Monday, July 25, 2011

ebook2mail.com

ebook2mail.com


Poem-a-Day Collection (30)

Posted: 25 Jul 2011 09:30 AM PDT

DailyLit  
30
Poem-a-Day Collection
by Knopf
A Message from DailyLit
Question of the Week: What's your Proustian moment (i.e., is there a smell or taste that evokes a particular memory)? Click here to share.

COPYRIGHT
Poem-a-Day Collection by Knopf. Compilation copyright 2009 by Knopf.
All Rights Reserved. Sharing not permitted.


The Mistake

By Jack Gilbert

There is always the harrowing by mortality,
the strafing by age, he thinks. Always defeats.
Sorrows come like epidemics. But we are alive
in the difficult way adults want to be alive.
It is worth having the heart broken,
a blessing to hurt for eighteen years
because a woman is dead. He thinks of long
before that, the summer he was with Gianna
and her sister in Apulia. Having outwitted
the General, their father, and driven south
to the estate of the Contessa. Like an opera.
The fiefdom stretching away to the horizon.
Houses of the peasants burrowed into the walls
of the compound. A butler with white gloves
serving chicken in aspic. The pretty maid
in her uniform bringing his breakfast each
morning on a silver tray: toast both light
and dark, hot chocolate and tea both. A world
like Tosca. A feudal world crushed under
the weight of passion without feeling.
Gianna's virgin body helplessly in love.
The young man wild with romance and appetite.
Wondering whether he would ruin her by mistake.

--

Buy Jack Gilbert The Dance Most Of All from Amazon here.

Buy Jack Gilbert The Dance Most of All from IndieBound here.

Visit poem-a-day.knopfdoubleday.com for more about this poem and to sign up for Knopf's 2010 Poem-a-Day email.

Excerpt from THE DANCE MOST OF ALL. Copyright © 2009 by Jack Gilbert. Excerpted by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.




A Message from DailyLit
Question of the Week: What's your Proustian moment (i.e., is there a smell or taste that evokes a particular memory)? Click here to share.
Message from DailyLit
Question of the Week: What's your Proustian moment (i.e., is there a smell or taste that evokes a particular memory)? Click here to share.
  • Want more? Get the next installment right now.
  • Ideas or questions? Discuss in our forums
  • Need a break? Suspend delivery of this book.
  • Want to adjust your reading schedule or make other changes? Manage all your settings.
  •  

    Robin Hood (29 of 79)

    Posted: 24 Jul 2011 09:32 PM PDT

    DailyLit  
    29
    —of —
    79
    Robin Hood
    by J. Walker Mcspadden
    A Message from DailyLit
    Buy this book--or others--from Amazon and help support DailyLit

    SHARING
    We encourage sharing--forward to a friend!


    Chapter IX: How the Widow's Three Sons Were Rescued (Cont'd)

    The old widow threw herself on the ground and embraced his knees.

    "'Tis dire danger I am asking ye to face," she said weeping; "and yet I knew your brave true heart would answer me. Heaven help ye, good Master Robin, to answer a poor widow's prayers!"

    Then Robin Hood sped straightway to the forest-camp, where he heard the details of the skirmish—how that his men had been out-numbered five to one, but got off safely, as they thought, until a count of their members had shown the loss of the widow's three sons.

    "We must rescue them, my men!" quoth Robin, "even from out the shadow of the rope itself!"

    Whereupon the band set to work to devise ways and means.

    Robin walked apart a little way with his head leaned thoughtfully upon his breast—for he was sore troubled—when whom should he meet but an old begging palmer, one of a devout order which made pilgrimages and wandered from place to place, supported by charity.

    This old fellow walked boldly up to Robin and asked alms of him; since Robin had been wont to aid members of his order.

    "What news, what news, thou foolish old man?" said Robin, "what news, I do thee pray?"

    "Three squires in Nottingham town," quoth the palmer, "are condemned to die. Belike that is greater news than the shire has had in some Sundays."

    Then Robin's long-sought idea came to him like a flash.

    "Come, change thine apparel with me, old man," he said, "and I'll give thee forty shillings in good silver to spend in beer or wine."

    "O, thine apparel is good," the palmer protested, "and mine is ragged and torn. The holy church teaches that thou should'st ne'er laugh an old man to scorn."

    "I am in simple earnest, I say. Come, change thine apparel with mine. Here are twenty pieces of good broad gold to feast they brethren right royally."

    So the palmer was persuaded; and Robin put on the old man's hat, which stood full high in the crown; and his cloak, patched with black and blue and red, like Joseph's coat of many colors in its old age; and his breeches, which had been sewed over with so many patterns that the original was scarce discernible; and his tattered hose; and his shoes, cobbled above and below. And while as he made the change in dress he made so many whimsical comments also about a man's pride and the dress that makes a man, that the palmer was like to choke with cackling laughter.

    I warrant you, the two were comical sights when they parted company that day. Nathless, Robin's own mother would not have known him, had she been living.

    The next morning the whole town of Nottingham was early astir, and as soon as the gates were open country-folk began to pour in; for a triple hanging was not held there every day in the week, and the bustle almost equated a Fair day.

    Robin Hood in his palmer's disguise was one of the first ones to enter the gates, and he strolled up and down and around the town as though he had never been there before in all his life. Presently he came to the market-place, and beheld thereon three gallows erected.

    "Who are these builded for, my son?" asked he of a rough soldier standing by.

    "For three of Robin Hood's men," answered the other. "And it were Robin himself, 'twould be thrice as high I warrant ye. But Robin is too smart to get within the Sheriff's clutches again."

    The palmer crossed himself.

    "They say that he is a bold fellow," he whined.

    "Ha!" said the soldier, "he may be bold enough out behind stumps i' the forest, but the open market-place is another matter."

    "Who is to hang these three poor wretches?" asked the palmer.

    "That hath the Sheriff not decided. But here he comes now to answer his own questions." And the soldier came to stiff attention as the Sheriff and his body-guard stalked pompously up to inspect the gallows.

    "O, Heaven save you, worshipful Sheriff!" said the palmer. "Heaven protect you! What will you give a silly old man to-day to be your hangman?"

    "Who are you, fellow?" asked the Sheriff sharply.

    "Naught save a poor old palmer. But I can shrive their souls and hang their bodies most devoutly."

    "Very good," replied the other. "The fee to-day is thirteen pence; and I will add thereunto some suits of clothing for that ragged back of yours."

    "God bless ye!" said the palmer. And he went with the soldier to the jail to prepare his three men for execution.

    Just before the stroke of noon the doors of the prison opened and the procession of the condemned came forth. Down through the long lines of packed people they walked to the market-place, the palmer in the lead, and the widow's three sons marching firmly erect between soldiers.




    A Message from DailyLit
    Buy this book--or others--from Amazon and help support DailyLit
    Message from DailyLit
    Question of the Week: What's your Proustian moment (i.e., is there a smell or taste that evokes a particular memory)? Click here to share.
  • Want more? Get the next installment right now.
  • Ideas or questions? Discuss in our forums
  • Need a break? Suspend delivery of this book.
  • Want to adjust your reading schedule or make other changes? Manage all your settings.
  •  

    Paranoia (029 of 170)

    Posted: 24 Jul 2011 09:30 PM PDT

    DailyLit  
    029
    —of —
    170
    Paranoia
    by Joseph Finder
    A Message from our Sponsor: Macmillan | Become a Sponsor right arrow
    Macmillan: Paranoia

    COPYRIGHT
    Paranoia by Joseph Finder. Copyright 2004 by Joseph Finder.
    All Rights Reserved. Sharing not permitted.


    14

    Chad Pierson was standing at a whiteboard, writing up a meeting agenda with red and blue markers, when I walked into Corvette. This was a conference room like every other conference room I'd ever seen—the big table (only high-tech-designer black instead of walnut), the Polycom speakerphone console sitting in the middle of the table like a geometric black widow spider, a basket of fruit and ice bucket of soft drinks and juice boxes.

    He gave me a quick wink as I sat down on one of the long sides of the table. There were a couple of other people already there. Nora Sommers was sitting at the head of the table, wearing black reading glasses on a chain around her neck, reading through a file and occasionally muttering something to Chad, her scribe. She didn't seem to notice me.

    Next to me sat a gray-haired guy in a blue Trion polo shirt tapping away on a Maestro, probably doing e-mail. He was thin but had a potbelly, skinny arms and knobby elbows poking out of his short-sleeved shirt, a fringe of gray hair and unexpectedly long gray sideburns, big red ears. He wore bifocals. If he'd had a different kind of shirt on, he'd probably be wearing a plastic shirt-pocket protector. He looked like an old-style nerd engineer from the Hewlett-Packard-calculator days. His teeth were small and brown, like he chewed tobacco.

    This had to be Phil Bohjalian, the old-timer, though from the way Mordden talked about him, I half expected him to be using a quill and parchment. He kept sneaking nervous, furtive glances at me.

    Noah Mordden slipped quietly into the room, didn't acknowledge me or anyone else for that matter, and opened his notebook computer at the far end of the conference table. More people filed in, laughing and talking. There were maybe a dozen people in the room now. Chad finished at the whiteboard and put his stuff down in the empty seat next to me. He clapped a hand on my shoulder. "Glad you're with us," he said.

    Nora Sommers cleared her throat, stood up, walked over to the whiteboard. "Well, why don't we get started? All right, I'd like to introduce our newest team member, to those of you who haven't yet had the privilege of meeting him. Adam Cassidy, welcome."

    She fluttered her red fingernails at me, and all heads turned. I smiled modestly, ducked my head.

    "We were very fortunate in being able to steal Adam away from Wyatt, where he was one of the key players on Lucid. We're hoping he'll apply some of his magic to Maestro." She smiled beatifically.

    Chad spoke up, looking from side to side as if he were sharing a secret. "This bad boy's a genius, I've talked to him, so everything you've heard is true." He turned to me, his baby-blues wide, and shook my hand.

    Nora went on, "As we all know far too well, we're getting some serious pushback on Maestro. The knives are out throughout Trion, and I don't have to name names." There was some low chortling. "We have a rather large, looming deadline—a presentation before Mr. Goddard himself, where we will make the case for maintaining the Maestro product line. This is far more than a functional staff update, more than a checkpoint meeting. This is life or death. Our enemies want to put us in the electric chair; we're pleading for a stay of execution. Are we clear about that?"




    A Message from our Sponsor: Macmillan | Become a Sponsor right arrow
    Macmillan: Paranoia
    Message from DailyLit
    Question of the Week: What's your Proustian moment (i.e., is there a smell or taste that evokes a particular memory)? Click here to share.
  • Want more? Get the next installment right now.
  • Ideas or questions? Discuss in our forums
  • Need a break? Suspend delivery of this book.
  • Want to adjust your reading schedule or make other changes? Manage all your settings.
  •  

    No comments:

    Post a Comment