Darkening Stars: A Novel of the Great War

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Love and war and relativity weave together seamlessly, and we're left understanding that there's more than one way for the universe to bend. The characters Barenbaum brings to life demonstrate resilience in the face of prejudice, steadfastness in the face of defeat, and the ability to love even when the world has cracked with hate. This novel's strongly gravitation pull draws you powerfully alongside Miri and Vanya in their harrowing quest, and its emotional payoff makes you never want to let them go.

This is a book of history rewritten, dreams realized, and justice serveda book about relativity, war, hatred, and the weight of our assumptions and our great loves. We use cookies to enhance your visit to us.

Darkening Stars - A Novel of the Great War - José Leon Machado - Wattpad

By using our website you agree to our use of these cookies. Find out more. Enter the parabalini, sometime stretcher-bearers, sometime assassins, who viciously flayed alive the brilliant Alexandrian mathematician and pagan philosopher Hypatia. Debate — philosophically and physiologically — makes us human, whereas dogma cauterizes our potential as a species. Through the sharing of new ideas the ancients identified the atom, measured the circumference of the earth, grasped the environmental benefits of vegetarianism. To be sure, Christians would not have a monopoly on orthodoxy, or indeed on suppression: The history of the ancient world typically makes for stomach-churning reading.

Pagan philosophers too who flew in the face of religious consensus risked persecution; Socrates, we must not forget, was condemned to death on a religious charge. But Christians did fetishize dogma. The doctrinal opinions of one of the most celebrated early church fathers, St. Actions were extreme because paganism was considered not just a psychological but a physical miasma. Christianity appeared on a planet that had been, for at least 70, years, animist.

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Asking the women and men of antiquity whether they believed in spirits, nymphs, djinns would have been as odd as asking them whether they believed in the sea. But for Christians, the food that pagans produced, the bathwater they washed in, their very breaths were thought to be infected by demons. Pollution was said to make its way into the lungs of bystanders during animal sacrifice.

And once Christianity became championed by Rome, one of the most militaristic civilizations the world has known, philosophical discussions on the nature of good and evil became martial instructions for purges and pugilism. Still, contrary to Nixey, there was not utter but rather partial destruction of the classical world.

A Bend in the Stars

It all struck me as a gleeful, naughty fantasy. The material about atomisation, alienation and the corrosive impact of consumer capitalism even felt old hat. But other people did. You could even argue that Palahniuk encouraged the idea that his book should have concrete impact. Could he have realised that what was coming was, in communities with little sense of irony or empathy, his visions of ultra-violent masculinity would be seen as validation rather than satire? But I also suspect my current reaction is more emotional than rational.

More prophetic and, yes, more revolutionary.

A good story may, as Palahniuk says, change the world. But the world can also change a good story. Topics Chuck Palahniuk Reading group. Fiction blogposts. Reuse this content. Order by newest oldest recommendations. Show 25 25 50 All. And Shannon says those who die in Error go to Hell. For the next ten minutes we talked theology in the green corn while early summer clouds—the best clouds, the ones that float like schooners—sailed slowly above us, trailing their shadows like wakes.

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I explained to him that, quite the opposite of sending Arlette to Hell, we would be sending her to Heaven. When you think of it that way, every murderer is a Gate of Heaven. Yet she means to drive us away from it as surely as the angel with the flaming sword drove Adam and Eve from the Garden. I hated to darken my son in such a way, yet part of me believed then and believes still that it was not I who did it to him, but she.

And is there Hell, or do we make our own on earth? When I consider the last eight years of my life, I plump for the latter. And still it might not have happened, if not for Arlette herself. Arlette sometimes took a glass of wine on Summer evenings, although rarely more. There was good reason for this. She was one of those people who can never take two glasses without taking four, then six, then the whole bottle.

And another bottle, if there is another. I like it too much. Luckily for me, my willpower is strong. Henry was in his room. He had hardly touched his supper, and as Arlette and I sat on the porch in our matching rockers with the MA and PA seat-cushions, I thought I heard a faint sound that could have been retching. I remember thinking that when the moment came, he would not be able to go through with it.

Yet I moved forward with the plan. Because I was like one of those Russian nesting dolls?

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Perhaps every man is like that. That fellow died sometime between and The Conniving Man, having done his damage, disappeared. Without his schemes and ambitions, life has been a hollow place. I brought the bottle out to the porch with me, but when I tried to fill her empty glass, she covered it with her hand.

I want it, too. There was a Vulgar Woman inside her—perhaps even a Harlot—and the wine always let her loose. He spoke with hearty sincerity. She had taken her hand from the top of her glass and I took the opportunity to fill it. I thought it was about Shannon Cotterie. But I thought she looked a little wistful, as well. She sipped at her second glass of wine. Two sips of a second glass and she could still put the glass down and go to bed. Four and I might as well hand her the bottle. Not to mention the other two I had standing by. He wants to go, I guess. She was suspicious by nature, was my Arlette, always looking for a deeper motive.

And of course in this case I had one. The orange light above the western horizon was deepening to an otherworldly green-purple that seemed to burn in the glass. Louis, that would be a different thing. Which meant, of course, that she had investigated the possibility and found it problematic. Behind my back, of course. All of it behind my back except for the company lawyer. The second glass half-empty. Here, fill this up.

Cars and trucks, but mostly farm machinery. At long last! She grasped my arm and leaned close enough for me to smell sour grapes on her breath.

Darken the Stars (Kricket, #3) by Amy A. Bartol

If I had my way, an even nastier thing was going to happen that night in the bed we had shared for 15 years. She had begun to slur her words. Perhaps not. Her eyes lit up as a thought occurred to her. She had another two, and that emptied the bottle. The first one.