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Archivo de la etiqueta: Literature

Charles Dickens

Charles Dickens

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David Copperfield Charles Dickens

La huella autobiográfica que Charles Dickens (1812-1870) dejó en David Copperfield, una de sus obras más importantes, convirtió este libro en el más cercano a su corazón. David, como Dickens, vivió una infancia feliz leyendo y vcvdekuasistiendo a la escuela hasta que su suerte cambió. La transmutación íntima de ambos, protagonista y autor, fue compleja y sutil. Aunque ficción y realidad no siempre coinciden, las desdichas de la niñez, el trabajo en la abogacía, la condición  de escritor y varios de los personajes responden a la experiencia personal de su autor. Narrada desde la distancia del adulto, la vida de David Copperfield encierra sátira y humor irónico, luto y angustia, pero también mucha alegría y ruido de personas.

http://www.planetadelibros.com

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Publicado por en mayo 1, 2015 en Books

 

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Un encuentro con Víctor Ros, el detective de la España del Siglo XIX

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Víctor Ros es el detective más famoso de la convulsa pero hermosa España del Siglo XIX. Este maravilloso personaje literario ha sido creado por la mano del escritor murciano Jerónimo Tristante, profesor de  Biología y Geología de educación secundaria, muy activo en las redes sociales y siempre dispuesto a un acercamiento a sus fieles lectores. En el año 2001 publicó su primera novela, Crónica de Jufré. Sus obras han sido traducidas al italiano, al francés y al polaco.

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El escritor Jerónimo Tristante

En palabras del autor, Víctor Ros es mi particular homenaje a mi personaje de ficción favorito que es Sherlock Holmes. Entiendo su admiración, ¿quién no se ha dejado cautivar alguna vez por esa pasión enfermiza por resolver crímenes, demostrando habilidades fuera de lo común que posee el Sr. Holmes? Sin embargo, el detective Ros poco tiene que ver con su colega británico. Jerónimo Tristante ha creado durante cuatro novelas (“El misterio de la Casa Aranda”, “El caso de la viuda negra”, “El enigma de la calle Calabria”, “La última noche de Víctor Ros”) a un personaje apasionado, con grandes y honestos principios morales acerca del bien y el mal, un hombre del pueblo llano, hijo de un arriero que vivió huérfano por las calles de Barcelona hasta que un policía le acoge en su casa y le encauza por el buen camino.Víctor Ros es un hombre que cree en el avance de la ciencia y resuelve sus casos con ayuda de las técnicas forenses más rompedoras, acompañado de su fiel equipo de la Brigada Metropolitana.

  “Víctor Ros es un personaje radicalmente positivo, que hace siempre lo correcto y que tiene por objetivo cambiar la sociedad”- Jerónimo Tristante

El actor Carles Francino como Victor Ros - TVE

El actor Carles Francino como Victor Ros – TVE

En este mes de Enero, TVE emite una miniserie de 6 episodios basada  en las novelas homónimas de Jerónimo Tristante, El estupendo actor Carles Francino da vida con brillantez al detective Víctor Ros. Sin duda, merece la pena seguir los pasos de este personaje ya sea a través de la literatura o, como ahora, en la pequeña pantalla.

Un placer habernos encontrado, Sr. Ros.

VICTOR ROS – TVE + MOVISTAR TV / Press Trailer producida por New Atlantis (Grupo Secuoya) para TVE y MOVISTAR TV.

 
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Publicado por en febrero 1, 2015 en Actors, Books, Television

 

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“En un lugar de la Mancha… “

“En un lugar de la Mancha… “

“En un lugar de la Mancha, de cuyo nombre no quiero acordarme, no ha mucho tiempo que vivía un hidalgo de los de lanza en astillero, adarga antigua, rocín flaco y galgo corredor.”

Molinos y Muerte by Stratisk (Devianart)

Resulta casi imposible ver una hermosa imagen de molinos en medio de una estampa campestre sin que nos venga a la mente la imagen de “El caballero de la triste figura” o si lo prefieren Don Quijote de la Mancha. Novela escrita por el español Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra y publicada su primera parte con el título de “El ingenioso hidalgo don Quijote de la Mancha” allá por comienzos del año 1605. Poco hay que decir de esta obra, una de las más destacadas de nuestra literatura española y de la literatura universal, y también una de las más traducidas.

“En esto descubrieron treinta o cuarenta molinos de viento que hay en aquel campo, y así como Don Quijote los vió, dijo a su escudero: la ventura va guiando nuestras cosas mejor de lo que acertáramos a desear; porque ves allí, amigo Sancho Panza, donde se descubren treinta o poco más desaforados gigantes con quien pienso hacer batalla, y quitarles a todos las vidas, con cuyos despojos comenzaremos a enriquecer: que esta es buena guerra, y es gran servicio de Dios quitar tan mala simiente de sobre la faz de la tierra. ¿Qué gigantes? dijo Sancho Panza.”

Créditos: D. Augusto Ferrer-Dalmau,

Créditos: D. Augusto Ferrer-Dalmau,

Don Quijote fue la primera obra que desmitificó la tradición caballeresca y cortés por darle un tratamiento burlesco. Ha sido y seguirá siendo un referente en toda la narrativa europea. Considerada como «el mejor trabajo literario jamás escrito» tiene el honor de ser el libro más publicado y traducido de la historia, sólo superado por la Biblia.

“Aquellos que allí ves, respondió su amo, de los brazos largos, que los suelen tener algunos de casi dos leguas. Mire vuestra merced, respondió Sancho, que aquellos que allí se parecen no son gigantes, sino molinos de viento, y lo que en ellos parecen brazos son las aspas, que volteadas del viento hacen andar la piedra del molino.”

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Publicado por en enero 19, 2015 en Books, Citas

 

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“A Haunted House” by Virginia Woolf

“A Haunted House” by Virginia Woolf

A Haunted House

Whatever hour you woke there was a door shutting. From room to room they went, hand in hand, lifting here, opening there, making sure–a ghostly couple.

“Here we left it,” she said. And he added, “Oh, but here tool” “It’s upstairs,” she murmured. “And in the garden,” he whispered. “Quietly,” they said, “or we shall wake them.”

But it wasn’t that you woke us. Oh, no. “They’re looking for it; they’re drawing the curtain,” one might say, and so read on a page or two. “Now they’ve found it,’ one would be certain, stopping the pencil on the margin. And then, tired of reading, one might rise and see for oneself, the house all empty, the doors standing open, only the wood pigeons bubbling with content and the hum of the threshing machine sounding from the farm. “What did I come in here for? What did I want to find?” My hands were empty. “Perhaps its upstairs then?” The apples were in the loft. And so down again, the garden still as ever, only the book had slipped into the grass.

But they had found it in the drawing room. Not that one could ever see them. The windowpanes reflected apples, reflected roses; all the leaves were green in the glass. If they moved in the drawing room, the apple only turned its yellow side. Yet, the moment after, if the door was opened, spread about the floor, hung upon the walls, pendant from the ceiling–what? My hands were empty. The shadow of a thrush crossed the carpet; from the deepest wells of silence the wood pigeon drew its bubble of sound. “Safe, safe, safe” the pulse of the house beat softly. “The treasure buried; the room . . .” the pulse stopped short. Oh, was that the buried treasure?

A moment later the light had faded. Out in the garden then? But the trees spun darkness for a wandering beam of sun. So fine, so rare, coolly sunk beneath the surface the beam I sought always burned behind the glass. Death was the glass; death was between us, coming to the woman first, hundreds of years ago, leaving the house, sealing all the windows; the rooms were darkened. He left it, left her, went North, went East, saw the stars turned in the Southern sky; sought the house, found it dropped beneath the Downs. “Safe, safe, safe,” the pulse of the house beat gladly. ‘The Treasure yours.”

The wind roars up the avenue. Trees stoop and bend this way and that. Moonbeams splash and spill wildly in the rain. But the beam of the lamp falls straight from the window. The candle burns stiff and still. Wandering through the house, opening the windows, whispering not to wake us, the ghostly couple seek their joy.

“Here we slept,” she says. And he adds, “Kisses without number.” “Waking in the morning–” “Silver between the trees–” “Upstairs–” ‘In the garden–” “When summer came–” ‘In winter snowtime–” “The doors go shutting far in the distance, gently knocking like the pulse of a heart.

Nearer they come, cease at the doorway. The wind falls, the rain slides silver down the glass. Our eyes darken, we hear no steps beside us; we see no lady spread her ghostly cloak. His hands shield the lantern. “Look,” he breathes. “Sound asleep. Love upon their lips.”

Stooping, holding their silver lamp above us, long they look and deeply. Long they pause. The wind drives straightly; the flame stoops slightly. Wild beams of moonlight cross both floor and wall, and, meeting, stain the faces bent; the faces pondering; the faces that search the sleepers and seek their hidden joy.

“Safe, safe, safe,” the heart of the house beats proudly. “Long years–” he sighs. “Again you found me.” “Here,” she murmurs, “sleeping; in the garden reading; laughing, rolling apples in the loft. Here we left our treasure–” Stooping, their light lifts the lids upon my eyes. “Safe! safe! safe!” the pulse of the house beats wildly. Waking, I cry “Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart.”

Virginia Woolf

Virginia Woolf

 
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Publicado por en enero 10, 2014 en Short Story

 

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“The Fall of the House of Usher” ~ Poe

“The Fall of the House of Usher” ~ Poe

“During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country; and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher. I know not how it was–but, with the first glimpse of the building, a sense of insufferable gloom pervaded my spirit. I say insufferable; for the feeling was unrelieved by any of that half-pleasureable, because poetic, sentiment, with which the mind usually receives even the sternest natural images of the desolate or terrible. I looked upon the scene before me–upon the mere house, and the simple landscape features of the domain–upon the bleak walls–upon the vacant eye-like windows–upon a few rank sedges–and upon a few white trunks of decayed trees–with an utter depression of soul which I can compare to no earthly sensation more properly than to the after-dream of the reveller upon opium–the bitter lapse into everyday life–the hideous dropping off of the veil. There was an iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart–an unredeemed dreariness of thought which no goading of the imagination could torture into aught of the sublime.” ―

Edgar Allan Poe

The Fall of the House of Usher and Other Tales

Animated film based on Edgar Allan Poe’s short story “The Fall of the House of Usher”. Narrated by Sir Christopher Lee. Directed by Raúl García. Produced by Melusine Productions, R&R Communications, The Big Farm and Les Armateurs.Roderick Usher summons his boyhood friend to help him ease his decaying condition. The death of Madeline Usher, last in the line of the Usher family precipitates Roderick’s descent into madness and death.

 
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Publicado por en julio 15, 2013 en Books, Citas, Movies, Short Story

 

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“When I Do Count The Clock That Tells The Time”

“When I Do Count The Clock That Tells The Time”

 

Sonnet 12: When I Do Count The Clock That Tells The Time by William Shakespeare

When I do count the clock that tells the time,
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;
When I behold the violet past prime,
And sable curls all silvered o’er with white;
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
And summer’s green all girded up in sheaves
Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard,
Then of thy beauty do I question make
That thou among the wastes of time must go,
Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake
And die as fast as they see others grow;
And nothing ‘gainst Time’s scythe can make defence
Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.
William Shakespeare

 
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Publicado por en julio 11, 2013 en Poems, Shakespeare

 

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“Annabel Lee” by Edgar Allan Poe

“Annabel Lee” by Edgar Allan Poe

Edgar Allan Poe (19 January 1809 – 7 October 1849 / Boston) was an American author, poet, editor, and literary critic, considered part of the American Romantic Movement. Best known for his tales of mystery and the macabre, Poe was one of the earliest American practitioners of the short story and is generally considered the inventor of the detective fiction genre. He is further credited with contributing to the emerging genre of science fiction

Annabel Lee is the last complete poem composed by this master of the most beautiful and dark romanticism.
The poem, written in 1849, was not published until shortly after the death of its author, the same year.

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Definitely one of my favorite poems and here it’s reading by the wonderful actor Basil Rathbone.

 

 

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Publicado por en junio 9, 2013 en Actors, Poems

 

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