It is based on a theory, originated by Thomas Tyrwhitt, that the sonnets were addressed to one Willie Hughes, portrayed in the story as a boy actor who specialized in playing women in Shakespeare's company.
This theory depends on the assumption that the dedicatee is also the Fair Youth who is the subject of most of the poems. White Nights is the story of a young man fighting his inner restlessness. His unnamed protagonist is a sensitive, poetic resident of the very Westernized St.
Petersburg of the mid-nineteenth century. A light and tender narrative, it delves into the torment and guilt of unrequited love. Both protagonists suffer from a deep sense of alienation that initially brings them together. Having thanked his legal team, he checked his watch and quickly left the courtroom.
The Chief Inspector was waiting for him in the corridor. Think about it, Chief Inspector. Goodbye, Chief Inspector. But could we stop at Harrods on the way? Mrs Summers sighed as she considered her older son. He talks about going into business. Did I tell you that Robin has been offered the chance of a one-man show in October?
His mother would never have forgiven him had he failed to put in an appearance. He had just learned the result of his Business Management examinations. He had been awarded a 2. After years of being told by his mother what a brilliant artist his brother was, John had come to assume it would not be long before the rest of the world acknowledged the fact.
He often reflected about how different the two of them were; but then, did people know how many brothers Picasso had?
No doubt one of them went into business. It took John some time to find the little back street where the gallery was located, but when he did he was pleased to discover it packed with friends and wellwishers.
They consisted mainly of the portfolio he had put together during his last year at school. He stopped in front of a portrait of his mother, which had a red dot next to it to indicate that it had been sold. He smiled, confident that he knew who had bought it. Robin leaned forward and lowered his voice. It had begun years earlier, with sixpence in the playground, and had ended up with a ten-shilling note on Speech Day. Now he needed a pound.
Of only one thing could John be certain: Robin would never return a penny. Not that John begrudged his younger brother the money. John removed his wallet, which contained two pound-notes and his train ticket back to Manchester.
He extracted one of the notes and handed it over to Robin. John was going to ask him a question about another picture—an oil called Barabbas in Hell—but his brother had already turned on his heel and rejoined his mother and the adoring entourage. When John left Manchester University he was immediately offered a job as a trainee with Reynolds and Company, by which time Robin had taken up residence in Chelsea.
John settled into digs on the outskirts of Solihull, in a very unfashionable part of town. But then, he accepted that he had no real knowledge of art. She also pointed out that both pictures had been sold on the opening day, and suggested that they had been snapped up by a well-known collector who knew a rising talent when he saw one. At the end of his second year, Robin showed two new pictures at the end-of-term show—Knife and Fork in Space and Death Pangs.
His mother had written insisting that he attend, as all the prizewinners would be announced, and she had heard a rumour that Robin would be among them. When John arrived at the exhibition it was already in full swing. He walked slowly round the hall, stopping to admire some of the canvases.
But, perhaps more importantly, on this occasion there were no red dots. John nodded, feeling that this was not the time to let her know that the company had given him another promotion. When Robin invited John to join them for dinner, he made some excuse about having to get back to Birmingham. Once Robin had left college, the two brothers rarely met. It was some five years later, when John had been invited to address a CBI conference in London on the problems facing the car industry, that he decided to make a surprise visit to his brother and invite him out to dinner.
When the conference closed, John took a taxi over to Pimlico, suddenly feeling uneasy about the fact that he had not warned Robin he might drop by. As he climbed the stairs to the top floor, he began to feel even more apprehensive. He pressed the bell, and when the door was eventually opened it was a few moments before he realised that the man standing in front of him was his brother.
He could not believe the transformation after only five years. There were bags under his eyes, his skin was puffy and blotched, and he must have put on at least three stone. I had no idea you were in town. Do come in. You know what London dealers are like. Did you know that Van Gogh never sold a picture in his lifetime? He was pleased to discover that his brother had not lost any of his self-confidence, or his belief that it was only a matter of time before he would be recognised.
As the train pulled out of the station he opened the first page, and by the time he had reached Caravaggio it was pulling into New Street, Birmingham. He heard a tap at the window and saw Susan smiling up at him. I only hope I can get my hands on Volume II. Three months later John travelled to London to attend the opening day. By the time he entered the hallowed portals of the Royal Academy for the first time, he had read a dozen art books, ranging from the early Renaissance to Pop.
Listen to the experts, but in the end trust your eye, Godfrey Barker had written in the Telegraph. They had been hung in the middle gallery in the top row, nearly touching the ceiling. He noticed that neither of them had been sold. After he had been round the exhibition twice and settled on the Dunstan, he went over to the sales counter and wrote out a deposit for the purchases he wanted.
He checked his watch: it was a few minutes before twelve, the hour at which he had agreed to meet his brother. Robin kept him waiting for forty minutes, and then, without the suggestion of an apology, guided him around the exhibition for a third time. He dismissed both Dunstan and Russell Flint as society painters, without giving a hint of who he did consider talented. John tried to look sympathetic. He placed the Dunstan of Venice in the drawing room above the fireplace, and the one of his mother in his study.
When their first child was born, John suggested that Robin might be one of the godparents. He did in fact settle on an oil he wanted, made a note of its number, and the following morning asked his secretary to call the gallery and reserve it in her name.
He frowned. He decided to drop into the Crewe Gallery to see how his brother was selling. No change. Only two red dots on the wall, while Peter Blake was almost sold out. John left the gallery disappointed on two counts, and headed back towards Piccadilly. He stood staring at her, afraid she might turn out to be too expensive. He stepped into the gallery to take a closer look. She was tiny, delicate and exquisite. John nodded. The Vuillard was placed opposite the Dunstan, and thus began a love affair with several painted ladies from all over the world, although John never admitted to his wife how much these framed mistresses were costing him.
When it comes to artists whose canvases remain unsold, dealers are unsympathetic to the suggestion that they could represent a sound investment because they might be recognised after they are dead—mainly because by that time the gallery owners will also be dead. John had recently been involved in a management buy-out of Reynolds and Company.
He had recently added Bonnard, Dufy, Camoin and Luce to his collection, still listening to the advice of experts, but in the end trusting his eye. John stepped out of the train at Euston and gave the cabby at the front of the queue the address he needed to be dropped at. The cabby scratched his head for a moment before setting off in the direction of the East End. John glanced around the little gallery, to observe knots of people who seemed more interested in gulping down mediocre wine than in taking any interest in mediocre pictures.
When would his brother learn that the last thing you need at an opening are other unknown artists accompanied by their hangers-on? The longer the evening dragged on, the more sorry John began to feel for his brother, and on this occasion he happily fell into the dinner trap.
I shall be like Henry Moore and David Hockney. When the invitation comes, I shall turn them down. When the clock chimed eleven, John made some excuse about an early-morning meeting.
He offered his apologies, settled the bill and left for the Savoy. It was to be some years before John heard from Robin again. It seemed that there were no London galleries who were willing to display his work, so he felt it was nothing less than his duty to leave for the South of France and join up with a group of friends who were equally talented and equally misunderstood.
And I wondered if you could possibly. The takeover bid for Reynolds and Co. But even he was surprised when their biggest rivals in Germany put in a counter-bid.
He watched as the value of his shares climbed each day, and not until Honda finally outbid Mercedes did he accept that he would have to make a decision. He opted to cash in his shares and leave the company. He told Susan that he wanted to take a trip around the world, visiting only those cities that boasted great art galleries.
John had his first heart attack in New York while admiring a Bellini at the Frick. The second heart attack came soon after they had arrived back in Warwickshire.
His brother died three weeks later. He later sought out the two boys in order to deliver the same message, though he had had little contact with them during the past thirty years. However, I anticipate it being towards the end of next week. Susan arrived shortly afterwards, accompanied by the boys, and they took their seats on the other side of the room without acknowledging him.
At the last count, there were eighty-one in all. My wife Susan may select twenty of her choice, my two boys Nick and Chris may then also select twenty each, while my younger brother Robin is to be given the remaining twenty-one, which should allow him to live in a style worthy of his talent. His brother had gone to his deathbed never doubting his true worth. When the solicitor had completed the reading of the will, Susan rose from her place and walked across the room to speak to Robin.
Silly woman, he thought. Over dinner at the Bell and Duck that evening, Robin began to make plans as to how he would spend his new-found wealth. He retired to bed around eleven, and fell asleep thinking about Bonnard, Vuillard, Dufy, Camoin and Luce, and what twenty-one such masterpieces might be worth. He leapt out of bed for the first time in years, threw on his old shirt, trousers and shoes, and bolted down the stairs and out into the courtyard. Robin marched towards him. Robin scribbled his name quickly across the form and then followed the driver to the back of the van.
He unlocked the doors and pulled them open. Robin was speechless. He stared at a portrait of his mother, that was stacked on top of twenty other pictures by Robin Summers, painted circa to He is known as the Crossroads Convert. No one is born with prejudice in their hearts, although some people are introduced to it at an early age.
This was certainly true of Stoffel van den Berg. Stoffel was born in Cape Town, and never once in his life travelled abroad. His ancestors had emigrated from Holland in the eighteenth century, and Stoffel grew up accustomed to having black servants who were there to carry out his slightest whim. When Stoffel attended his first primary school in the Cape this unthinking prejudice was simply reinforced, with classrooms full of white children being taught only by white teachers.
The few blacks he ever came across at school were cleaning lavatories that they would never be allowed to use themselves. During his school days Stoffel proved to be above average in the classroom, excelling in maths, but in a class of his own on the playing field. By the time Stoffel was in his final year of school, this six-foot-two-inch, fair-haired Boer was playing fly half for the 1st XV in the winter and opening the batting for the 1st XI during the summer.
There was already talk of him playing either rugby or cricket for the Springboks even before he had applied for a place at any university. Several college scouts visited the school in his final year to offer him scholarships, and on the advice of his headmaster, supported by his father, he settled on Stellenbosch. In his freshman year he was selected to open the batting for the university eleven when one of the regular openers was injured. Two years later, he captained an undefeated varsity side, and went on to score a century for Western Province against Natal.
He had been with the bank for only a few weeks when the Springbok selectors wrote to inform him that he was being considered for the South African cricket squad which was preparing for the forthcoming tour by England. The bank was delighted, and told him he could take as much time off as he needed to prepare for the national side. He followed with interest the Ashes series that was taking place in England. He had only read about players like Underwood and Snow, but their reputations did not worry him.
Stoffel intended to despatch their bowling to every boundary in the country. Because he had not been allowed to play first-class cricket in his native South Africa, he had emigrated to England.
But in the second innings he played a major role in winning the match and squaring the series, scoring a chanceless Even so, he was controversially left out of the touring team for South Africa. But when another player pulled out because of injury, he was selected as his replacement. The South African government immediately made their position clear: only white players would be welcome in their land.
It was not until after Nelson Mandela became President in that an official English team once again set foot in South Africa.
Stoffel was shattered by the decision, and although he played regularly for Western Province and ensured that Barclays retained the Inter-Bank Cup, he doubted if he would ever be awarded a Test cap. After all, why should the English imagine they could dictate who should visit South Africa? It was while he was playing against Transvaal that he met Inga. Not only was she the most beautiful creature he had ever set eyes on, but she also fully agreed with his sound views on the superiority of the white race.
They were married a year later. When sanctions began to be imposed on South Africa by country after country, Stoffel continued to back the government, proclaiming that the decadent Western politicians had all become liberal weaklings. What more could they hope for? Piet and Marike nodded their agreement whenever their father expressed these views. The family moved into a large house a few miles down the Cape, overlooking the Atlantic.
While the rest of the world continued to enforce sanctions, Stoffel only became more convinced that South Africa was the one place on earth that had got things right. He regularly expressed these views, both in public and in private. Stoffel promised he would consider the idea, but explained that he would need to speak to his wife and fellow board members at the bank before he could come to a decision. To his surprise, they all encouraged him to take up the offer. That all changed on 18 August Stoffel left the bank a few minutes early that evening, because he was due to address a meeting at his local town hall.
The election was now only weeks away, and the opinion polls were indicating that he was certain to become the Member for the Noordhoek constituency. Once he had passed the city limits, he moved quickly into top gear. It was only fifteen miles to Noordhoek, although the terrain was steep and the road winding. But as Stoffel knew every inch of the journey, he was usually parked outside his front door in under half an hour.
He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. With luck, he would still be home with enough time to shower and change before he had to head off for the meeting. Stoffel accelerated round the next bend to see a lorry ahead of him. He knew there was a long, straight section of road before he would encounter another bend, so he had easily enough time to overtake. He put his foot down and pulled out to overtake, surprised to discover how fast the lorry was travelling.
When he was about a hundred yards from the next bend, a car appeared around the corner. Stoffel had to make an instant decision. Should he slam his foot on the brake, or on the accelerator?
He pressed his foot hard down until the accelerator was touching the floor, assuming the other fellow would surely brake. That was the last thing he remembered, before he regained consciousness five weeks later. Stoffel looked up to find Inga standing at his bedside. When she saw his eyes open, she grasped his hand and then rushed out of the room to call for a doctor. The next time he woke they were both standing by his bedside, but it was another week before the surgeon was able to tell him what had happened following the crash.
Stoffel listened in horrified silence when he learned that the other driver had died of head injuries soon after arriving at the hospital. It was just your luck that a suitable donor was in the next operating theatre.
The surgeon nodded. Just be thankful that his wife agreed to the transplant. It was another six weeks before Stoffel left the hospital, and even then Inga insisted on a long period of convalescence.
Several friends came to visit him at home, including Martinus de Jong, who assured him that his job at the bank would be waiting for him just as soon as he had fully recovered. Stoffel would have knocked on the door if there had been one. He peered through the gap and into the darkness to see a young woman with a baby in her arms, cowering in the far corner.
He and Inga walked back through the township in silence, and did not speak again until they had reached their car.
The next morning Stoffel called in at the bank, and with the help of Martinus de Jong worked out how much he could afford to spend over the next three years. And you are far better placed to. He walked around the township for several hours before he settled on a piece of land surrounded by tin shacks and tents.
The following day some of those children helped him paint the touchlines and put out the corner flags. For four years, one month and eleven days, Stoffel van den Berg travelled to Crossroads every morning, where he would teach English to the children in what passed for a school.
In the afternoons, he taught the same children the skills of rugby or cricket, according to the season. Stoffel van den Berg died on 24 March , only days before Nelson Mandela was elected as President. The funeral of the Crossroads Convert was attended by over two thousand mourners who had travelled from all over the country to pay their respects. The journalists were unable to agree whether there had been more blacks or more whites in the congregation.
Sea Urchin was easing its way into the adjoining mooring in the half-light of the evening when the two bows touched. Both skippers quickly checked to see if there had been any damage to their boat, but as both had large inflatable buoys slung over their sides, neither had come to any harm. The owner of The Scottish Belle gave a mock salute and disappeared below deck. Max poured himself a gin and tonic, picked up a paperback that he had meant to finish the previous summer, and settled down in the bow.
He began to thumb through the pages, trying to recall the exact place he had reached, when the skipper of The Scottish Belle reappeared on the deck. Sorry about the bump. And you? Do you live in Brighton? Angus turned and smiled. We literally bumped into each other. Although not beautiful, she was striking, and from her trim, athletic build, she looked as if she might work out every day.
She gave Max a shy smile. They lived in Wilmington, Ohio, a small town nestled between Cincinnati a You don't frighten me, Mollari. If you try to go up against our forces, you'll lose. But they can sense an approaching ship from miles away.
So what are you going to do, Mollari, blow up the island? MEPS - A comprehensive rundown of my experience.
Disclaimer: This is my experience only. I am just a random guy on the internet. Don't listen to me. Listen to your recruiter. He knows what's best for you and your situation. My experience may be different than others and as such this write up is only intended to give some insight into the process.
My branch is t These people need your help more than I need awards. I guess if you are just s Everything you need to know for the 24 Hours of Le Mans - Ask your questions here! With only days separating us from the 88th running of the 24 Heures du Mans, it's time again for the Le Mans Primer thread!
There are no dumb questions about Le Mans! Lords Pack Speculation and Roster 3. The point of these pieces is to discuss potential Game 3 Lord packs using races from previous games. Some of these will feature a previous race vs a previous race while others will feature a previous race vs a Game 3 race.
Either way, they will hope to show what these races still have on the table as some of the Game 2 packs have done. Overall Archer is an excellent short story teller. Jan 05, Joan rated it really liked it. I have read numerous Jeffrey Archer novels through the years; but this book of short stories bore little resemblance to those mysteries.
The fourteen short stories contained in the book varied in length from 2 pages to more than 30 pages. Topics also varied, of course, ranging from confidence games, romantic mysteries, to even some with supernatural characters. Many seemed to take on the flavor of old-fashioned fables with insights into human nature in general. Although I enjoyed some stories mo I have read numerous Jeffrey Archer novels through the years; but this book of short stories bore little resemblance to those mysteries.
Although I enjoyed some stories more than others, I only abandoned one in the entire book from lack of interest. Archer brought his usual narrative shkills to the composition of these stories, and developed interesting and memorable characters.
He led those characters through many interesting plot twists for our reading enjoyment. Jan 02, Alikokinav rated it liked it. I would give this a 3. The book was overall, quite good. Some stories standing out much more than the others. But what I felt was that the endings of some of the stories were predictable.
I managed to guess or maybe 4 stories' endings. The language and certain events in the book It was a bit hard to relate to. I am not sure if it's because it's an old book or because it is very English. There are many references to English culture. Or maybe I am just not that well-read :P Anyway, I would give this a 3. The romantic in me is gushing at the fact that it was based on a true story.
So beautiful. And the one with the man pretending to go broke. That one was very nice. Sep 04, Avel Rudenko rated it really liked it. I have been a fan of short stories for a while. Mainly because they are digestible and accomplishable in a short sitting. These stories are very well written.
Just when you adapt to a storyline, something changes and you stumble down another path. You do physically smirk to yourself at the outcome of a story and I find this work by Jeffrey Archer very enjoyable, though I have yet to read more of his books. There's one slight glitch, If I sometimes settle in for a short story at night, it ends up I have been a fan of short stories for a while.
There's one slight glitch, If I sometimes settle in for a short story at night, it ends up a long night. It's just hard to ignore the next chapter heading winking at me, saying "read more". I do recommend this book, especially for busy people who don't have time to get through a novel.
Jan 13, Sana rated it really liked it Shelves: short-stories , read-in , reviewed. January 25, I have read almost half of this short story collection and I am liking it very much. I wanted to read short stories just because I did not want to start a hard-to-put-down novel during my busiest days exams!
Now I think it was a good decision. I might not read short stories when I had more time to read novels, so I might not have come across this collection in the first place. Well, the stories are well written and interesting. I thing Archer has squeezed some good thrillers i January 25, I have read almost half of this short story collection and I am liking it very much. I thing Archer has squeezed some good thrillers into a few pages. I am still reading this book, rather slowly which I think is the best way to experience the impact of every single of the collection.
Jun 12, Jack Kardiac rated it really liked it. This was my first exposure to Jeffrey Archer, who came highly recommended by a friend. While I will say the stories are well-written and are not inherently boring, I have to admit I had expected more. I'm accustomed to reading Alfred Hitchcock and crime or horror-lite stories with a twist or at least more action sequences. So I think it's not so much his style of writing as it is my preferences at this point.
I DID find his rendering of the real-life stories to be fascinating and educational. A nice collection of stories, just not my cup 'o tea. May 09, Shivani rated it really liked it. It was suggested by a dear friend when I said that I want to read something that is light and enjoyable and does not keep me on my toes for "what next"? Do you find The Unbearable Lightness of Being simply unbearable? Is The Inferno your own private hell? Transform Your Family with Ten Minutes a Day in the Gospel Story Christian parents know the importance of passing the gospel story on to their children, yet we live in a busy world filled with distractions.
Schedules collide, there is homework and yard work and dishes and laundry, the car's oil should be changed, there are phone calls to make and before you know it, everyone is getting to bed late again. You won't find a more important focus for a family devotional than a daily highlighting of the gospel of grace. Clever stories and good moral lessons may entertain and even help children, but the gospel will transform children.
The gospel is deep enough to keep the oldest and wisest parents learning and growing all their lives, yet simple enough to transform the heart of the first grader who has just begun to read. Ten minutes a day, five days a week is enough time to pass on the most valuable treasure the world has ever known.
Long Story Short is a family devotional program designed to explain God's plan of salvation through the Old Testament and is suitable for children from preschool through high school.
Experience the world and characters of the hit video game franchise! When alien forces invade with an army of Machines, the remnants of humanity must depend on Androids of their own design—the placid 2B and the excitable 9S—to survive. All the fundamentals. No fluff. Learn more with less! The succinct ten chapters are separated by tabs that make it easy to skim, flip, revisit, reorient, and return to content quickly.
Though brief, this core book is still robust enough to provide everything that students need to be successful in their American Government course. The Bible is a big book and reading it can seem a bit daunting, especially if you're not sure where to start. It's also a very important book. Is has had a huge impact on the world - socially, morally, politically - and even on the language we use. This book is structured around 12 famous phrases that come from the Bible and uses them to explain the whole story - from the first book Genesis to the last book Revelation.