The Velveteen Rabbit
Margery Williams Bianco (1881–1944), 1922
Ατμόσφαιρα: τρυφερότητα, μελαγχολία και θαυμασμός. Μιλά για την αγάπη, τη μνήμη και τον χρόνο.
Σελίδες από το βιβλίο
“It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse. “You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.” Weeks passed, and the little Rabbit grew very old and shabby, but the Boy loved him just as much. He loved him so hard that he loved all his whiskers off, and the pink lining to his ears turned grey, and his brown spots faded. He even began to lose his shape, and he scarcely looked like a rabbit any more, except to the Boy. To him he was always beautiful, and that was all that the little Rabbit cared about. He didn’t mind how he looked to other people, because the nursery magic had made him Real, and when you are Real shabbiness doesn’t matter. And while the Boy was asleep, dreaming of the seaside, the little Rabbit lay among the old picture-books in the corner behind the fowl-house, and he felt very lonely. The sack had been left untied, and so by wriggling a bit he was able to get his head through the opening and look out. He was shivering a little, for he had always been used to sleeping in a proper bed, and by this time his coat had worn so thin and threadbare from hugging that it was no longer any protection to him. Near by he could see the thicket of raspberry canes, growing tall and close like a tropical jungle, in whose shadow he had played with the Boy on bygone mornings. He thought of those long sunlit hours in the garden-how happy they were-and a great sadness came over him. Βιβλία με παρόμοια αίσθηση
Ο ευτυχισμένος πρίγκιπας και άλλα παραμύθια
Oscar Wilde, 1888
Κοινά στοιχεία: τρυφερότητα και αγάπη.
Πού θα το βρεις
Από κάποιους από αυτούς τους συνδέσμους παίρνουμε μια μικρή προμήθεια, χωρίς επιπλέον κόστος για σένα. Έτσι το BookFeed μένει δωρεάν.
Ερωτήσεις αναγνωστών
- Πώς είναι το «The Velveteen Rabbit»;
- Ατμόσφαιρα: τρυφερότητα, μελαγχολία και θαυμασμός. Μιλά για την αγάπη, τη μνήμη και τον χρόνο.
- Τι να διαβάσω μετά το «The Velveteen Rabbit»;
- Αν σου άρεσε το «The Velveteen Rabbit», δοκίμασε «Η αγαπημένη και άλλα διηγήματα» (Anton Chekhov), «Ο ευτυχισμένος πρίγκιπας και άλλα παραμύθια» (Oscar Wilde) και «Short Fiction» (Thomas Hardy).
Μια γεύση από τη ροή
Μια ζωή στο άρμεγμα χαράζεται στο μέτωπο μιας γυναίκας.
Her monotonous milking at the dairy was resumed, and followed for many long years, till her form became bent, and her once abundant dark hair white and worn away at the forehead—perhaps by long pressure against the cows. Here, sometimes, those who knew her experiences would stand and observe her, and wonder what sombre thoughts were beating inside that impassive, wrinkled brow, to the rhythm of the alternating milk-streams.
Short Fiction · Thomas Hardy
Πώς μοιάζει ένα σχολείο όταν ο θόρυβός του ακούγεται από διακόσια βήματα μακριά;
Ἀλλὰ πρὸ ἡμισείας ὥρας, ἐάν τις διήρχετο εἰς ἀπόστασιν διακοσίων βημάτων ἔξωθεν τοῦ σχολείου, θὰ ἐνόμιζεν ὅτι ἦτο θηριοτροφεῖον εἰδικὸν διὰ θῶας τῆς ἐρήμου καὶ δι’ ἄλλα ἀνήσυχα ἀγρίμια. Τὰ παιδία ἐχόρευαν, ἐπήδων, ἐσκίρτων, ἐφώναζαν, διεπληκτίζοντο, ἐγέλων, ἔκλαιον. Ἦτο θέρος καὶ καύσων πνιγηρός. Παμμιγὴς βοὴ ἀνήρχετο διὰ τῶν ὀκτὼ ἀνοικτῶν μεγάλων παραθύρων, ἐχόντων ὅλα σχεδὸν τὰ ὑαλία σπασμένα καὶ τὰ πλεῖστα παραθυρόφυλλα φαγωμένα, τοὺς στροφεῖς ἐσκωριασμένους. Τὰ θρανία χωλά, κινούμενα, χορεύοντα, ἐφαίνοντο ὡς σχεδίαι πλέουσαι ἐντὸς τοῦ κύματος τῶν παιδικῶν κεφαλῶν. Ἡ διδασκαλικὴ ἕδρα ὑψηλή, μὲ τὰ φατνώματα σαπρά, κεχηνότα, ὡμοίαζε μὲ βάρκαν ξουριασμένην μακρὰν τοῦ λιμένος ὑπὸ τοῦ ἀνέμου.
Ἡ Δασκαλομάννα · Αλέξανδρος Παπαδιαμάντης
Η υπόσχεση της πρώτης αγάπης δεν κρατά για πάντα.
Whether he kissed her once or several times he could not afterward remember, though it must have been an hour that they sat there close together and he held her hand. What surprised him most about making love was that it seemed to have no element of wild passion—regret, desire, despair—but a delirious promise of such happiness in the world, in living, as he had never known. First love—this was only first love! What must love itself in its fullness, its perfection be. He did not know that what he was experiencing then, that unreal, undesirous medley of ecstasy and peace, would be unrecapturable forever.
Short Fiction · F. Scott Fitzgerald
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