Books : What are your favorite books of all time, and why?

What are your favorite books of all time, and why?

Mine is Ubik by Phillip K. Dick. Its not my favorite because it's particularly meaningful to me, I just like it because the story is so amazingly composed and its so satisfying to read.

Crime and Punishment because of how much it makes you think and how in depth it goes. Dostoevsky is a phenomenal author.

Lonesome Dove is beautifully written with the most memorable and realistic characters of any book I’ve ever read. There is love and heartbreak; action and horror. It’s a book filled with humor, philosophy, and history. Lonesome Dove (and it’s prequels and sequel) truly encompasses one of the best stories ever told.

The Count of Monte Cristo, its just got a little bit of everything, and revenge when executed properly is so satisfying.

The Road by Cormac McCarthy. I just love the relationship between father and son.

Slaughterhouse Five by Vonnegut. It's one of those books that came into my life at the right time and suddenly all of the questions pertaining to my existential crisis were answered and life finally started to make sense. It put a lot of things into perspective for me. I could relate to the sense of loss and not having things in one's control. It taught me that you can still focus on the present and on the things that you can control, and maybe even assign meaning to those things, but in the broader picture, it all probably doesn't even matter. "All moments, past, present and future, always have existed, always will exist." Maybe I never lost anything. And those things and people still exist, just in another dimension/form. And I will always carry them with me in my memories and heart. And that realization can feel very freeing.

White Noise by Don DeLillo. Not sure why, his prose is so good i feel like I'm cumming reading it. Just hits all the right spots. The short and sweet chapters, 2-8 pages, that give way to the completely unbroken disaster Second Act. There are these mobster professors who have conversations like - "where were you when James Dean died? You were jerking off when James Dean died?" And then its got some amazing insights into mortality and death, providing a counterargument to death gives life meaning.

Cloud Atlas - I'm a huge fan of experimental fiction. The choice to make every story a different style, and have them stop halfway then wrap up later, is pheonominally executed. Also just making a coherent narrative which spans 1000+ years is impressive.

House of Leaves- I'm a sucker for the myth of theseus and the minotaur. The inversion in the book is one I've never seen before. Johnny is such an amazing scumbag protagonist. The hunter/explorer team is amazing. Such true moments of horror and sorrow.

Re: What are your favorite books of all time, and why?

A Little Princess - I read it I think 2 times. I like the story, simply, a bit fairy-tale-ish, much better than the movies.

Little House in the Big Woods - I read it more than once. It's the 1st of the series of the Little House Books. So, she was only like 4 or 5 in this book and dreaming about getting a doll probably.

White Fang - I don't know about the read or the movie, but I generally like this book. It reminds me of The Dark Frigate, about pirates. I think there's 1 girl and 1 woman in it, but only several pages. These 2 books might be for boys.

I've read other interesting things, like the 1st 3 in the series from a book fair called A Series of Unfortunate Events. I also read The Tale of Despereaux in college for fun from my younger brother's book fair I think. They both were turned into movies.

The Phantom Tollbooth seems like very essential aesthetics.

I just thought of some I forget.

I read The Phantom of the Opera maybe twice and saw a play in school before knowing the musical, which seems a bit more modern for some reason. This was great science fiction.

☂️ "Don't go chasing waterfalls." -"The Umbrella Academy"

Re: What are your favorite books of all time, and why?

http://www.gutenberg.org/files/50598/50598-h/50598-h.htm#CHAPTER_I

CHAPTER I
FLIGHT

Philip Marsham was bred to the sea as far back as the days when he was cutting his milk teeth, and he never thought he should leave it; but leave it he did, once and again, as I shall tell you.

His father was master of a London ketch, and they say that before the boy could stand unaided on his two feet he would lean himself, as a child does, against the waist in a seaway, and never pipe a whimper when she thrust her bows down and shipped enough water to douse him from head to heels. He lost his mother before he went into breeches and he was climbing the rigging before he could walk alone. He spent two years at school to the good Dr. Josiah Arber at Roehampton, for his father, being a clergyman's son who had run wild in his youth, hoped to do better by the lad than he had done by himself, and was of a mind to send Philip home a scholar to make peace with the grandparents, in the vicarage at Little Grimsby, whom Tom Marsham had not seen in twenty years. But the boy was his father over again, and taking to books with an ill grace, he endured them only until he had learned to read and write and had laid such foundation of mathematics as he hoped would serve his purpose when he came to study navigation. Then, running away by night from his master's house, he joined his father on board the Sarah ketch, who laughed mightily to see how his son took after him, do what he would to make a scholar of the lad. And but for the mercy of God, which laid Philip Marsham on his back with a fever in the spring of his nineteenth year, he had gone down with his father in the ketch Sarah, the night she foundered off the North Foreland.

Moll Stevens kept him, while he lay ill with the fever, in her alehouse in High Street, in the borough of Southwark, and she was good to him after her fashion, for her heart was set on marrying his father. But though she had brought Tom Marsham to heel and had named the day, nothing is sure till the words are said.

When they had news which there was no doubting that Tom Marsham was lost at sea, she was of a mind to send the boy out of her house the hour he was able to walk thence; and so she would have done, if God's providence had not found means to renew his strength before the time and send him packing in wonderful haste, with Moll Stevens and certain others after him in full cry.

For the third day he had come down from his chamber and had taken the great chair by the fire, when there entered a huge-bellied countryman who carried a gun of a kind not familiar to those in the house.

"Ah," Phil heard them whispering, as he sat in the great chair, "here's Jamie Barwick come back again." Then they called out, "Welcome, Jamie, and good-morrow!"

Philip Marsham would have liked well to see the gun himself, since a taste for such gear was born in him; but he had been long bedridden, and though he could easily have walked over to look at it, he let well enough alone and stayed where he was.

They passed it from one to another and marvelled at the craftsmanship, and when they let the butt fall on the floor, the pots rang and the cans tinkled. And now one cried, "Have care which way you point the muzzle." But the countryman who brought it laughed and declared there was no danger, for though it was charged he had spent all his powder and had not primed it.

At last he took it from them all and, spying Moll Stevens, who had heard the bustle and had come to learn the cause, he called for a can of ale. There was no place at hand to set down his gun so he turned to the lad in the chair and cried, "Here, whiteface with the great eyes, take my piece and keep it for me. I am dry—Oh, so dry! Keep it till I have drunk, and gramercy. A can of ale, I say! Hostess! Moll! Moll! Where art thou? A can of ale!"

He flung himself down on a bench and mopped his forehead with his sleeve. He was a huge great man with a vast belly and a deep voice and a fat red face that was smiling one minute and frowning the next.

"Ho! Hostess!" he roared again. "Ale, ale! A can of ale! Moll, I say! A can of ale!"

A hush had fallen upon the room at his first summons, for he had been quiet so long after entering that his clamour amazed all who were present, unless they had known him before, and they now stole glances at him and at one another and at Moll Stevens, who came bustling in again, her face as red as his own, for she was his match in girth and temper.

"Here then!" she snapped, and thumped the can down before him on the great oaken table.

He blew off the topmost foam and thrust his hot face into the ale, but not so deep that he could not send Phil Marsham a wink over the rim.

This Moll perceived and in turn shot at the lad a glance so ill-tempered that any one who saw it must know she rued the day she had taken him under her roof in his illness. He had got many such a glance since word came that his father was lost, and more than glances, too, for as soon as Moll knew there was nothing to gain by keeping his good will she had berated him like the vixen she was at heart, although he was then too ill to raise his head from the sheet.

It was a sad plight for a lad whose grandfather was a gentleman (although he had never seen the old man), and there had been times when he would almost have gone back to school and have swallowed without a whimper the Latin and Greek. But he was stronger now and nearer able to fend for himself and it was in his mind, as he sat in the great chair with the gun, that after a few days at longest he would pay the score in silver from his chest upstairs, and take leave for ever of Moll Stevens and her alehouse. So now, giving her no heed, he began fondling the fat countryman's piece.

The stock was of walnut, polished until a man could see his face in it, and the barrel was of steel chased from breech to muzzle and inlaid with gold and silver. Small wonder that all had been eager to handle it, the lad thought. He saw others in the room furtively observing the gun, and he knew there were men not a hundred leagues away who would have killed the owner to take it. He even bethought himself, having no lack of conceit in such matters, that the man had done well to pick Phil Marsham to keep it while he drank his ale.

The fellow had gone to the opposite corner of the room and had taken a deep seat just beneath the three long shelves on which stood the three rows of fine platters that were the pride of Moll Stevens's heart.

The platters caught the lad's eye and, raising the gun, he presented it at the uppermost row. Supposing it were loaded and primed, he thought, what a stir and clatter it would make to fire the charge! He smiled, cocked the gun, and rested his finger on the trigger; but he was over weak to hold the gun steady. As he let the muzzle fall, his hand slipped. His throat tightened like a cramp. His hair, he verily believed, rose on end. The gun—primed or no—went off.

He had so far lowered the muzzle that not a shot struck the topmost row of platters, but of the second lower row, not one platter was left standing. The splinters flew in a shower over the whole room, and a dozen stray shots—for the gun was charged to shoot small birds—peppered the fat man about the face and ear. Worst of all, by far, to make good measure of the clatter and clamour, the great mass of the charge, which by grace of God avoided the fat man's head although the wind of it raised his hair, struck fairly a butt of Moll Stevens's richest sack, which six men had raised on a frame to make easier the labour of drawing from it, and shattered a stave so that the goodly wine poured out as if a greater than Moses had smitten a rock with his staff.

Re: What are your favorite books of all time, and why?

Of all in the room, mind you, none was more amazed than Philip Marsham, and indeed for a moment his wits were quite numb. He sat with the gun in his hands, which was still smoking to show who had done the wicked deed, and stared at the splintered platters and at the countryman's furious face, on which rivulets of blood were trickling down, and at the gurgling flood of wine that was belching out on Moll Stevens's dirty floor.

Then in rushed Moll herself with such a face that he hoped never to see the like again. She swept the room at a single glance and bawling, "As I live, 't is that tike, Philip Marsham! Paddock! Hound! Devil's imp!"—at him she came, a billet of Flanders brick in her hand.

He was of no mind to try the quality of her scouring, for although she knew not the meaning of a clean house, she was a brawny wench and her hand and her brick were as rough as her tongue. Further, he perceived that there were others to reckon with, for the countryman was on his feet with a murderous look in his eye and there were six besides him who had started up. Although Phil had little wish to play hare to their hounds, since the fever had left him fit for neither fighting nor running, there was urgent need that he act soon and to a purpose, for Moll and her Flanders brick were upon him.

Warmed by the smell of the good wine run to waste, and marvellously strengthened by the danger of bodily harm if once they laid hands on him, he got out of the great chair as nimbly as if he had not spent three weeks in bed, and, turning like a fox, slipped through the door.

God was good to Philip Marsham, for the gun, as he dropped it, tripped Moll Stevens and sent her sprawling on the threshold; the fat countryman, thinking more of his property than his injury, stooped for the gun; and those two so filled the door that the six were stoppered in the alehouse until with the whoo-bub ringing in his ears Phil had got him out of sight. He had the craft, though they then came after him like hounds let slip, to turn aside and take to earth in a trench hard by, and to lie in hiding there until the hue and cry had come and gone. In faith, he had neither the wind nor the strength to run farther.

It was "Stop thief!"—"Murder's done!"—"Attach the knave!"—"Help! Help!"

Who had dug the trench that was his hiding-place he never knew, but it lay not a furlong from the alehouse door, and as he tumbled into it and sprawled flat on the wet earth he gave the man an orphan's blessing. The hue and cry passed him and went racing down the river; and when the yells had grown fainter, and at last had died quite away, he got up out of the trench and walked as fast as he could in the opposite direction, stopping often to rest, until he had left Moll Stevens's alehouse a good mile behind him. He passed a parish beadle, but the fellow gave him not a single glance; he passed the crier calling for sale the household goods of a man who desired to take his fortune and depart for New England, and the crier (who, one would suppose, knew everything of the public weal) brushed his coat but hindered him not. In the space of a single furlong he met two Puritans on foot, without enough hair to cover their ears, and two fine gentlemen on horseback whose curls flowed to their shoulders; but neither one nor other gave him let. The rabble of higglers and waggoners from the alehouse, headed by the countryman, Jamie Barwick, and by Moll Stevens herself, had raced far down the river, and Phil Marsham was free to go wherever else his discretion bade him.

Now it would have been his second nature to have fled to the docks, for he was bred a sailor and could haul and reef and steer with any man; but they whom he had no wish to meet had gone that way and in his weakness it had been worse than folly to beard them. His patrimony was forfeit, for although his father had left him a bag of silver, it lay in his chest in Moll Stevens's alehouse, and for fear of hanging he dared not go back after it. She was a vindictive shrew and would have taken his heart's blood to pay him for his blunder. His father was gone and the ketch with him, and, save for a handful of silver the lad had about him, he was penniless. So what would a sailor do, think you, orphaned and penniless and cut off from the sea, but set himself up for a farmer? Phil clapped his hand on his thigh and quietly laughed. That a man needed money and skill for husbandry never entered his foolish head. Were not husbandmen all fond fellows whom a lively sailor man might fleer as he pleased? Nay, they knew not so much as one rope from another. Why, then, he would go into the country and set him up as a kind of prince among husbandmen, who had, by all reports, plenty of good nappy liquor to drink and bread and cheese and meat to eat.

With that he turned his back on the sea and London and on Moll Stevens, whom he never saw again. His trafficking with her was well ended, and as well ended his father's affair, in my belief; for the woman had a bitter temper and a sharp tongue, and there are worse things for a free-hearted, jovial man such as Tom Marsham was, than drowning. The son owed her nought that the bag in his chest would not repay many times over, so he set out with all good courage and with the handful of silver that chanced to be in his pocket and, though his legs were weak and he must stop often to rest, by nightfall he had gone miles upon his way.

Re: What are your favorite books of all time, and why?

Cloud Atlas is great. David Mitchell's earlier book, Ghostwritten, is also awesome.

Re: What are your favorite books of all time, and why?

Too many to mention, but the story that always makes me cry, is The Snow Goose, by Paul Gallico.

Re: What are your favorite books of all time, and why?

But how can it be your favorite when it makes you cry? Nevermind, Avengers: Endgame is my favorite movie and it always makes me cry when Tony says "and I am… Iron Man" then snaps that faggot Thanos out of existence, killing himself in the process, so I get it.

Re: What are your favorite books of all time, and why?

Great Expectations - Bruce Dickenson
Les Miserables - Victor Hugo
Nine Princes in Amber - Roger Zelazny
Magician - Raymond E. Feist
Enders Game - Orson Scott Card
Maus: A Survivor's Tale - Art Spiegelman
Of Mice and Men - John Steinbeck

because they are badass, of course!

Re: What are your favorite books of all time, and why?

All great.

Didn't somebody from Iron Maiden also write 'Little Women'?

Re: What are your favorite books of all time, and why?

Yes, that was Nico! Just put Bruce in there as a little test!



I also added one more with my edit.

Re: What are your favorite books of all time, and why?

So many… but My Name is Red by Orhan Pamuk is a good modern one. Anna Karenina is a classic that will always have a special place in my heart ❤️

Re: What are your favorite books of all time, and why?

Did you read 'Snow' by Pamuk?

Re: What are your favorite books of all time, and why?

Yes! Are you a fan?

Snow was the first book I’ve read by him, which lead me to My Name is Red. Fun Fact: When I was re-signing up for IMDb, I based my username on the French translation of the title: Mon Nom est Rouge

Re: What are your favorite books of all time, and why?

A few of his books. There's the one where the Venetian becomes the Turk, and vice-versa. Which one was that?

Snow left an impression on me.

Re: What are your favorite books of all time, and why?

The White Castle - totally forgot about that one, but a very good book as well. In retrospect, it feels like a prototype for MNIR. He has a way of opening the world of the Ottoman Sultanate right before your eyes, incorporating both beauty and savagery. That’s what I loved most about both books. Ahhh good times.

Snow is good too, I just wish I could remember more of it. I think it has less suspense (and maybe plot?) than the other two but I remember the main character was really intriguing

Re: What are your favorite books of all time, and why?

If I recall, the metaphor is that the snow is the Islamic fundamentalism blanketing and paralyzing parts of (secular) Turkey.

Re: What are your favorite books of all time, and why?

Awesome! That's great about the red/rouge origin story!

My avatar and name comes from one of hungry's favourite books (and mine), Nine Princes in Amber.

Re: What are your favorite books of all time, and why?

My avatar and name comes from one of hungry's favourite books (and mine), Nine Princes in Amber.

How have I not heard of this? I looked up its plot and it sounds like an epic ride

Re: What are your favorite books of all time, and why?

Nine Princes in Amber was written in the early 70s, and was a mash-up of a Phillip Marlowe detective novel, high fantasy, and dysfunctional family potboiler. It had many imitators so it feels less original today than decades ago. Still very fun and funny.

Re: What are your favorite books of all time, and why?

Lol before I saw when it was published, I did think it was one of those recreations. Neat to see an original.

Re: What are your favorite books of all time, and why?

My Name is Red Orhan Pamuk

You slew a man and then fell out with one another concerning him.—KORAN,

“THE COW.”The blind and the seeing are not equal.—KORAN,

“THE CREATOR.”

To God belongs the East and the West.

I AM A CORPSE


I am nothing but a corpse now, a body at the bottom of a well. Though I drew my last breath long ago and my heart has stopped beating, no one, apart from that vile murderer, knows what’s happened to me. As for that wretch, he felt for my pulse and listened for my breath to be sure I was dead, then kicked me in the midriff, carried me to the edge of the well, raised me up and dropped me below. As I fell, my head, which he’d smashed with a stone, broke apart; my face, my forehead and cheeks, were crushed; my bones shattered, and my mouth filled with blood.For nearly four days I have been missing: My wife and children must be searching for me; my daughter, spent from crying, must be staring fretfully at the courtyard gate. Yes, I know they’re all at the window, hoping for my return.But, are they truly waiting? I can’t even be sure of that. Maybe they’ve gotten used to my absence—how dismal! For here, on the other side, one gets the feeling that one’s former life persists. Before my birth there was infinite time, and after my death, inexhaustible time. I never thought of it before: I’d been living luminously between two eternities of darkness.I was happy; I know now that I’d been happy. I made the best illuminations in Our Sultan’s workshop; no one could rival my mastery. Through the work I did privately, I earned nine hundred silver coins a month, which, naturally, only makes all of this even harder to bear.I was responsible for painting and embellishing books. I illuminated the edges of pages, coloring their borders with the most lifelike designs of leaves, branches, roses, flowers and birds. I painted scalloped Chinese-style clouds, clusters of overlapping vines and forests of color that hid gazelles, galleys, sultans, trees, palaces, horses and hunters. In my youth, I would decorate a plate, or the back of a mirror, or a chest, or at times, the ceiling of a mansion or of a Bosphorus manor, or even, a wooden spoon. In later years, however, I only worked on manuscript pages because Our Sultan paid well for them. I can’t say it seems insignificant now. You know the value of money even when you’re dead.After hearing the miracle of my voice, you might think, “Who cares what you earned when you were alive? Tell us what you see. Is there life after death? Where’s your soul? What about Heaven and Hell? What’s death like? Are you in pain?” You’re right, the living are extremely curious about the Afterlife. Maybe you’ve heard the story of the man who was so driven by this curiosity that he roamed among soldiers in battlefields. He sought a man who’d died and returned to life amid the wounded struggling for their lives in pools of blood, a soldier who could tell him about the secrets of the Otherworld. But one of Tamerlane’s warriors, taking the seeker for the enemy, cleaved him in half with a smooth stroke of his scimitar, causing him to conclude that in the Hereafter man gets split in two.

let me smell your farts for israel

Re: What are your favorite books of all time, and why?

Nonsense! Quite the opposite, I’d even say that souls divided in life merge in the Hereafter. Contrary to the claims of sinful infidels who’ve fallen under the sway of the Devil, there is indeed another world, thank God, and the proof is that I’m speaking to you from here. I’ve died, but as you can plainly tell, I haven’t ceased to be. Granted, I must confess, I haven’t encountered the rivers flowing beside the silver and gold kiosks of Heaven, the broad-leaved trees bearing plump fruit and the beautiful virgins mentioned in the Glorious Koran—though I do very well recall how often and enthusiastically I made pictures of those wide-eyed houris described in the chapter “That Which Is Coming.” Nor is there a trace of those rivers of milk, wine, fresh water and honey described with such flourish, not in the Koran, but by visionary dreamers like Ibn Arabi. But I have no intention of tempting the faith of those who live rightfully through their hopes and visions of the Otherworld, so let me declare that all I’ve seen relates specifically to my own very personal circumstances. Any believer with even a little knowledge of life after death would know that a malcontent in my state would be hard-pressed to see the rivers of Heaven.

let me smell your farts for israel

Re: What are your favorite books of all time, and why?

All i have to say is… great choice.. its written poetically in a manner non-muslims wouldn't understand. and that's a jab at them.

let me smell your farts for israel

Re: What are your favorite books of all time, and why?

Re: What are your favorite books of all time, and why?

Blood Meridian and The Road - Cormac McCarthy
The Book of the New Sun and Peace - Gene Wolfe
Wolf Hall - Hilary Mantel
Aubrey/Maturin series (the 'Master and Commander' movie)
Use of Weapons and Player of Games - Iain M Banks
Sword at Sunset and Blood Feud - Rosemary Sutcliff
Ghostwritten and Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell
One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Re: What are your favorite books of all time, and why?

Aubrey/Maturin series (the 'Master and Commander' movie)

That was a hell of a movie. I wasn't aware it was a series of books so now I may check it out.

Re: What are your favorite books of all time, and why?

I never understood why that movie never got more respect. I thought that it was awesome.

The books are dense in the sense that he sticks to the early nineteenth century vocabulary, but once you get into them, they are great.

Pen name was Patrick O'Brien, despite that he was English (shrug).

Re: What are your favorite books of all time, and why?

That movie is easily in my top 20, and Russel Crowe was brilliant in it, as if he were born to play the role. Can't think of anyone else more suited for it.

Re: What are your favorite books of all time, and why?

Agreed.

The books focus on the captain and the doctor, they only gave a hint of their close friendship in the movie. Aubrey is total master of his element at sea, kind of hopeless on land - gets swindled all the time, fathers a bunch of bastards around the globe . Maturin is a superb doctor and spy on land, but can never figure out nautical life at all. Can never learn for example the different names of the parts of the ship… Together they support each other, it's a great series.

Re: What are your favorite books of all time, and why?

Sounds like there may be some homosexual subtext at play!

Re: What are your favorite books of all time, and why?

Well, they were at sea.

Re: What are your favorite books of all time, and why?

Why is that mongo Gameboy replying to me and deleting his posts?

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Re: What are your favorite books of all time, and why?

Blood Meridian and The Road - Cormac McCarthy

bastard posted the best

let me smell your farts for israel

Re: What are your favorite books of all time, and why?

The Lord of the Rings
The Shining
Moby Dick
Watchmen

Don't really have a reason why I like them so much. I just do.

The reports of my demise are greatly exaggerated. - Abe Vigoda

Re: What are your favorite books of all time, and why?

Moby Dick was famous. My dad read me a small version of it, but not too small, maybe more than once.

I even watched Samson and Sally, which put Moby Dick in it.

(Danish)


☂️ "Don't go chasing waterfalls." -"The Umbrella Academy"

Re: What are your favorite books of all time, and why?

Moby Dick

https://etc.usf.edu/lit2go/42/moby-dick/634/chapter-9-the-sermon/

dat sermon

Father Mapple rose, and in a mild voice of unassuming authority ordered the scattered people to condense. “Star board gangway, there! side away to larboard- larboard gangway to starboard! Midships! midships!”

There was a low rumbling of heavy sea-boots among the benches, and a still slighter shuffling of women’s shoes, and all was quiet again, and every eye on the preacher.

He paused a little; then kneeling in the pulpit’s bows, folded his large brown hands across his chest, uplifted his closed eyes, and offered a prayer so deeply devout that he seemed kneeling and praying at the bottom of the sea.

This ended, in prolonged solemn tones, like the continual tolling of a bell in a ship that is foundering at sea in a fog- in such tones he commenced reading the following hymn; but changing his manner towards the concluding stanzas, burst forth with a pealing exultation and joy-

The ribs and terrors in the whale, Arched over me a dismal gloom, While all God’s sun-lit waves rolled by, And lift me deepening down to doom.

I saw the opening maw of hell, With endless pains and sorrows there; Which none but they that feel can tell- Oh, I was plunging to despair.

In black distress, I called my God, When I could scarce believe him mine, He bowed his ear to my complaints- No more the whale did me confine.

With speed he flew to my relief, As on a radiant dolphin borne; Awful, yet bright, as lightning shone The face of my Deliverer God.

My song for ever shall record That terrible, that joyful hour; I give the glory to my God, His all the mercy and the power.

Nearly all joined in singing this hymn, which swelled high above the howling of the storm. A brief pause ensued; the preacher slowly turned over the leaves of the Bible, and at last, folding his hand down upon the proper page, said: “Beloved shipmates, clinch the last verse of the first chapter of Jonah- ‘And God had prepared a great fish to swallow up Jonah.’”

“Shipmates, this book, containing only four chapters- four yarns- is one of the smallest strands in the mighty cable of the Scriptures. Yet what depths of the soul Jonah’s deep sealine sound! what a pregnant lesson to us is this prophet! What a noble thing is that canticle in the fish’s belly! How billow-like and boisterously grand! We feel the floods surging over us, we sound with him to the kelpy bottom of the waters; sea-weed and all the slime of the sea is about us! But what is this lesson that the book of Jonah teaches? Shipmates, it is a two-stranded lesson; a lesson to us all as sinful men, and a lesson to me as a pilot of the living God. As sinful men, it is a lesson to us all, because it is a story of the sin, hard-heartedness, suddenly awakened fears, the swift punishment, repentance, prayers, and finally the deliverance and joy of Jonah. As with all sinners among men, the sin of this son of Amittai was in his wilful disobedience of the command of God- never mind now what that command was, or how conveyed- which he found a hard command. But all the things that God would have us do are hard for us to do- remember that- and hence, he oftener commands us than endeavors to persuade. And if we obey God, we must disobey ourselves; and it is in this disobeying ourselves, wherein the hardness of obeying God consists.

“With this sin of disobedience in him, Jonah still further flouts at God, by seeking to flee from Him. He thinks that a ship made by men, will carry him into countries where God does not reign but only the Captains of this earth. He skulks about the wharves of Joppa, and seeks a ship that’s bound for Tarshish. There lurks, perhaps, a hitherto unheeded meaning here. By all accounts Tarshish could have been no other city than the modern Cadiz. That’s the opinion of learned men. And where is Cadiz, shipmates? Cadiz is in Spain; as far by water, from Joppa, as Jonah could possibly have sailed in those ancient days, when the Atlantic was an almost unknown sea. Because Joppa, the modern Jaffa, shipmates, is on the most easterly coast of the Mediterranean, the Syrian; and Tarshish or Cadiz more than two thousand miles to the westward from that, just outside the Straits of Gibraltar. See ye not then, shipmates, that Jonah sought to flee worldwide from God? Miserable man! Oh! most contemptible and worthy of all scorn; with slouched hat and guilty eye, skulking from his God; prowling among the shipping like a vile burglar hastening to cross the seas. So disordered, self-condemning in his look, that had there been policemen in those days, Jonah, on the mere suspicion of something wrong, had been arrested ere he touched a deck. How plainly he’s a fugitive! no baggage, not a hat-box, valise, or carpet-bag,- no friends accompany him to the wharf with their adieux. At last, after much dodging search, he finds the Tarshish ship receiving the last items of her cargo; and as he steps on board to see its Captain in the cabin, all the sailors for the moment desist from hoisting in the goods, to mark the stranger’s evil eye. Jonah sees this; but in vain he tries to look all ease and confidence; in vain essays his wretched smile. Strong intuitions of the man assure the mariners he can be no innocent. In their gamesome but still serious way, one whispers to the other- “Jack, he’s robbed a widow;” or, “Joe, do you mark him; he’s a bigamist;” or, “Harry lad, I guess he’s the adulterer that broke jail in old Gomorrah, or belike, one of the missing murderers from Sodom.” Another runs to read the bill that’s stuck against the spile upon the wharf to which the ship is moored, offering five hundred gold coins for the apprenhension of a parricide, and containing a description of his person. He reads, and looks from Jonah to the bill; while all his sympathetic shipmates now crowd round Jonah, prepared to lay their hands upon him. Frightened Jonah trembles. and summoning all his boldness to his face, only looks so much the more a coward. He will not confess himself suspected; but that itself is strong suspicion. So he makes the best of it; and when the sailors find him not to be the man that is advertised, they let him pass, and he descends into the cabin.

let me smell your farts for israel

Re: What are your favorite books of all time, and why?

I like the Dune novels.

Re: What are your favorite books of all time, and why?

My fave was Heretics of Dune. Bashar Miles Teg.

Re: What are your favorite books of all time, and why?

👍👍He was the dude with super speed.

Re: What are your favorite books of all time, and why?

Yessssss.

Him and Duncan Idaho were my favourite characters. (I think that Idaho was Herbert's favourite too, because he kept resurrecting him).

Re: What are your favorite books of all time, and why?

Lol Idaho kept getting offed by his best friend Leto2.

Re: What are your favorite books of all time, and why?

Dostoevsky's "Crime & Punishment" is one of mine as well.

And I love the other Dostoevsky "The Brothers Karamazov", an interesting treatise on existentialism and Satanism. That's the way I saw it at least.

David Lindsay's "A Voyage to Arcturus". It's a 1920's pioneer sc-fi fantasy about wandering aliens on shapeshifting worlds. Lindsay was way ahead of his time. He even describes new colors in a way which makes you see them.

James Baldwin's "Another Country". The African-American author portrays bisexual and interracial couples in 1950's America.

Anne Rice's "Cry Unto Heaven" about eunuchs in a Vatican choir. They used to castrate boys before puberty to maintain their alto singing voices. It's a gripping insight into what their lives must have been like.

Emily Brontë's "Wuthering Heights. Most people know the story about fated love on the English moors.

John Rechy's "City of Night". It's a 1960's novel about homosexual hustlers in Los Angeles. It's a huge tome which goes in depth into the world of male butches and their queens before gay liberation.

Herman Hesse's "Damien". This novel is surrealism in text. It invokes magic.

Uh, look man. Make tool! Caveman. No fool!
I GameBoy - H. superior

Re: What are your favorite books of all time, and why?

http://www.gutenberg.org/files/41907/41907-h/41907-h.htm

Ich konnte nicht hinaufgehen. Mein Leben war zerstört. Ich dachte daran, fortzulaufen und nie mehr wiederzukommen, oder mich zu ertränken. Doch waren das keine deutlichen Bilder. Ich setzte mich im Dunkel auf die unterste Stufe unsrer Haustreppe, kroch eng in mich zusammen und gab mich dem Unglück hin. Dort fand Lina mich weinend, als sie mit einem Korb herunterkam, um Holz zu holen.

Ich bat sie, droben nichts zu sagen, und ging hinauf. Am Rechen neben der Glastüre hing der Hut meines Vaters und der Sonnenschirm meiner Mutter, Heimat und Zärtlichkeit strömte mir von allen diesen Dingen entgegen, mein Herz begrüßte sie flehend und dankbar wie der verlorene Sohn den Anblick und Geruch der alten heimatlichen Stuben. Aber das alles gehörte mir jetzt nicht mehr, das alles war lichte Vater- und Mutterwelt, und ich war tief und schuldvoll in die fremde Flut versunken, in Abenteuer und Sünde verstrickt, vom Feind bedroht und von Gefahren, Angst und Schande erwartet. Der Hut und Sonnenschirm, der gute alte Sandsteinboden, das große Bild überm Flurschrank, und drinnen aus dem Wohnzimmer her die Stimme meiner älteren Schwester, das alles war lieber, zarter und köstlicher als je, aber es war nicht Trost mehr und sicheres Gut, es war lauter Vorwurf. Dies alles war nicht mehr mein, ich konnte an seiner Heiterkeit und Stille nicht teilhaben. Ich trug Schmutz an meinen Füßen, den ich nicht an der Matte abstreifen konnte, ich brachte Schatten mit mir, von denen die Heimatwelt nicht wußte. Wieviel Geheimnisse hatte ich schon gehabt, wieviel Bangigkeit, aber es war alles Spiel und Spaß gewesen
gegen das, was ich heut mit mir in diese Räume brachte. Schicksal lief mir nach, Hände waren nach mir ausgestreckt, vor denen auch die Mutter mich nicht schützen konnte, von denen sie nicht wissen durfte. Ob nun mein Verbrechen ein Diebstahl war oder eine Lüge (hatte ich nicht einen falschen Eid bei Gott und Seligkeit geschworen?) — das war einerlei. Meine Sünde war nicht dies oder das, meine Sünde war, daß ich dem Teufel die Hand gegeben hatte. Warum war ich mitgegangen? Warum hatte ich dem Kromer gehorcht, besser als je meinem Vater? Warum hatte ich die Geschichte von jenem Diebstahl erlogen? Mich mit Verbrechen gebrüstet, als wären es Heldentaten? Nun hielt der Teufel meine Hand, nun war der Feind hinter mir her.

Für einen Augenblick empfand ich nicht mehr Furcht vor morgen, sondern vor allem die schreckliche Gewißheit, daß mein Weg jetzt immer weiter bergab und ins Finstere führe. Ich spürte deutlich, daß aus meinem Vergehen neue Vergehen folgen mußten, daß mein Erscheinen bei den Geschwistern, mein Gruß und Kuß an die Eltern Lüge war, daß ich ein Schicksal und Geheimnis mit mir trug, das ich ihnen verbarg.

Einen Augenblick blitzte Vertrauen und Hoffnung
in mir auf, da ich den Hut meines Vaters betrachtete. Ich würde ihm alles sagen, würde sein Urteil und seine Strafe auf mich nehmen und ihn zu meinem Mitwisser und Retter machen. Es würde nur eine Buße sein, wie ich sie oft bestanden hatte, eine schwere bittere Stunde, eine schwere und reuevolle Bitte um Verzeihung.

Wie süß das klang! Wie schön das lockte! Aber es war nichts damit. Ich wußte, daß ich es nicht tun würde. Ich wußte, daß ich jetzt ein Geheimnis hatte, eine Schuld, die ich allein und selber ausfressen mußte. Vielleicht war ich gerade jetzt auf dem Scheidewege, vielleicht würde ich von dieser Stunde an für immer und immer dem Schlechten angehören, Geheimnisse mit Bösen teilen, von ihnen abhängen, ihnen gehorchen, ihresgleichen werden müssen. Ich hatte den Mann und Helden gespielt, jetzt mußte ich tragen, was daraus folgte.

Es war mir lieb, daß mein Vater sich, als ich eintrat, über meine nassen Schuhe aufhielt. Es lenkte ab, er bemerkte das Schlimmere nicht, und ich durfte einen Vorwurf ertragen, den ich heimlich mit auf das andere bezog. Dabei funkelte ein sonderbar neues Gefühl in mir auf, ein böses und schneidendes Gefühl voll Widerhaken: ich fühlte mich meinem Vater überlegen! Ich fühlte, einen
Augenblick lang, eine gewisse Verachtung für seine Unwissenheit, sein Schelten über die nassen Stiefel schien mir kleinlich. „Wenn du wüßtest!“ dachte ich, und kam mir vor wie ein Verbrecher, den man wegen einer gestohlenen Semmel verhört, während er Morde zu gestehen hätte. Es war ein häßliches und widriges Gefühl, aber es war stark und hatte einen tiefen Reiz, und es kettete mich fester als jeder andere Gedanke an mein Geheimnis und meine Schuld. Vielleicht, dachte ich, ist der Kromer jetzt schon zur Polizei gegangen und hat mich angegeben, und Gewitter ziehen sich über mir zusammen, während man mich hier wie ein kleines Kind betrachtet!

let me smell your farts for israel

Re: What are your favorite books of all time, and why?

I read Demian in college when I was smoking a lot of weed. Great book. Read it if you haven't.

Uh, look man. Make tool! Caveman. No fool!
I GameBoy - H. superior

Re: What are your favorite books of all time, and why?

What about it intrigues you ? Have you read the one Rouge recommended. I was just reading it. Divinely written! You'll get bored if you don't like muslim history and characters. Still it's masterfully ritten as the Book Thief by Markus whoeveer.

let me smell your farts for israel

Re: What are your favorite books of all time, and why?

Here's a description from Wikipedia. It explains it. You know I'm quasi-Hindu. We are all characters in Brahma's dream.
Emil Sinclair is a young boy raised in a middle class home, amidst what is described as a Scheinwelt, a play on words meaning "world of light" as well as "world of illusion". Sinclair's entire existence can be summarized as a struggle between two worlds: the show world of illusion (related to the Hindu concept of maya) and the real world, the world of spiritual truth. Accompanied and prompted by his mysterious classmate and friend 'Max Demian', he detaches from and revolts against the superficial ideals of the world of appearances and eventually awakens into a realization of self.


Uh, look man. Make tool! Caveman. No fool!
I GameBoy - H. superior

Re: What are your favorite books of all time, and why?

Hesse wrote at least two novels on trying to realize his self or awaken. Did he manage to awaken? I've read his Siddharta and it talks about living in the now, that is your awakening, your realization, living in the moment, that's all.

let me smell your farts for israel

Re: What are your favorite books of all time, and why?

great list. Wuthering Heights is fire!

And I love the other Dostoevsky "The Brothers Karamazov", an interesting treatise on existentialism and Satanism. That's the way I saw it at least.

if u haven't read yet, i recommend Dostoevsky's The Demons (aka The Possessed) which is a way more satirical and yet even more introspective novel (even for a Dostoevsky) and similar take on the Karamazov treatise. i love Karamazov, Crime and Punishment and The Idiot and actually all other Dostoevsky works i've read so far, but The Demons remains to be my fav novel. it's a motherfucking swirling headtrip and a biting satire on people being idiots as usual.

i always wanted to start getting into James Baldwin. i already bought my first book (which is ur fav here), and am about to start soon. can't wait!

😴👉i slept on the sidewalk by the side of the castle in the Magic Kingdom👈👸
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