Laughing in the Jungle

Laughing in the Jungle

Language: English

Pages: 0

ISBN: 0405005032

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

Laughing in the Jungle

Language: English

Pages: 0

ISBN: 0405005032

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


Autobiographical, Scientific, Religious, Moral, and Literary Writings (Collected Writings of Rousseau, Volume 12)

Journeys in the Wilderness: A John Muir Reader

La force des choses, tome 2

At My Mother's Knee...: and other low joints

First They Killed My Father: A Daughter of Cambodia Remembers

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

vast belly, and a pair of shrewd, small blue eyes. He and Steve, obviously, were close friends. Steve told him of my attempt, a few days before, to eat a banana without first peeling it (telling about it was then his favorite pastime), whereupon the great bulk of Riley commenced to heave and rumble. His shoulders rapidly went up and down, and his eyes wrinkled into tiny slits of merriment. He laughed and laughed. He rolled and boomed with laughter. He told his bartender what he was laughing

as I know, she never praised a sermon; but I think it was deeply satisfying to her to see Uncle Martin stand in the pulpit and read the Gospel and preach.... And some day, perhaps—perhaps, I, her son, would stand in the pulpit at Zhalna and preach! She would be so proud of me. All the people of the parish would be proud of me, just as they were proud of Uncle Martin, who was also a native of the parish and a peasant’s son. In my father’s life, too, religion was of no great moment. He was

of “flu,” but the illness evidently had taken, temporarily at least, a good deal of spirit out of him. He had lost much weight, He looked pale, almost green. He spoke little, with a sort of quivering reticence. He seemed thoughtful, unenthusiastic. But he insisted that he was “all right.” “Have you heard?” he said. “But for this ‘flu’ we’d be over there by now.” “Yes?” “Now, when—and if—we finally get over, we may be too late.” “Too late for what?” I said. “Too late to fight,” he said. “The

were growing up and thought the man was crazy. So she ran a boarding-house for miners and supported herself and the children that way for a number of years. Then Ivan disappeared altogether. He walked all the way to New York, as Milla learned later; actually walked. He would not ride in a train, even if he had the price, because railways were part of the evil industrial system, nor would he steal a ride, for the same reason. Besides, he was too proud — an individualist. He reached New York,

the Boulevard he recognized famous stars, whose splendors (he smiled to himself) his own fame was about to eclipse. Walking about, he would not have been surprised if some director, spotting him, suddenly let out a whoop and waved a $7000- a-week contract in his face. He took it for granted that all movie executives and directors were adepts in character analysis, and would recognize him instanter for the great actor he was. But nothing happened. The second week in Hollywood, he paused for brief

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