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Akce tohoto týdne:

George Orwell: balíček 5 elektronických knih (PDF+ePub)     za 183  110 Kč (-40%)

Kalendárium:

29.3.: Jo NesbøJo Nesbø
[29.3.1960]
slaví 64. narozeniny
29.3.: Jiří WolkerJiří Wolker
[29.3.1900-3.1.1924]
- 124. výročí narození
30.3.: Paul VerlainePaul Verlaine
[30.3.1844-8.1.1896]
- 180. výročí narození
30.3.: Karl MayKarl Friedrich May
[25.2.1842-30.3.1912]
- 112. výročí úmrtí
31.3.: Michal VieweghMichal Viewegh
[31.3.1962]
slaví 62. narozeniny
31.3.: Ota PavelOta Pavel
[2.7.1930-31.3.1973]
- 51. výročí úmrtí
1.4.: Nikolaj GogolNikolaj Vasiljevič Gogol (Николай Васильевич Гоголь)
[1.4.1809-4.3.1852]
- 215. výročí narození
1.4.: Milan KunderaMilan Kundera
[1.4.1929]
slaví 95. narozeniny
1.4.: François VillonFrançois Villon
[1.4.1431(19.4.1432?)-1463(1467?)]
- 593. výročí narození
1.4.: Edgar WallaceEdgar Horatio Edgar Wallace
[1.4.1875-10.2.1932]
- 149. výročí narození
2.4.: Hans Christian AndersenHans Christian Andersen
[2.4.1805-4.8.1875]
- 219. výročí narození
2.4.: Émile ZolaÉmile Zola
[2.4.1840-29.9.1902]
- 184. výročí narození
4.4.: Václav ČtvrtekVáclav Čtvrtek
[4.4.1911-6.11.1976]
- 113. výročí narození
4.4.: Jan DrdaJan Drda
[4.4.1915-28.11.1970]
- 109. výročí narození
5.4.: Vítězslav HálekVítězslav Hálek
[5.4.1835-8.10.1874]
- 189. výročí narození
5.4.: Allen GinsbergIrwin Allen Ginsberg
[3.6.1926-5.4.1997]
- 27. výročí úmrtí
6.4.: Isaac AsimovIsaac Asimov
[2.1.1920-6.4.1992]
- 32. výročí úmrtí
6.4.: Vítězslav NezvalVítězslav Nezval
[26.5.1900-6.4.1958]
- 66. výročí úmrtí
7.4.: Johannes M. SimmelJohannes Mario Simmel
[7.4.1924-1.1.2009]
- 100. výročí narození
7.4.: Jaroslav DurychJaroslav Durych
[2.12.1886-7.4.1962]
- 62. výročí úmrtí
8.4.: Jakub ArbesJakub Arbes
[12.6.1840-8.4.1914]
- 110. výročí úmrtí
9.4.: Charles BaudelaireCharles Pierre Baudelaire
[9.4.1821-21.8.1867]
- 203. výročí narození
9.4.: Egon BondyEgon Bondy
[20.1.1930-9.4.2007]
- 17. výročí úmrtí
9.4.: Zdeněk ŠmídZdeněk Šmíd
[17.5.1937-9.4.2011]
- 13. výročí úmrtí

Náhodná ukázka:

The first explosions seemed very far away: a string of distant, muffled bangs, booms, and thuds that might have been nothing more than thunder on the horizon. Joseph, more asleep than not in his comfortable bed in the guest quarters of Getfen House, stirred, drifted a little way up toward wakefulness, cocked half an ear, listened a moment without really listening. Yes, he thought: thunder. His only concern was that thunder might betoken rain, and rain would spoil tomorrow's hunt. But this was supposed to be the middle of the dry season up here in High Manza, was it not? So how could it rain tomorrow?

It was not going to rain, and therefore Joseph knew that what he thought he had heard could not be the sound of thunder — could not, in fact, be anything at all. It is just a dream, he told himself. Tomorrow will be bright and beautiful, and I will ride out into the game preserve with my cousins of High Manza and we will have a glorious time.

He slipped easily back to sleep. An active fifteen-year-old boy is able to dissolve into slumber without effort at the end of day.

But then came more sounds, sharper ones, insistent hard-edged pops and cracks, demanding and getting his attention. He sat up, blinking, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles. Through the darkness beyond his window came a bright flash of light that did not in anyway have the sharpness or linearity of lightning. It was more like a blossom unfolding, creamy yellow at the center, purplish at theedges. Joseph was still blinking at it in surprise when the next burst of sound erupted, this one in several phases, a low rolling roar followed by a sudden emphatic boom followed by a long, dying rumble, a slow subsiding. He went to the window, crouching by the sill and peering out.

Tongues of red flame were rising across the way, over by Getfen House's main wing. Flickering shadows climbing the great gray stone wall of the facade told him that the building must be ablaze. That was incredible, that Getfen House could be on fire. He saw figures running to and fro, cutting across the smooth, serene expanse of the central lawn with utter disregard for the delicacy of the close-cropped turf. He heard shouting and the sound, unmistakable and undeniable now, of gunfire. He saw other fires blazing toward the perimeter of the estate, four, five, maybe six of them. A new one flared up as he watched. The outbuildings over on the western side seemed to be on fire, and the rows of haystacks toward the east, and perhaps the field-hand quarters near the road that led to the river.

It was a bewildering, incomprehensible scene. Getfen House was under attack, evidently. But by whom, and why?

He watched, fascinated, as though this were some chapter out of his history books come to life, a reenactment of the Conquest, perhaps, or even some scene from the turbulent, half-mythical past of the Mother World itself, where for thousands of years, so it was said, clashing empires had made the ancient streets of that distant planet run crimson with blood.

(...)

 

(Robert Silverberg, The Longest Way Home)

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