Nota Sehpası Profesyonel NSP122 ücretsiz kitap indir

Quleep Software quleep_softwares — A trilogy-- It's one of those great portraits of humanity, like you might associate with the work of Tolstoy. It won the Nobel for literature in 1928. If you are moved at all by the idea of human nature struggling with both a physical and spiritual identity, or interested by a setting in medieval Norway, I highly recommend it. It follows the life of one woman from childhood to her death-- there are no cliff-hangers or use of vague prose to make things sound artistic, just the dramatic tension of consequences unfolding from past actions. Its a love story (or rather many intertwined) but I wouldn't call it romantic. Somehow, following life as the author does in simplicity of form shows that each life in itself is an exquisitie work of art. I'm waxing poetic, but I really enjoyed the series. The characters are the kind of characters you'll think about outside of the context of the plot as you go about your own life. The writing in translation has an old-fashioned flavor which gives the writing a lot of character, but it is never heavy-handed or awkward (as REAL writing from this time period often is, as I know from painful exposure :). example: "Kristen drew a long breath- ay, she remembered. She had bidden the twins go on an errand up to the saeter- but when she came out into the courtyard the horse was there, grazing, with the pack-saddle on its back, and her sons running about and playing at ball. When she chid them angrily for this, Skule flung the bat from him in a towering rage- But she remembered best what came after- How, as she went about after, one eye quite closed by the swelling of the lid- the brothers looked at her and at Skule, and shrank from him as though he were a leper- though Naakkve had beaten him mercilessly first. And Skule wandered away, and sat boiling with defiance and shame under a hard, scornful mien. But when in the evening she was standing putting off her clothes in the dark, he stole up to her- said nothing, but took her hand and kissed it. And, when she touched his shoulder, he cast his arms about her neck and pressed his cheek to hers- his was cool and soft and still a little rounded; she felt 'twas a child's cheek still- he was but a child, after all, this headstrong, fiery youth- 'That have I, Skule- so fully, that God alone knows, for I cannot tell you, how fully I have forgiven it you, my son!' A moment she stood with her hand on his shoulder. Then he grasped her wrists, gripped them so tight that she winced with pain- and the next moment he flung his arms about her with the same passionate, fearful, bashful tenderness as that other time. 'My son- what ails you?' whispered the mother, in fear. She felt in the dark that the man shook his head. Then he let her go ..."