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Commentaires de livres faits par JustPaulInHere

Extraits de livres par JustPaulInHere

Commentaires de livres appréciés par JustPaulInHere

Extraits de livres appréciés par JustPaulInHere

La lune reflétée à la surface de l'eau a beau luire autant que l'astre de la nuit, elle n'est jamais qu'un faux semblant mais grâce à ce mirage pendant un instant Wezaemon n'a plus fait attention à moi.
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date : 17-08-2022
Kieran smothers his nerves and scans the room, catching sight of the one other door. “Is that Seth’s office?”
Marie tuts and waves him back. “Now, wait a minute. He said he was making an important phone call. You don’t want to interrupt Seth when he’s on the phone!” She chuckles, and a few people nearby laugh uncomfortably. “Have a seat, dear. He’ll be out soon.”
There’s really nowhere to sit except at a chair across from Marie’s desk, like he’s settling in for a consultation. Kieran sits, unwillingly. He’s hoping Marie will go back to work and let him fade into the background, but she keeps watching him. He smiles vaguely and averts his eyes.
She leans forward anyway, clearly intent on engaging him. “Kieran, you are the administrative intern, aren’t you?”
“That’s me.”
“Oh, that’s so funny.” Marie beams. “Marcus thought you were a boy.” She winks, like they’re sharing a joke. When Kieran stiffens and stares at her, the smile slowly slides off her face. “I’m sorry. I’m sure it was just a mistake—”
“He wasn’t wrong,” Kieran snaps.
He waits for some kind of clarity to dawn on Marie, but she just looks more and more confused. He feels himself blushing. “I’m a guy,” he says, loudly. “Thanks.”
“I’m sorry,” Marie repeats, bafflement written all over her face. She’s studying him like she just can’t make the pieces fit.
Kieran grips his knees. Trust Marcus to promise him a trans-friendly workplace and not even bother to find out if anyone around him is trans-friendly.
“It’s your hair,” Marie says finally, with hopeful satisfaction. “I’m just not used to seeing such long hair on boys—”
“Yeah. I get it.” Even to his own ears, his voice sounds sharp and mean. Kieran can feel people turning to look at them, probably as bewildered as Marie, and he suddenly needs to get out of the room. He can’t handle the mystified stares or the inevitable questions that come any time he tries to say who he is.
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Car qu’est-ce que la littérature et la fiction, si ce n’est partager des expériences, des émotions et des questionnements, séparés par le temps et l’espace ?
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Pourquoi un ouvrage là-dessus ? Pour deux raisons ; d’une, parce qu’encore vingt ans après le début du XXIe siècle, il plane toujours une certaine idée absurde sur la pratique de l’écriture – une idée plutôt française, ancrée dans un certain romantisme (ou élitisme) stipulant qu’un Auteur avec un grand A, ça va écharpe blanche au vent sur les falaises de Fécamp battues par la foudre, ça reçoit la Grâce Divine sous la forme de 100 millions de volts dans les gencives et ça rentre chez soi, les yeux hallucinés et les veines injectées de caféine, frapper un chef-d’œuvre sur une vieille Remington bruyante.
En somme : l’écriture, ça ne s’apprend pas. Tu l’as, ou tu ne l’as pas.
C’est dommage, parce que j’en suis un vivant contre-exemple.
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The Mesopotamian Development Bank is embarking on a multiphase initiative to remediate the Mesopotamian trench. This project will restore 100,000 square kilometers of habitat, including the natural channels of the Euphrates and Tigris rivers, their tributaries, coastal wetlands, and terrestrial and aquatic species. The restoration project will support a network of arcologies across the habitat.
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THE MONSTER LOOKED LIKE an old grandmother from the waist up, but it had six long octopus legs. It crawled out of its broken egg and cowered in the muddy drainage ditch. When it noticed Shulgi, its jaw fell open, exposing teeth too perfect to be human.

It recoiled and hissed: Oh - shit - shit - shit - shit - shit - shit.

Shulgi hefted his flail in one hand and his scythe in the other. He knew his duty better than anyone other than the gods. Kings were made for killing monsters.
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Renart s’avance doucement vers la palissade, sans faire aucun bruit, l’échine baissée. C’est un habile chasseur, mais la robuste haie d’épines contrarie son entreprise. Se glisser en dessous ou sauter ? Les deux tactiques semblent impossibles. Pas question pour autant de renoncer aux poules !
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Il arriva un beau jour que Renart, qui était passé maître dans l’art de tromper, prit le chemin d’une ferme, située tout près d’un bois. Cette ferme abritait dans sa basse-cour quantité de poules et de coqs, de canes et de canards, ainsi que des jars et des oies. Son maître, Constant des Noues, un paysan très à l’aise, habitait non loin de la clôture. Ses granges étaient pleines de sacs de blé, et ses vergers produisaient des fruits à profusion, pommes sucrées et délicieuses cerises. Quant à sa maison, elle regorgeait de provisions délectables : salaisons, jambons et flèches de lard. Tout cela méritait bien une petite visite de Renart !
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“Haven’t you ever fantasized about this?”
Jack flips a switch off in the locker room so that only the lights in the showers are on.
“Having sex in here?” Jack asks. He watches Bittle’s bare feet step towards him. “Why would I?”
“Because. It’s a trope,” says Bittle.
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Junior-year-of-high-school Larissa would never believe that she was into a jock. Junior-year-of-high-school Larissa would flip shit if she found out she would be spending those bright college years as a manager of a sports team. She had definitely made a painting about orgranized sports measuring testosterone and relatively intransitive movement.
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"J'avoue, ce jeu est bien fait ! Les compétences influent sur la capacité à parer et esquiver, donc le combat est possible même en cas de différence de niveau... ça me donnne envie d'essayer plein de tactiques !"
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Avec les vacances d'été le nombre de nouveaux utilisateurs a bondi d'un coup...
D'après les forums, Festia grouille de monde. Logiquement... ce sera bientôt pareil ici.
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Scénario unique étendu
Épopée du Lapin Vorlapin
Quand l'âme de l'ère des Dieux vacillera, le lapin son épopée racontera.
Niveau recommandé : 80
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date : 20-08-2022
They buried the stranger in consecrated ground, which was kind, as they hadn’t much of it. The joke on the islands is that all men there are gods, as they’ve made the earth they walk on. From seaweed, sand, shit and time, on the face of the bare rock. Fiat. But it’s not a joke for church. The stranger lay quiet in his plot, marked by a stone with a cross on it. From time to time, an unmarried woman, filled with sentiment, would lay a posy on it.
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date : 20-08-2022
The man was not from the island. No one recognized him, though his face was well preserved. He had been in the water a while. There he lay, just as dead as any Conneely or Mullen or Derrane. But he was not a man of Inis Mór. Nor was he from the other Aran islands, the middle or the east. No. The women knew this. He lay face up. The pattern on the sweater was as clear as day and not one of them knew who had knitted it. They even brought out old Aoife, who had the sight-memory. She came hobbling out to the beach and fingered it with her swollen hands.
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Être la seule à apercevoir les choses ennuyait Mirette et créait de plus en plus d'histoires.
Un jour, Papa Taupe finit même par lui dire :
"Arrête, Mirette ! Tu nous fatigues..."
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date : 12-06-2022
Her grandpa looked thinner than she remembered. Older than he’d looked just a few months ago. Like she could knock him over by breathing too hard.
This is okay. She’d taken every precaution. Reagan had been careful, anyway, for months—and then she’d practically sealed her little house off for two weeks so she could be here. She hadn’t even opened her mail.
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date : 17-08-2022
I don’t understand how you can be so happy, I say.
I’m leaving.
I say the second part in case my brother forgot
because recently,
he’s been forgetting a lot of things,
to come home for dinner,
to pick up the phone when we call,
to let us know that he’s okay.

I see Issa’s smile falter a little
and somehow this makes me happy,
a little.

Aren’t you going to miss me? I ask.
He pulls me close,
and whispers, Akeed.
But you’re going to have so much fun in America.
It’s going to be an adventure.

He must be able to tell I’m about to argue with him
Because he kisses the top of my head.
Then he brings his face close to mine
and whispers in my ear,
Be brave.

My knees lock and I am about to tell him
I don’t know how to do that.
But then I see Baba embracing Mama.
He is gently patting her stomach
and I have never seen Baba look so
proud and so worried all at the same time.

And that’s when I realize I don’t have a choice.
I’m going to have to learn how to be brave.

We’re all going to have to learn.
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When Eyvind of Eyri left the island of Iceland in the prime of his life he was already an old man. He could not have children. It is not that he was impotent, but he could produce no offspring. He was also deaf in one ear. As a child, he had had the throat-swelling fever. It is seen that people who survive this fever often have such defects. But he was young and strong. He went as a crewman on a knarr trading, as he thought, to Grikkland. He hoped to see Miklagarth. But that is not what happened.
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Her journey here was long and the wealth she brought with her was considerable, but no rune stones speak of them. What are the most important words, after all, that rune stones record?
Names.
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This mare’s story proves that one can be famous without a name, a valuable lesson. She is the most famous of all the horses of Iceland.
She is all the horses of Iceland.
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date : 14-06-2022
“Why is everyone on their phones?”
“I don’t know. The studio is never this quiet.” Morgan pulls out her phone, all of the messages that she missed during rehearsal popping up. “Holy—”
A scream interrupts her, filling the studio, and I jerk at the suddenness. The shrill tone makes me tense up, and the person next to me breaks into sobs. One of the dancers in my class, Lydia, runs down the hallway yelling that someone bombed a metro station near the Capitol.
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date : 14-06-2022
The summer intensive at the American Ballet Theatre has been the dream that I’ve been trying to reach all year. Last summer, I wasn’t selected, so this year I need to prove myself at the audition. I have to.
“And you’re going to be great,” Morgan says as she throws her sweatpants on over her tights.
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And it was like—I don’t know. A beacon being lit, a flint being struck in my chest. Charm (Charmaine Baldwin, best/only friend) says Sleeping Beauty was my first crush and she’s not totally wrong, but it was more than that. It was like looking into a mirror and seeing my face reflected brighter and better. It was my own shitty story made mythic and grand and beautiful. A princess cursed at birth. A sleep that never ends. A dying girl who refused to die.
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I DON’T REMEMBER the first time I saw Sleeping Beauty—probably in some waiting room or hospital bed, interrupted by blipping machines and chirpy nurses—but I remember the first time I saw Arthur Rackham’s illustrations. It was my sixth birthday, after cake but before my evening pills.
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If she stopped—if she thought, truly, really, about what she was going to do—she would freeze.
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