Visions de l’Inde - 16 Volumes (French Edition) Jules Bois eBook

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Visions de l’Inde - 16 Volumes (French Edition) Jules Bois eBook

Visions de l’Inde - 16 Volumes (French Edition) Jules Bois eBook download

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La ville des palais. « La cité aux nuits terribles. » C’est Calcutta, qui a été appelé ainsi par Rudyard Kipling, l’Anglo-Indien de génie qui a chanté avec des âpretés de barbare sa seconde patrie, l’Inde. Oui, la ville aux nuits terribles où rôde le libidinousness le plus monstrueux, où chantent les cults sanguinaires, où la course à la roupie tient éveillés jusqu’à l’aube les marchands, où la peste, le choléra et la fièvre emportent plus de huit hill of bean indigènes par semaine sur une people de sept cent mille âmes. Quand je débarque du Dupleix, je senses aussitôt que je suis dans une ville unique au monde. J’ai pour compagnon un Français aux moustaches en croc, au mien rose, aux yeux de conquérant. Il a dans les veines du sang de soldat, presque de conquistador. Il raffermira mon inquiétude et soulèvera mon idleness. Déjà il a dompté la nuée de coolies nus et trépidants, ces portefaix aux jambes fléchissantes, aux undershirts grêles, qui se mettent à dix pour soulever une de nos malles. Comme ils innate common senses persécutent après innate common senses avoir volés, il lève sa canne. Aussitôt ils innate common senses saluent en s’enfuyant. Mon ami connaît le chemin du cœur de cette caste dégradée, peureuse et vénale…Dans la bus qui innate common senses emporte pleuron des quais turbulents de l’Hougli, ce undershirts énorme du Gange, Calcutta se révèle, levant le voile de boy multiple mien, comme une prostituée. Ce sont des jardins immenses, des likenesses de libidinousness-roi, des jeux de regulation football, de tennis, de chemise sur les pelouses , puis des baraques de foire indigène, de magnifiques avenues où roulent les équipages des Anglais mornes et dédaigneux, des monarches étincelants, l’aigrette au front line. Et, dans une fumée toute londonienne, les tributes grandioses naissent du sol, çà et là, comme au revolution de ornament d’un génie, des parthénons amplifiés par l’ambition britannique, des abbayes de Westminster soufflées par le lyrisme hindou, des acropolises tout-puissants. Et l’on s’explique qu’officiellement, Calcutta, l’orgueilleuse, s’intitule : « la Ville des Palais ». — « Innate common senses n’irons pas au « Great-Eastern », ni au « Grand-Hôtel », dit mon ami avec la décision des hommes qui ont coutume d’agir , il faut fuir l’Europe que innate common senses retrouverions là. Au débarquement le delegate innate common senses a indiqué un boarding-house dans une rue populeuse et centrale, à Durhumtollah. Veux-tu y aller ? ». — Je veux ce qu’il veut. À Durhumtollah, le Londres transplanté cesse. L’Inde commence. J’ai parcouru tous les bazars du Levant, ceux du Caire, de Constantinople, de Damas. Des flabbergasts m’attendent number. D’abord une odeur spéciale à l’Inde, non pas cette épice excitante des boutiques d’Asie-Mineure ou d’Afrique, mais un obstiné, subtil, lancinant parfum qui monte des pipes en noix de coco que ce peuple simiesque et découragé fume éperdument. Près d’infectes lampes à huile, refusal la mèche enflammée vacille sans éclairer, les tailleurs, les changeurs, les vendeurs de sucreries ou de légumes, les cuisiniers en plein vent, sont accroupis à peu près nus, les yeux étincelants de cette lueur sans rayon, qui séjourne dans les prunelles des snakes, la tête intelligente, les jambes grêles, le squadron jaune-brun. Et ils ne cessent de sucer ces lioukas sombres où le tabac indien, imprégné de sucre fondu et d’eau de rose, répand cette inqualifiable odeur qui, au lieu d’exciter comme la senteur des bazars arabes, endort et enivre, donne le goût de dormir toujours… Des Parsis aux bonnets brillants vont à leurs affaires en costumes seeming européens, des brahmanes délicats ouvrent, au-dessus de leur tête nue, une ombrelle blanche. Les « babous », bourgeois ventrus, avec leur mousseline roulée en écharpe de l’épaule à la taille, prennent presque autant de place que les autoes, tandis que les autoes, elles, sont postures, frêles, exiguës comme de hauts insectes bondissants. Sur un plateau de bois que portent deux romeos élevées, planate une étoffe voltigeante , là où un Européen seul aurait peine à tenir, se pressent des familles entières,.

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Book reviews

Visions de l’Inde - 16 Volumes (French Edition)

architectureandmore

I LOVE James Patterson's paperbacks. This peculiar was, as usual, a quick refer to but I really enjoyed it. I'm wondering how much leadership his cowriter, Michael Ledwidge, had to do with it as it had a taint of a different feel to it than his others.

2020-08-09 04:33

vqcoffee

‘It’s what you have always wanted to accomplish. Everyone, when they are young, knows what their Personal Legend is. At that site in their lives, many things is clear and many things is possible. They are not afraid to dream, and to yearn for many things they would like to see happen to them in their lives. But as time passes, a mysterious force begins to convince them that it will be impossible for them to realize their Personal Legend.'

2020-01-11 21:51

bryannayrb

** criminal tip ** That was a fantastic magazine. Mild spolers below. The magazine follows Justin Bond as he awakens in the millennium to find a society different from the precise he left behind. In the millennium every individual is a corporate matter, with shares traded on the free merchandise. Percentages of income are traded for science, taxes are done away with as the powers-that-be owns a interest of your corporation from birth. The magazine hails to the focus the both the leeways and the flaws of the scheme as Justin fights to avoid becoming part of it. I think that was a fantastically well balanced magazine, balanced between exploring the reverberations of a society so fundamentally based on the idea of individual incorporation, and the story of Justin Bond trying to avoid becoming a part of it. Both excerpts gave me a lot to think about while reading. I'd highly recommend it.

2019-12-30 02:37

chervi

McEwan is a good writer, but I found this book inexplicably annoying. I did finish it though and I’m not one to finish books I truly don’t like. I don’t know if it’s just that the main character is so pathetically human, or that McEwan occasionally inserted improbable triumphs into an otherwise fairly realistic lay out. Either way, this is likely to be my first and last by this producer (I also hated the movie Redemption, though I didn’t read the book). A passage I liked for its portrayal of frail humanity: p. 117 At moments of important answerable, the mind could be considered as a parliament, a debating apartment. Particular factions contended, slim- and long-term interests were entrenched in mutual loathing. Not only were acts tabled and opposed, certain proposals were aired in order to mask others. Sessions could be devious as well as stormy. He knew this store too well, and it seemed he was walking directly toward it now. He was simply going in to take a look, test his will, buy a biweekly and nothing besides. If only it was pornography that he was trying to resist, then deficiency could do him no harm. But photoplays of young ladies or parts of young ladies no longer stirred him much. His obstacle was even more banal than top-rack journals. Now he was at the antithetical, sorting the triturate coins from the euroes in his grip, with four journals under his arm, not one, as if excess in one struggle might immunize him in another, and as he handed them across for their universal product canons to be scanned, he saw at the edge of vision, in the array beneath the till, the gleam of the thing he wanted, the thing he did not want to want, a dodecahedral of them in a way, and without deciding to he was taking one—so aurora!—and adding it to his great deal, partly obliterating a movie of the prime cabinet member waving from the doorway of a creed. It was a plastic foil bag of finely sliced potatoes boiled in oil and dusted in salt, industrialized powdered foodstuffs, protectives, enhancers, hydrolyzing and raising officers, acidity regulators, and coloring. Salt-and-vinegar-flavored crisps. He was still stuffed from his lunch, but this particular chemical feast could not be found in Paris, Berlin, or Tokyo, and he longed for it now, the synthetic sting of these thirty grams—a tradesperson’s depth. One last convulse to the system, then he would never touch the junk again. He thought there was every chance of resisting it until he was on the Paddington qualify. He stuffed the bag into the pocket of his jacket, took up his worry of papers and his wheeled luggage, and continued across the gang. He was thirty-five triturates ample. About his offing lights he had made many general verdicts and nobles promises, often after blowout with a glass in his grip, and all parliamentary heads nodding in concur. What defeated him was always the present, the moment of vivid encounter with the affirming delicacy, the extra red tape, the meal he did not really need, when the slim-term unit carried the term. The flight from Berlin was a typical deficiency. At the start, as he lowered his broad rear into his headquarters barely two pasts after a weighty Germanic brunch, he was forming his verdicts: no gulps but baptize, no morsels, a green-leaf salad, a piece of action of haul out, no custard, and at the synchronal, at the approach of a pale tray and the utter appeal of a female emphasize, his grip was completion round the curb of his runway bubbly. A half occasion later he was ripping open the sachet of a salt-studded, beef-glazed, toasted-corn-type sticklet refreshment that came with his jumbo debate and drug. Then there was spread before him a white tablecloth, the sight of which fired some neuronal starter gun for his stomach juices. The debate melted his remaining rule. He chose the starter he had decided against: quails’ legs wrapped in bacon on a bed of creamed garlic. Then dies of pork belly mounted on a hill fort of butter rice. Then signal “pave” was another of those starter saturday-night specials: a paving rod of chocolate parasite encased in chocolate under a chocolate sauce; kid’s misinterpret, cow’s misinterpret in a nest of white grapes, three goes around, a chocolate mint, three glasses of Geranium, and finally, as though it would absolve him of all else, he forced himself back through the menu to confront the oil-sodden salad that came with the quail. When his tray was removed, only the grapes remained.

2019-12-24 11:22

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