 Age : 38 Date d'inscription : 22/03/2006
| Sujet: Re: Where are books ? Dim 25 Mar à 18:22 | |
| - Jess a écrit:
- Pour l'instant rien, je digère mon dernier livre,
qui est...? bon comme j'aime bien me répéter...j'ai lu tous les malaussène et je viens de récuperer encore du pennac: comme un roman et puis sinon je reviens du salon du livre(avec mon pennac donc)... j'ai eu le malheur sur le premier stand où je me suis arrêtée de feuilleter, un peu trop longuement apparemment, un livre (illustré) et de répondre non lorsque le mec derrière le comptoir m'a demandé si je voulais une dédicace et de reposer le livre: j'ai eu droit à une remontrance, qui me fait lever la tête le temps de voir son badge et de me rendre compte que c'était le mec qui a écrit le livre...je ne savais plus où me mettre mais du coup j'ai plus osé feuilleter quoi que ce soit à partir du moment où il y avait quelqu'un à côté...je pense que je vais en faire des cauchemars. finalement, la fnac a du bon, au moins on est tranquille il n'y a pas un libraire ou un auteur qui guette... sinon fallait prendre un ticket pour fmurr et ensuite il y avait un tirage au sort parmi les ticket du coup ça m'a énervé et je ne l'ai pas attendu non mais. voilà. enfin j'aurai quand même de quoi lire dans mon train de retour | |
| | | Jess Apprenti sorcier
Nombre de messages : 45 Age : 38 Date d'inscription : 25/03/2007
| Sujet: Re: Where are books ? Dim 25 Mar à 18:53 | |
| - No_More_Angel... a écrit:
qui est...?
Le dernier tome des "contes et légendes inachevées" de Tolkien. Superbe trilogie fini mercredi, je reste avec ce petit gout d'aventure... | |
| | | No_More_Angel... Red Heel
Nombre de messages : 866 Age : 38 Date d'inscription : 22/03/2006
| Sujet: Re: Where are books ? Dim 25 Mar à 19:26 | |
| je suis tombée sur ça cet aprèm , très tentant! | |
| | | yuuhi Apprenti sorcier
Nombre de messages : 56 Age : 33 Localisation : toulouse Date d'inscription : 02/12/2006
| Sujet: Re: Where are books ? Sam 2 Juin à 18:56 | |
| Je viens de finir L'adversaire ... c'est la biographie de JC Romand, qui a tué ses parents, sa femme ses enfants et essayé de tuer sa maitresse ... et j'ai pas vraiment aimé. E Carrere (l'auteur) essaye trop (d'apres moi) de le rendre humain, de le faire passer pour une victime... enfin pour le coup c'est une belle biographie subjective! | |
| | | No_More_Angel... Red Heel
Nombre de messages : 866 Age : 38 Date d'inscription : 22/03/2006
| Sujet: Re: Where are books ? Jeu 14 Juin à 17:41 | |
| Pour ceux qui aiment les rebondissements, et qui passent par ici, vous pouvez tenter une incursion dans un roman de P.G. Wodehouse. Je viens d'en lire un et c'est assez poilant! Si vous avez un train à prendre ou quelques heures de ce genre... | |
| | | Wooz Merlin
Nombre de messages : 299 Age : 52 Localisation : Here Today, Tomorrow Next Week! Date d'inscription : 28/03/2006
| | | | No_More_Angel... Red Heel
Nombre de messages : 866 Age : 38 Date d'inscription : 22/03/2006
| Sujet: Re: Where are books ? Jeu 21 Juin à 17:45 | |
| Bon j'ai pas tout lu, mais en le mettant ici, je n'aurai pas besoin de le chercher pour lire la suite plus tard...
He did not wear his scarlet coat, For blood and wine are red, And blood and wine were on his hands When they found him with the dead, The poor dead woman whom he loved, And murdered in her bed.
He walked amongst the Trial Men In a suit of shabby grey; A cricket cap was on his head, And his step seemed light and gay; But I never saw a man who looked So wistfully at the day.
I never saw a man who looked With such a wistful eye Upon that little tent of blue Which prisoners call the sky, And at every drifting cloud that went With sails of silver by.
I walked, with other souls in pain, Within another ring, And was wondering if the man had done A great or little thing, When a voice behind me whispered low, "That fellow's got to swing."
Dear Christ! the very prison walls Suddenly seemed to reel, And the sky above my head became Like a casque of scorching steel; And, though I was a soul in pain, My pain I could not feel.
I only knew what haunted thought Quickened his step, and why He looked upon the garish day With such a wistful eye; The man had killed the thing he loved, And so he had to die.
Yet each man kills the thing he loves, By each let this be heard, Some do it with a bitter look, Some with a flattering word, The coward does it with a kiss, The brave man with a sword!
Some kill their love when they are young, And some when they are old; Some strangle with the hands of Lust, Some with the hands of Gold: The kindest use a knife, because The dead so soon grow cold.
Some love too little, some too long, Some sell, and others buy; Some do the deed with many tears, And some without a sigh: For each man kills the thing he loves, Yet each man does not die.
He does not die a death of shame On a day of dark disgrace, Nor have a noose about his neck, Nor a cloth upon his face, Nor drop feet foremost through the floor Into an empty space.
He does not sit with silent men Who watch him night and day; Who watch him when he tries to weep, And when he tries to pray; Who watch him lest himself should rob The prison of its prey.
He does not wake at dawn to see Dread figures throng his room, The shivering Chaplain robed in white, The Sheriff stern with gloom, And the Governor all in shiny black, With the yellow face of Doom.
He does not rise in piteous haste To put on convict-clothes, While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes Each new and nerve-twitched pose, Fingering a watch whose little ticks Are like horrible hammer-blows.
He does not feel that sickening thirst That sands one's throat, before The hangman with his gardener's gloves Comes through the padded door, And binds one with three leathern thongs, That the throat may thirst no more.
He does not bend his head to hear The Burial Office read, Nor, while the anguish of his soul Tells him he is not dead, Cross his own coffin, as he moves Into the hideous shed.
He does not stare upon the air Through a little roof of glass: He does not pray with lips of clay For his agony to pass; Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek The kiss of Caiaphas.
II. Six weeks the guardsman walked the yard, In the suit of shabby grey: His cricket cap was on his head, And his step was light and gay, But I never saw a man who looked So wistfully at the day.
He did not wring his hands nor weep, Nor did he peek or pine, But he drank the air as though it held Some healthful anodyne; With open mouth he drank the sun As though it had been wine!
And I and all the souls in pain, Who tramped the other ring, Forgot if we ourselves had done A great or little thing, And watched with gaze of dull amaze The man who had to swing.
So with curious eyes and sick surmise We watched him day by day, And wondered if each one of us Would end the self-same way, For none can tell to what red Hell His sightless soul may stray.
At last the dead man walked no more Amongst the Trial Men, And I knew that he was standing up In the black dock's dreadful pen, And that never would I see his face For weal or woe again.
Like two doomed ships that pass in storm We had crossed each other's way: But we made no sign, we said no word, We had no word to say; For we did not meet in the holy night, But in the shameful day.
A prison wall was round us both, Two outcast men we were: The world had thrust us from its heart, And God from out His care: And the iron gin that waits for Sin Had caught us in its snare.
III. In Debtors' Yard the stones are hard, And the dripping wall is high, So it was there he took the air Beneath the leaden sky, And by each side a warder walked, For fear the man might die.
Or else he sat with those who watched His anguish night and day; Who watched him when he rose to weep, And when he crouched to pray; Who watched him lest himself should rob Their scaffold of its prey.
And twice a day he smoked his pipe, And drank his quart of beer: His soul was resolute, and held No hiding-place for fear; He often said that he was glad The hangman's day was near.
But why he said so strange a thing No warder dared to ask: For he to whom a watcher's doom Is given as his task, Must set a lock upon his lips, And make his face a mask.
With slouch and swing around the ring We trod the Fools' Parade! We did not care: we knew we were The Devils' Own Brigade: And shaven head and feet of lead Make a merry masquerade.
We tore the tarry rope to shreds With blunt and bleeding nails; We rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors, And cleaned the shining rails: And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank, And clattered with the pails.
We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones, We turned the dusty drill: We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns, And sweated on the mill: But in the heart of every man Terror was lying still.
So still it lay that every day Crawled like a weed-clogged wave: And we forgot the bitter lot That waits for fool and knave, Till once, as we tramped in from work, We passed an open grave.
Right in we went, with soul intent On Death and Dread and Doom: The hangman, with his little bag, Went shuffling through the gloom: And I trembled as I groped my way Into my numbered tomb.
That night the empty corridors Were full of forms of Fear, And up and down the iron town Stole feet we could not hear, And through the bars that hide the stars White faces seemed to peer.
But there is no sleep when men must weep Who never yet have wept: So we--the fool, the fraud, the knave-- That endless vigil kept, And through each brain on hands of pain Another's terror crept.
Alas! it is a fearful thing To feel another's guilt! For, right within, the sword of Sin Pierced to its poisoned hilt, And as molten lead were the tears we shed For the blood we had not spilt.
The warders with their shoes of felt Crept by each padlocked door, And peeped and saw, with eyes of awe, Grey figures on the floor, And wondered why men knelt to pray Who never prayed before.
The morning wind began to moan, But still the night went on: Through its giant loom the web of gloom Crept till each thread was spun: And, as we prayed, we grew afraid Of the Justice of the Sun.
At last I saw the shadowed bars, Like a lattice wrought in lead, Move right across the whitewashed wall That faced my three-plank bed, And I knew that somewhere in the world God's dreadful dawn was red.
At six o'clock we cleaned our cells, At seven all was still, But the sough and swing of a mighty wing The prison seemed to fill, For the Lord of Death with icy breath Had entered in to kill.
He did not pass in purple pomp, Nor ride a moon-white steed. Three yards of cord and a sliding board Are all the gallows' need: So with rope of shame the Herald came To do the secret deed.
We waited for the stroke of eight: Each tongue was thick with thirst: For the stroke of eight is the stroke of Fate That makes a man accursed, And Fate will use a running noose For the best man and the worst.
We had no other thing to do, Save to wait for the sign to come: So, like things of stone in a valley lone, Quiet we sat and dumb: But each man's heart beat thick and quick, Like a madman on a drum!
With sudden shock the prison-clock Smote on the shivering air, And from all the gaol rose up a wail Of impotent despair, Like the sound the frightened marshes hear From some leper in his lair.
And as one sees most fearful things In the crystal of a dream, We saw the greasy hempen rope Hooked to the blackened beam, And heard the prayer the hangman's snare Strangled into a scream.
And all the woe that moved him so That he gave that bitter cry, And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats, None knew so well as I: For he who lives more lives than one More deaths that one must die.
IV. There is no chapel on the day On which they hang a man: The Chaplain's heart is far too sick, Or his face is far too wan, Or there is that written in his eyes Which none should look upon.
So they kept us close till nigh on noon, And then they rang the bell, And the warders with their jingling keys Opened each listening cell, And down the iron stair we tramped, Each from his separate Hell.
Out into God's sweet air we went, But not in wonted way, For this man's face was white with fear, And that man's face was grey, And I never saw sad men who looked So wistfully at the day.
I never saw sad men who looked With such a wistful eye Upon that little tent of blue We prisoners called the sky, And at every happy cloud that passed In such strange freedom by.
But there were those amongst us all Who walked with downcast head, And knew that, had each got his due, They should have died instead: He had but killed a thing that lived, Whilst they had killed the dead.
For he who sins a second time Wakes a dead soul to pain, And draws it from its spotted shroud And makes it bleed again, And makes it bleed great gouts of blood, And makes it bleed in vain!
Like ape or clown, in monstrous garb With crooked arrows starred, Silently we went round and round The slippery asphalte yard; Silently we went round and round, And no man spoke a word.
Silently we went round and round, And through each hollow mind The Memory of dreadful things Rushed like a dreadful wind, And Horror stalked before each man, And Terror crept behind.
The warders strutted up and down, And watched their herd of brutes, Their uniforms were spick and span, And they wore their Sunday suits, But we knew the work they had been at, By the quicklime on their boots.
For where a grave had opened wide, There was no grave at all: Only a stretch of mud and sand By the hideous prison-wall, And a little heap of burning lime, That the man should have his pall.
For he has a pall, this wretched man, Such as few men can claim: Deep down below a prison-yard, Naked, for greater shame, He lies, with fetters on each foot, Wrapt in a sheet of flame!
For three long years they will not sow Or root or seedling there: For three long years the unblessed spot Will sterile be and bare, And look upon the wondering sky With unreproachful stare.
They think a murderer's heart would taint Each simple seed they sow. It is not true! God's kindly earth Is kindlier than men know, And the red rose would but glow more red, The white rose whiter blow.
Out of his mouth a red, red rose! Out of his heart a white! For who can say by what strange way, Christ brings His will to light, Since the barren staff the pilgrim bore Bloomed in the great Pope's sight?
But neither milk-white rose nor red May bloom in prison air; The shard, the pebble, and the flint, Are what they give us there: For flowers have been known to heal A common man's despair.
So never will wine-red rose or white, Petal by petal, fall On that stretch of mud and sand that lies By the hideous prison-wall, To tell the men who tramp the yard That God's Son died for all.
Yet though the hideous prison-wall Still hems him round and round, And a spirit may not walk by night That is with fetters bound, And a spirit may but weep that lies In such unholy ground,
He is at peace--this wretched man-- At peace, or will be soon: There is no thing to make him mad, Nor does Terror walk at noon, For the lampless Earth in which he lies Has neither Sun nor Moon.
The Chaplain would not kneel to pray By his dishonoured grave: Nor mark it with that blessed Cross That Christ for sinners gave, Because the man was one of those Whom Christ came down to save.
Yet all is well; he has but passed To Life's appointed bourne: And alien tears will fill for him Pity's long-broken urn, For his mourners be outcast men, And outcasts always mourn.
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| | | souin Faiseur de miracles
Nombre de messages : 515 Age : 39 Localisation : Chartres, Paris, Dijon, ... Date d'inscription : 13/03/2006
| Sujet: Re: Where are books ? Jeu 21 Juin à 22:28 | |
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| | | Sally Jenko Poet
Nombre de messages : 856 Age : 38 Localisation : Proche de Lyon Date d'inscription : 12/03/2006
| Sujet: Re: Where are books ? Ven 22 Juin à 2:50 | |
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| | | No_More_Angel... Red Heel
Nombre de messages : 866 Age : 38 Date d'inscription : 22/03/2006
| Sujet: Re: Where are books ? Ven 22 Juin à 20:56 | |
| - Citation :
- He does not feel that sickening thirst
That sands one's throat, before The hangman with his gardener's gloves Comes through the padded door, And binds one with three leathern thongs, That the throat may thirst no more.
ça parle de moi! | |
| | | Sally Jenko Poet
Nombre de messages : 856 Age : 38 Localisation : Proche de Lyon Date d'inscription : 12/03/2006
| Sujet: Re: Where are books ? Ven 22 Juin à 22:51 | |
| Ben non, ça ne parle pas d'ange. | |
| | | MoL Faiseur de miracles
Nombre de messages : 573 Age : 45 Localisation : Le Mans Date d'inscription : 29/03/2006
| Sujet: Re: Where are books ? Lun 25 Juin à 8:59 | |
| Méééééé non c juste qu'ils l'appellent par son prénom, sans donner son nom ! non ? | |
| | | No_More_Angel... Red Heel
Nombre de messages : 866 Age : 38 Date d'inscription : 22/03/2006
| Sujet: Re: Where are books ? Lun 25 Juin à 19:21 | |
| - Sally Jenko a écrit:
- Ben non, ça ne parle pas d'ange.
t'es sûr? ouf! | |
| | | Sally Jenko Poet
Nombre de messages : 856 Age : 38 Localisation : Proche de Lyon Date d'inscription : 12/03/2006
| Sujet: Re: Where are books ? Lun 25 Juin à 19:57 | |
| Pas le passage que tu as cité en tout cas. | |
| | | Clairouille Apprenti sorcier
Nombre de messages : 40 Localisation : Minneapolis - Montpellier - Le Havre Date d'inscription : 14/04/2006
| Sujet: Re: Where are books ? Jeu 13 Sep à 6:44 | |
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| | | No_More_Angel... Red Heel
Nombre de messages : 866 Age : 38 Date d'inscription : 22/03/2006
| Sujet: Re: Where are books ? Jeu 13 Sep à 13:58 | |
| c'est le nom d'un livre ou une proposition, juste comme ça? | |
| | | souin Faiseur de miracles
Nombre de messages : 515 Age : 39 Localisation : Chartres, Paris, Dijon, ... Date d'inscription : 13/03/2006
| Sujet: Re: Where are books ? Mar 25 Sep à 19:05 | |
| - SanJi PinK a écrit:
- Ben moi suis aux Thanatonautes de Werber (j'ai déjà acheter la suite : L'empire des anges). J'ai aussi acheté un Anne Rice voir ce que ça donne.
J'avance trèèès lentement le Journal de Kurt. Et j'ai des nouvelles d'Anna Gavalda et Isamov à finir aussi. Pis bien sûr mes mangas l'oeuvre de sanjipink... : http://www.les2encres.com/fichiers/reservations/resasuinot.pdf | |
| | | No_More_Angel... Red Heel
Nombre de messages : 866 Age : 38 Date d'inscription : 22/03/2006
| Sujet: Re: Where are books ? Mar 16 Oct à 0:25 | |
| jviens de finir harry potter. bon ben je dis trop rien. mais ça va j'ai bien aimé. maintenant je sais plus quoi lire. | |
| | | Sylvain Assistant
Nombre de messages : 894 Age : 40 Localisation : Grenoble Date d'inscription : 02/04/2006
| Sujet: Re: Where are books ? Sam 20 Oct à 1:36 | |
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| | | No_More_Angel... Red Heel
Nombre de messages : 866 Age : 38 Date d'inscription : 22/03/2006
| Sujet: Re: Where are books ? Lun 19 Nov à 21:03 | |
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| | | Sylvain Assistant
Nombre de messages : 894 Age : 40 Localisation : Grenoble Date d'inscription : 02/04/2006
| Sujet: Re: Where are books ? Lun 19 Nov à 21:10 | |
| tu as tort, il est pas trop long | |
| | | Contenu sponsorisé
| Sujet: Re: Where are books ? | |
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| | | | Where are books ? | |
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