Fiction With Purpose
Philosophy
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It's not a simple task to turn social and political theories into novels successfully, but Ayn Rand made it appear simple. This reprint is one of Rand's masterpieces. How does one classify such work? It's fiction, sure--but it's more than 'just' fiction. It's a dream, a vision, a goal for a better world.
Many great and wonderful deeds are recorded of your State in our histories; but one of them exceeds all the rest in greatness and valor; for these histories tell of a mighty power which was aggressing wantonly against the whole of Europe and Asia, and to which your city put an end. This power came forth out of the Atlantic Ocean
Tim Beckley's Inner Light brings another of the Rampa books back to the forefront of attention by truth seekers, and for those interested in the study of the spiritual. A baby who was to become a Great Disciple of the soon-to-be Leader of Man. Yet again in another city where East meets West, and both are soiled thereby, a two-year-old baby boy solemnly fingered the yellowed leaves of an ancient book.
This masterpiece should be mandatory reading. Brown solidifies his reputation as one of the most skilled thriller writers on the planet with his best book yet, a compelling blend of history and page-turning suspense. Highly recommended. LIBRARY JOURNAL
In the population of Transylvania there are four distinct nationalities: Saxons in the South, and mixed with them the Wallachs, who are the descendants of the Dacians; Magyars in the West, and Szekelys in the East and North. I am going among the latter, who claim to be descended from Attila and the Huns. This may be so, for when the Magyars conquered the country in the eleventh century they found the Huns settled in it.
The first edition of "Erewhon" sold in about three weeks; I had not taken moulds, and as the demand was strong, it was set up again immediately. I was complaining once to a friend that though "Erewhon" had met with such a warm reception, my subsequent books had been all of them practically still-born. He said, "You forget one charm that 'Erewhon' had, but which none of your other books can have." I asked what? and was answered, "The sound of a new voice, and of an unknown voice."
Forgotten stories, legends, and myths of other worldly characters that have terrorized and entertained mankind for thousands of years.
Originally this was published as a Limited Edition for private circulation only, consisting of two thousand and twenty-five numbered copies. Only two thousand copies were actually for sale.
One night a year or so ago I was the guest of a famous literary society. This society, or club, it is well known, believes in celebrating literature-and all sorts of other things-in a thoroughly agreeable and human fashion. It meets not in any gloomy hall or lecture room, it has no gritty apparatus of blackboard, chalk, and bleared water-bottle.
Tim Beckley's Inner Light brings another of the Rampa books back to the forefront of attention by truth seekers, and for those interested in the study of the spiritual. This virtually unknown book was written by T. Lobsang Rampa's wife, who also held his love for the cat. Though fiction in style, the spiritual truth comes through, as though it were another of Aesop's Fables.
Hollywood did not give birth to Frankenstein; Mary Shelley did. More than a century before actor Boris Karloff, helped by make-up artists, made the monster in his image, came Shelley and her creation. The mother of Frankenstein came from the rarefied reaches of the British artistic and intellectual elite.
WHEN AN EXPLOSION takes place lots of bits and pieces fly all over the scenery. The greater the wallop the larger the lumps and the farther they travel. These are fundamental facts known to every schoolchild old enough to have some sneaky suspicions about the birds and the bees. They were not known or perhaps they were not fully realized by Johannes Pretorius van der Camp Blieder despite the fact that he was fated to create the biggest bang in human history.
It was my privilege, many years ago, to make the acquaintance of the obscure literary hermit, whose talk I have tried to reproduce in the pages that follow.
It was somewhere, I think, towards the autumn of the year 1889 that the thought occurred to me that I might perhaps try to write a little in the modern way. For, hitherto, I had been, as it were, wearing costume in literature.
It was somewhere, I think, towards the autumn of the year 1889 that the thought occurred to me that I might perhaps try to write a little in the modern way. For, hitherto, I had been, as it were, wearing costume in literature.