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text 2016-03-23 10:33
Publio zaprasza do Indii
Prawdziwy bohater - Anita Rau Badami
Gdy nie nadejdzie jutro - Paweł Skawiński
Miasto dzinow - Dalrymple William

Dziś w księgarni Publio warto zwrócić uwagę na promocję tematyczną e-booków o tematyce indyjskiej.

 

"Indyjska" promocja w Publio, ale chyba nie można się jednak targować... (źródło: publio.pl)

 

W dobrej cenie można znaleźć przynajmniej dwa tytuły:

- Anita Rau Badami "Prawdziwy bohater" w cenie 11,07 PLN (moja recenzja książki tutaj);

- Paweł Skawiński "Gdy nie nadejdzie jutro" w cenie 12,21 PLN (moja recenzja książki tutaj).

 

Na pewno warte uwagi są też dwie nowości:

- William Dalrymple "Miasto dżinów" w cenie w cenie 23,20 PLN (tej książki jeszcze nie czytałem, ale samo nazwisko autora "Dziewięciu żywotów" już wiele obiecuje);

- Rana Dasgupta "Delhi. Stolica ze złota i snu" w cenie 38,25 PLN (tu poczekam jednak na większe obniżki).

 

P.S.

Wish you Happy Holi......

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review 2014-03-16 15:47
A beautiful, deeply moving book
Solo - Rana Dasgupta

Rating: 5* of five

My review has moved to my blog because of the data deletion problem on Goodreads.

 

http://tinyurl.com/mcxqg2e 

 

This could very easily be one of the few novels I'll ever re-read. Ulrich stays with me, years later.

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review 2013-04-16 12:29
Solo
Solo - Rana Dasgupta I had a lot of trouble getting into this book. The premise looked interesting to me but then the writing style was just too dense and I couldn't get invested in the story. I still love the idea of this book but I'm going to put it aside for now.
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review 2011-07-01 00:00
Solo - Rana Dasgupta The Book Report: It's very tough to reduce this book to a synopsis. Ulrich, born in the dawning years of the 20th century in Sofia, Bulgaria, is the thwarted and stunted son of a Germanophile railway engineer. His Philistine father and dreamy mother battle their lives away, not listening or hearing or caring; they end up deaf. Ulrich ends up unable to feel, to engage with life, or to make sense of the world. His wife and son vanish; his career grows ever thicker and more ungainly to fill the space; then, one day, it too vanishes. What he is left with, after a lifetime of failure and eventual blindness, is...space. He is a void encompassed by flesh. He is one hundred when we meet him. His slow, exquisite dis-integration is the resolution of the story of his life...it is the final act of a mind unable to bear frictionless, affectless existence one more second.It is beautiful.My Review: Rana Dasgupta, the author of [Solo], is only now forty. I hate his skinny ass. This is the book James Joyce would've written if he'd ever found his way past the success of the tedious and pretentious [Ulysses]. And here this guy with a short story collection under his belt unrolls this gorgeous Caucasian carpet of a book before he's forty! Hate is so mild a term for the envious longing and shivering, ecstatic loathing that possesses me as I read his sentences, and twine myself about his fractal geometry of a story.Rather than try to make things clear to you myself, let me quote to you from pp334-335 of the book:"'He was like the other half of myself,' says Boris...Ulrich says, 'You haven't lost {him}, you know. I don't know if it helps to say that. I lost a friend once myself, and I know how it goes.'He'll find his way inside you, and you'll carry him onward. Behind your heartbeat, you'll hear another one, faint and out of step. People will say you are speaking his opinons, or your hair has turned like his.'There are no more facts about him -- that part is over. Now is the time for essential things...Gradually you'll grow older than him, and love him as your son.'You'll live astride the line that separates life from death. You'll become experienced in the wisdom of grief. You won't wait until people die to grieve for them; you'll give them their grief while they are still alive, for then judgment falls away, and there remains only the miracle of being.'"In reading that passage again, I feel like Annie Dillard's bell..."it was as though I had lived my entire life as a bell and never known it until I was struck"...and I finally unraveled the book I'd read: Meditation on failure and grief? No; not that; a more subtle and wonderful thing: Like "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock", a shout in the face of closed minds to open, to live, to exist fully if only for one gleaming moment.
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