Tool for automatic conversion to the main e-book formats: bookmarklet, the Nook, the iLiad, the BeBook, the Cool-er, the CyBook, the Alex eReader, the Install the bookmarklet in your browser and build an e-book from the sample text . Reading ebooks on Android used to be just okay. to upload PDFs directly to Play Books from the web, email, or other apps in the settings. Self-publish eBooks and paperbacks with site Kindle Direct Publishing for free Publish Kindle eBooks and paperbacks for free on KDP. Get started today!.
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These type of Android ebook readers take a lot more time to setup and optimize than a basic ereader like a Kindle or Nook. Some things aren't. Then, download your set of free ebook templates so you can or it's hard to set up alone, dedicate a brief ebook to showing people how it's. How to borrow an eBook from the library: Want to check out a book and read it on your phone, tablet, computer, Kindle, Nook, or other device? The Gila County.
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It didn't answer my question The information isn't detailed enough The information is out of date I find it hard to understand The information is incorrect I'm not sure what to do next Other. But man is a magician, and his whole magic is in this, that he does say Victoria, and lo! No, take your books of mere poetry and prose; let me read a time table, with tears of pride.
Take your Byron, who commemorates the defeats of man; give me Bradshaw, who commemorates his victories.
Give me Bradshaw, I say! You say contemptuously that when one has left Sloane Square one must come to Victoria. I say that one might do a thousand things instead, and that whenever I really come there I have the sense of hairbreadth escape. It is to me the cry of a herald announcing conquest.
We know that the New Jerusalem will only be like Victoria. Yes, the poet will be discontented even in the streets of heaven. The poet is always in revolt.
You might as well say that it is poetical to be sea-sick. Being sick is a revolt. Revolt in the abstract is—revolting. Yes, the most poetical thing, more poetical than the flowers, more poetical than the stars—the most poetical thing in the world is not being sick.
Do you mean what you say now? Now, sometimes a man like your brother really finds a thing he does mean. It may be only a half-truth, quarter-truth, tenth-truth; but then he says more than he means—from sheer force of meaning it. She was looking at him from under level brows; her face was grave and open, and there had fallen upon it the shadow of that unreasoning responsibility which is at the bottom of the most frivolous woman, the maternal watch which is as old as the world.
Syme broke into a great laugh, that seemed too large for his slight and somewhat dandified figure.
Syme strolled with her to a seat in the corner of the garden, and continued to pour out his opinions. For he was a sincere man, and in spite of his superficial airs and graces, at root a humble one.
And it is always the humble man who talks too much; the proud man watches himself too closely. He defended respectability with violence and exaggeration. He grew passionate in his praise of tidiness and propriety. All the time there was a smell of lilac all round him.
Once he heard very faintly in some distant street a barrel-organ begin to play, and it seemed to him that his heroic words were moving to a tiny tune from under or beyond the world. To his astonishment, he discovered the whole garden empty. Everyone had gone long ago, and he went himself with a rather hurried apology.
He left with a sense of champagne in his head, which he could not afterwards explain. In the wild events which were to follow this girl had no part at all; he never saw her again until all his tale was over. And yet, in some indescribable way, she kept recurring like a motive in music through all his mad adventures afterwards, and the glory of her strange hair ran like a red thread through those dark and ill-drawn tapestries of the night.
For what followed was so improbable, that it might well have been a dream. When Syme went out into the starlit street, he found it for the moment empty.
Then he realised in some odd way that the silence was rather a living silence than a dead one. Directly outside the door stood a street lamp, whose gleam gilded the leaves of the tree that bent out over the fence behind him.
About a foot from the lamp-post stood a figure almost as rigid and motionless as the lamp-post itself. The tall hat and long frock coat were black; the face, in an abrupt shadow, was almost as dark. Only a fringe of fiery hair against the light, and also something aggressive in the attitude, proclaimed that it was the poet Gregory. He had something of the look of a masked bravo waiting sword in hand for his foe.
Gregory struck out with his stick at the lamp-post, and then at the tree.
There is your precious order, that lean, iron lamp, ugly and barren; and there is anarchy, rich, living, reproducing itself—there is anarchy, splendid in green and gold. I wonder when you would ever see the lamp by the light of the tree. The silence fell again, and Syme, though he understood nothing, listened instinctively for something serious.
Gregory began in a smooth voice and with a rather bewildering smile. You did something to me that no man born of woman has ever succeeded in doing before. The captain of a penny steamer if I remember correctly at Southend. You have irritated me. If I struck you dead I could not wipe it out.
There is only one way by which that insult can be erased, and that way I choose. I am going, at the possible sacrifice of my life and honour, to prove to you that you were wrong in what you said. You do not think that in a deeper, a more deadly sense, I am serious. Are these damned Chinese lanterns serious? Is the whole caboodle serious? Will you swear that!
You say that a poet is always an anarchist. I disagree; but I hope at least that he is always a sportsman. Permit me, here and now, to swear as a Christian, and promise as a good comrade and a fellow-artist, that I will not report anything of this, whatever it is, to the police.
And now, in the name of Colney Hatch, what is it? He gave two long whistles, and a hansom came rattling down the road. The two got into it in silence. Gregory gave through the trap the address of an obscure public-house on the Chiswick bank of the river.
The cab whisked itself away again, and in it these two fantastics quitted their fantastic town. We rely on Google Analytics GA to track the use of the service.
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Finally, infinite content for your e-reader Try me now Install the bookmarklet in your browser and build an e-book from the sample text below, just clicking on the installed bookmarklet. Chesterton The suburb of Saffron Park lay on the sunset side of London, as red and ragged as a cloud of sunset.
In fact, Mr. Lucian Gregory, the anarchic poet, connected the two events. Gregory resumed in high oratorical good humour. With surprise, but with a curious pleasure, he found Rosamond Gregory still in his company.