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When Salim is offered a small business in Central Africa he accepts. Accompanied by Metty, a son of one of the family’s slaves, he travels into the heart of the continent and becomes a trader in the town on a bend in a river.

‘More than a true and powerful book about Africa. It is one of those books that make you question many assumptions about the world today.’ —Richard West in the Spectator. 

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A BEND IN THE RIVER by V.S. Naipaul

He had his own idea of Europe, his own idea of his civilization. It was that that lay between us. Nothing like that came between me and the people I met at the Hellenic Club. And yet Father Huismans stressed his Europeanness and his separateness from Africans less than those people did. In every way he was more secure.

He wasn't resentful, as some of his countrymen were, of what had happened to the European town. He wasn't wounded by the insults that had been offered to the monuments and the statues. It wasn't because he was more ready to forgive, or had a better understanding of what had been done to the Africans. For him the destruction of the European town, the town that his countrymen had built, was only a temporary setback. Such things happened when something big and new was being set up, when the course of history was being altered.

There would always have been a settlement at that bend in the river, he said. It was a natural meeting place. The tribes would have changed, power would have shifted, but men would always have returned there to meet and trade. The Arab town would have been only a little more substantial than the African settlements, and technologically not much more advanced. The Arabs, so far in the interior, would have had to build with the products of the forest; life in their town wouldn't have been much more than a kind of forest life. The Arabs had only prepared the way for the mighty civilization of Europe.

For everything connected with the European colonization, the opening up of the river, Father Huismans had a reverence which would have surprised those people in the town who gave him the reputation of being a lover of Africa and therefore, in their way of thinking, a man who rejected the colonial past. That past had been bitter, but Father Huismans appeared to take the bitterness for granted; he saw beyond it. From the ship-repair yard near the customs, long neglected and full of junk and rust, he had taken away pieces of old steamers and bits of disused machinery from the late 1890s and laid them—like relics of an early civilization—in the inner courtyard of the lycée. He was especially pleased with a piece that carried, on an oval steel plate, the name of the markers in the town of Seraing in Belgium.

Out of simple events beside that wide muddy river, out of the mingling of peoples, great things were to come one day. We were just at the beginning. And to Father Huismans colonial relics were as precious as the things of Africa. True Africa he saw as dying or about to die. That was why it was so necessary, while that Africa still lived, to understand and collect and preserve its things.

Copyright © V.S. Naipaul

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Renowned British physicist Stephen Hawking attempts to explain a range of subjects in cosmology, including the Big Bang, black holes and light cones, to the nonspecialist reader. Hawking discusses the possibility of time travel and wormholes and explore the possibility of having a universe without a quantum singularity at the beginning of time.

He is able to illustrate highly complex propositions with analogies plucked from daily life. —The New York Times

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A BRIEF HISTORY OF TIME by Stephen Hawking

In quantum mechanics, the forces or interactions between matter particles are all supposed to be carried by particles of integer spin - 0, 1, or 2. What happens is that a matter particle, such as an electron or a quark, emits a force-carrying particle. The recoil from this emission changes the velocity of the matter particle. The force-carrying particle then collides with another matter particle and is absorbed. This collision changes the velocity of the second particle, just as if there had been a force between the two matter particles. It is an important property of the force-carrying particles that they do not obey the exclusion principle. This means that there is no limit to the number that can be exchanged, and so they can give rise to a strong force. However, if the force-carrying particles have a high mass, it will be difficult to produce and exchange them over a large distance. So the forces that they carry will have only a short range. On the other hand, if the force-carrying particles have no mass of their own, the forces will be long range. The force-carrying particles exchanged between matter particles are said to be virtual particles because, unlike real particles, they cannot be directly detected by a particle detector. We know they exist, however, because they do have a measurable effect: they give rise to forces between matter particles. Particles of spin 0, 1, or 2 do also exist in some circumstances as real particles, when they can be directly detected. They then appear to us as what a classical physicist would call waves, such as waves of light or gravitational waves. They may sometimes be emitted when matter particles interact with each other by exchanging virtual force-carrying particles. (For example, the electric repulsive force between two electrons is due to the exchange of virtual photons, which can never be directly detected; but if one electron moves past another, real photons may be given off, which we detect as light waves.)

Copyright © Stephen Hawking

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Walter M. Miller’s classic dystopian novel of the post-nuclear age. Down the long centuries after the Flame Deluge scoured the earth clean, the monks of the Order of St. Leibowitz the Engineer kept alive the ancient knowledge.

‘Angry, eloquent, a terrific story.’ —The New York Times

Terrifyingly grim, prodigiously imaginative, richly comic.’ —Chicago Tribune

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A CANTICLE FOR LEIBOWITZ by Walter M. Miller Jr.

And then, Holy Saturday.

The monks carried them in one at a time — famished and raving. Francis was thirty pounds lighter and several degrees weaker than he had been on Ash Wednesday. When they set him on his feet in his own cell, he staggered, and before he reached the bunk, he fell. The brothers hoisted him into it, bathed him, shaved him, and anointed his blistered skin, while Francis babbled deliriously about something in a burlap loincloth, addressing it at times as an angel and again as a saint, frequently invoking the name of Leibowitz and trying to apologize.

His brethren, forbidden by the abbot to speak of the matter, merely exchanged significant glances or nodded mysteriously among themselves.

Reports filtered to the abbot.

 Bring him here, he grunted at a recorder as soon as he heard that Francis could walk. His tone sent the recorder scurrying.

Do you deny saying these things? Arkos growled.

I don’t remember saying them, m’Lord Abbot, said the novice, eyeing the abbot’s ruler. I may have been raving.

Assuming that you were raving — would you say it again now?

About the pilgrim being the Beatus? Oh, no, Magister meus!

Then assert the contrary.

I don’t think the pilgrim was the Beatus

 Why not just a straightforward He was not?

Well, never having seen the Blessed Leibowitz personally, I wouldn’t—

Enough! the abbot ordered. Too much! That’s all I want to see of you and hear of you for a long, long time! Out! But just one thing — DON’T expect to profess your vows with the others this year. You won’t be permitted.

For Francis it was like a blow in the stomach with the end of a log.

Copyright © Walter M. Miller Jr.

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One of the most popular and enduring Christmas stories of all time. Some historians have suggested that its popularity played a significant role in redefining the importance of Christmas and the ‘spirit’ of the holiday.

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A CHRISTMAS CAROL by Charles Dickens

The Ghost was greatly pleased to find him in this mood, and looked upon him with such favour, that he begged like a boy to be allowed to stay until the guests departed. But this the Spirit said could not be done.

 Here is a new game, said Scrooge. One half hour, Spirit, only one!

It was a Game called Yes and No, where Scrooge’s nephew had to think of something, and the rest must find out what; he only answering to their questions yes or no, as the case was. The brisk fire of questioning to which he was exposed, elicited from him that he was thinking of an animal, a live animal, rather a disagreeable animal, a savage animal, an animal that growled and grunted sometimes, and talked sometimes, and lived in London, and walked about the streets, and wasn’t made a show of, and wasn’t led by anybody, and didn’t live in a menagerie, and was never killed in a market, and was not a horse, or an ass, or a cow, or a bull, or a tiger, or a dog, or a pig, or a cat, or a bear. At every fresh question that was put to him, this nephew burst into a fresh roar of laughter; and was so inexpressibly tickled, that he was obliged to get up off the sofa and stamp. At last the plump sister, falling into a similar state, cried out:

I have found it out! I know what it is, Fred! I know what it is!

What is it? cried Fred.

It’s your Uncle Scro-o-o-o-oge!

Which it certainly was. Admiration was the universal sentiment, though some objected that the reply to Is it a bear? ought to have been Yes; inasmuch as an answer in the negative was sufficient to have diverted their thoughts from Mr. Scrooge, supposing they had ever had any tendency that way.

He has given us plenty of merriment, I am sure, said Fred, and it would be ungrateful not to drink his health. Here is a glass of mulled wine ready to our hand at the moment; and I say, ‘Uncle Scrooge!’

Well! Uncle Scrooge! they cried.

A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to the old man, whatever he is! said Scrooge’s nephew. He wouldn’t take it from me, but may he have it, nevertheless. Uncle Scrooge!

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An American comic masterpiece. The hero is one Ignatius J. Reilly, huge, obese, fractious, fastidious, and a latter-day Gargantua, a Don Quixote of the French Quarter. The story bursts with wholly original characters, denizens of New Orleans' lower depths, incredibly true-to-life dialogue, and the zaniest series of high and low comic adventures. —Henry Kisor, Chicago Sun Times

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A CONFEDERACY OF DUNCES by John Kennedy Toole

Mrs. Reilly stood in the hall looking at the DO NOT DISTURB sign printed on a sheet of Big Chief paper and stuck to the door by an old flesh-colored Band-aid.

Ignatius, let me in there, boy, she screamed.

Let you in here? Ignatius said through the door. Of course I won't. I am occupied at the moment with an especially succinct passage.

You let me in.

You know that you are never allowed in here.

Mrs. Reilly pounded at the door.

I don't know what is happening to you, Mother, but I suspect that you are momentarily deranged. Now that I think of it, I am too frightened to open the door. You may have a knife or a broken wine bottle.

Open up this door, Ignatius.

Oh, my valve! It's closing! Ignatius groaned loudly. Are you satisfied now that you have ruined me for the rest of the evening?

Mrs. Reilly threw herself against the unpainted wood.

Well, don't break the door, he said finally and, after a few moments, the bolt slid open.

Ignatius, what's all this trash on the floor?

That is my worldview that you see. It still must be incorporated into a whole, so be careful where you step.

And all the shutters closed. Ignatius! It's still light outside.

My being is not without its Proustian elements, Ignatius said from the bed, to which he had quickly returned. Oh, my stomach.

It smells terrible in here.

Well, what do you expect? The human body, when confined, produces certain odors which we tend to forget in this age of deodorants and other perversions. Actually, I find the atmosphere of this room rather comforting. Schiller needed the scent of apples rotting in his desk in order to write. I, too, have my needs. You may remember that Mark Twain preferred to lie supinely in bed while composing those rather dated and boring efforts which contemporary scholars try to prove meaningful. Veneration of Mark Twain is one of the roots of our current intellectual stalemate.

If I know it was like this, I'd been in here long ago.

I do not know why you are in here now, as a matter of fact, or why you have this sudden compulsion to invade my sanctuary. I doubt whether it will ever be the same after the trauma of this intrusion by an alien spirit.

I came to talk to you, boy. Get your face out them pillows.

This must be the influence of that ludicrous representative of the law. He seems to have turned you against your own child. By the way, he has left, hasn't he?

Yes, and I apologized to him over the way you acted.

Mother, you are standing on my tablets. Will you please move a little? Isn't it enough that you have destroyed my digestion without destroying the fruits of my brain also?

Copyright © Thelma D. Toole

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Nora Helmer, the protagonist in the play, is the ‘doll’ living a life of luxury. She once secretly borrowed money from a disgraced lawyer, Nils Krogstad, to save her husband, Torvald Helmer's life when he was very ill, but she has not told him in order to protect his pride. Now Helmer intends to fire Krogstad from his position at the bank.

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A DOLL’S HOUSE by Henrik Ibsen Act II

A room furnished comfortably and tastefully, but not extravagantly. At the back, a door to the right leads to the entrance-hall, another to the left leads to Helmer's study. The floors are carpeted, and a fire burns in the stove.

NORA. Torvald, I don't believe you mean that.

HELMER. Don't you? Why not?

NORA. Because it is such a narrow-minded way of looking at things.

HELMER. What are you saying? Narrow-minded? Do you think I am narrow-minded?

NORA. No, just the opposite, dear—and it is exactly for that reason.

HELMER. It's the same thing. You say my point of view is narrow-minded, so I must be so too. Narrow-minded! Very well—I must put an end to this. (Goes to the hall door and calls.) Helen!

NORA. What are you going to do?

HELMER. (looking among his papers). Settle it. (Enter MAID.) Look here; take this letter and go downstairs with it at once. Find a messenger and tell him to deliver it, and be quick. The address is on it, and here is the money.

MAID. Very well, sir. (Exit with the letter.)

HELMER. (putting his papers together). Now then, little Miss Obstinate.

NORA. (breathlessly). Torvald—what was that letter?

HELMER. Krogstad's dismissal.

NORA. Call her back, Torvald! There is still time. Oh Torvald, call her back! Do it for my sake—for your own sake—for the children's sake! Do you hear me, Torvald? Call her back! You don't know what that letter can bring upon us.

HELMER. It's too late.

NORA. Yes, it's too late.

HELMER. My dear Nora, I can forgive the anxiety you are in, although really it is an insult to me. It is, indeed. Isn't it an insult to think that I should be afraid of a starving quill-driver's vengeance? But I forgive you nevertheless, because it is such eloquent witness to your great love for me. (Takes her in his arms.) And that is as it should be, my own darling Nora. Come what will, you may be sure I shall have both courage and strength if they be needed. You will see I am man enough to take everything upon myself.

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Adrian Mole has at last reached physical maturity, but he can't help roaming the pages of his diary like an untamed adolescent. Finally given the heave-ho by Pandora, he seeks solace in the arms of Bianca, a qualified hydraulic engineer masquerading as a waitress. Between his dishwashing job and completing his epic novel, 'Lo! The Flat Hills of My Homeland', Adrian hopes that fame and fortune will not keep him waiting much longer.

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ADRIAN MOLE: THE WILDERNESS YEARS by Sue Townsend

Tuesday March 26th

I have asked Bianca to give me prior warning, should a suitable-sounding postcard arrive at the shop offering accommodation. She agreed. I think she finds me personable. Haste has changed the meaning of the above sentence: postcards cannot walk into a newsagent's and talk suitably. Leonora cancelled tonight's appointment. 'An emergency she said.

Am I not an emergency? My sanity hangs by a gossamer thread. Leonora is the only barrier between me and the public ward in a lunatic asylum. How will she live with herself if I am admitted foaming at the mouth and struggling inside a straitjacket?

Wednesday March 27th

Mr. David Icke, who is a famous Leicester person, has revealed that he is a 'channel for the Christ spirit'. He went on television and told the goggling press that his wife and

daughter were 'incarnations of the archangel Michael'. He blamed the planet Sirus for bringing earthquakes and pestilence to the world. Gerry and Mrs Hedge mocked him and said he is barmy, but I'm not so sure. We Leicester people are known for our level heads. Perhaps Mr Icke knows something that we ordinary mortals cannot even guess at.

Thursday March 28th

Bianca studied Astronomy in the sixth form. She said this morning, 'There is no such planet as Sirus.' But, as I pointed out to her, 'David Icke did say that Sirus was undiscovered, so naturally no reference would be found to it in the books, would it?'

A queue formed, so we were forced to break off our discussion. I called in on my way home from work, but Bianca was busy — some old git was complaining about his newspaper bill.

Friday March 29th

The more I think about David Icke's predictions, i.e. that the world will end unless it 'purges itself of evil', the more it makes sense. He is a successful man, who was employed by the BBC, no less! He was also a professional goalkeeper for Hereford City. We should not be too quick to scoff. Columbus was once mocked for remarking that the world was round. Something that was verified by the first US astronauts.

My mother rang tonight to ask me what I want for my birthday next week. I told her to get me the usual, a book token. She went on to say that Leicester was agog about David Icke, and that 'there has been a run on turquoise track suits' (worn by Mr Icke's followers). She said she felt sorry for his mother. Apparently, Mr Icke claimed he was born on the planet Sirus, whereas his mother said in the Leicester Mercury that she distinctly remembers giving birth to him in the Leicester General Maternity Hospital.

I ran out of bananas tonight. I had to walk to the outer suburbs before finding an off-licence that stocked them.

Copyright © Sue Townsend

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A personal view of Hollywood and screenwriting from Oscar winning screenwriter William Goldman.  An intimate view of movie making, of acting greats like Newman, Olivier, Redford and Hoffman, and of the trials and rewards of making movies. 

‘It is the most knowledgeable book ever about the irresistible spell of the cinema. Read it.’ —Sunday Telegraph

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ADVENTURES IN THE SCREEN TRADE by William Goldman

Another giant battle for a producer is not how his movie is released but when. All the different media have a target audience. For pop music, that audience is made up of kids from the ages of eleven to fifteen. That's the group the pop music moguls must reach. Television's prime-time target audience is a different age group-twenty-five to forty-nine.

For films, the target audience is different still: Movies must hit those between sixteen and twenty-four. That's the bulk of the popcorn buyers. No one knows for sure why, but the common wisdom is this: When a kid hits sixteen, he wants to get the hell out of the house, away from his folks. By the time people are twenty-four, a lot of them start getting married and having families, and the cost of a movie escalates for them-sitters, etc.

Which is why the most lucrative time for movies is summer; and after summer, Christmas. The target audience is out of school. Which is why so many expensive films come out at those two periods, competing expensively with each other.

Now, there is certainly logic behind that thinking. And more than a little madness. Because in the rush of product, some films are certain to be lost and left behind. One of Hollywood's leading producers, Daniel Melnick (That's Entertainment, All That Jazz), had some comments on that madness in a recent interview concerning a film of his that was scheduled to open in early '81 but, at the last minute, got shoved into the Christmas barrage.

I wanted to release Altered States in January, because I felt there were no other major movies being released then and there would be an audience. I would rather go at a time when there are fewer people attending movies and offer them pictures they want to see, rather than to divide a larger audience with ten other desirable films.

I think that as an industry we have very often shown the instinct of lemmings. To find ourselves releasing films basically twice a year and glutting the market is, I think, folly. I realize that historically Christmas and summer have had the highest attendance. But I think to some degree that's a self-fulfilling prophecy. We're all convinced that people go to the movies primarily at Christmas time, so we release our big pictures then . . .

Obviously, Melnick lost his battle in Altered States. But you can assume that, like any quality producer, he didn't go quietly. A producer is really like Willy Loman trudging along with his suitcase under his arm, trying to convince people to buy what he's selling. Often they end up with no more success than poor Willy eventually found. There are exceptions. Warren Beatty, a brilliant producer, had, as his first film, the famous Bonnie and Clyde. Only it didn't get famous its first time out. Controversial it was, but successful it wasn't. But Beatty - cajoling, kicking, screaming, God knows how - convinced the studio to give the film a major re-release soon after its original time at bat. The movie became a gigantic success, but had it not been for Beatty's unique skill, it might have been just another unknown cult film today.

Copyright © William Goldman

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The book is a first-person account of American Frederic Henry, serving as a Lieutenant in the ambulance corps of the Italian Army during the Italian campaign of World War 1. The publication cemented Hemingway’s stature as a modern American writer, became his first best-seller, and is described by biographer Michael Reynolds as the premier American war novel from that debacle (World War I).

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS by Ernest Hemingway

The night before I left the field hospital Rinaldi came in to see me with the major from our mess. They said that I would go to an American hospital in Milan that had just been installed. Some American ambulance units were to be sent down and this hospital would look after them and any other Americans on service in Italy. There were many in the Red Cross. The States had declared war on Germany but not on Austria.

The Italians were sure America would declare war on Austria too and they were very excited about any Americans coming down, even the Red Cross. They asked me if I thought President Wilson would declare war on Austria and I said it was only a matter of days. I did not know what we had against Austria but it seemed logical that they should declare war on her if they did on Germany. They asked me if we would declare war on Turkey. I said that was doubtful. Turkey, I said, was our national bird but the joke translated so badly and they were so puzzled and suspicious that I said yes, we would probably declare war on Turkey. And on Bulgaria? We had drunk several glasses of brandy and I said yes by God on Bulgaria too and on Japan. But, they said, Japan is an ally of England. You can't trust the bloody English. The Japanese want Hawaii, I said. Where is Hawaii? It is in the Pacific Ocean. Why do the Japanese want it? They don't really want it, I said. That is all talk. The Japanese are a wonderful little people fond of dancing and light wines. Like the French, said the major. We will get Nice and Savoia from the French. We will get Corsica and all the Adriatic coast-line, Rinaldi said. Italy will return to the splendors of Rome, said the major. I don't like Rome, I said. It is hot and full of fleas. You don't like Rome? Yes, I love Rome. Rome is the mother of nations. I will never forget Romulus suckling the Tiber. What? Nothing. Let's all go to Rome.

Copyright © Ernest Hemingway

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A Handful of Dust satirizes a certain stratum of English life where all the characters have money, but lack practically every other credential. Murderously urbane, it depicts the breakup of a marriage in the London gentry, where the errant wife suffers from terminal boredom, and becomes enamoured of a social parasite and professional luncheon-goer. #34 in the Modern Library List of Best 20th-Century Novels.

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A HANDFUL OF DUST by Evelyn Waugh

He walked about the room, first to the window, then to the fireplace. He began to fill his pipe. At least we can find out whether the evening papers have got it in. We can ring up and ask the hall porter at my club.

That's not going to prevent your wife reading it. We've just got to wait. What was the game you said you knew? Animal something?

 Snap.

 Well you come show me that.

 "It's just a child's game.. It would be ridiculous with two.

 I'll learn it.

 Well each of us chooses an animal.

 All right, I'm a hen and you're a dog. Now what?

Tony explained.

 I'd say it was one of those games that you have to feel pretty good first, before you can enjoy them, said Mrs. Rattery. But I'll try anything.

They each took a pack and began dealing. Soon a pair of eights appeared. Bow-wow, said Mrs. Rattery, scooping in the cards.

Another pair. Bow-wow, said Mrs. Rattery. You know you aren't putting your heart into this.

 Oh, said Tony. Coop-coop-coop.

Presently he said again, Coop-coop-coop.

Don't be dumb, said Mrs. Rattery, that isn't a pair …

They were still playing when Albert came in to draw the curtains. Tony had only two cards left which he turned over regularly; Mrs. Rattery was obliged to divide hers, they were too many to hold. They stopped playing when they found that Albert was in the room.

What must that man have thought? said Tony, when he had gone out.

(Sitting there clucking like a `en, Albert reported, and the little fellow lying dead upstairs.)

 We'd better stop.

It wasn't a very good game. And to think it's the only one you know.

She collected the cards and began to deal them into their proper packs. Ambrose and Albert brought in tea. Tony looked at his watch. Five o'clock. Now that the shutters are up we shan't hear the chimes. Jock must be in London by now.

Mrs. Rattery said, I'd rather like some whisky.

Copyright © Evelyn Waugh

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A tough-talking former cop, private investigator Kinsey Millhone has set up a modest detective agency in a quiet corner of Santa Teresa, California. A twice-divorced loner with few personal possessions and fewer personal attachments, she's got a soft spot for underdogs and lost causes. Now she has a client named Nikki Fife who’s looking to find out who killed her husband.

‘A woman to identify with. A gripping read.’ —Punch

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A IS FOR ALIBI by Sue Grafton

Finally I just gave in. For a while I told myself it was good for my relationship with Laurence. I was suddenly getting something I'd needed for a long time and it made me feel very giving with him. And then the double life began to take its toll. I deceived Laurence for as long as I could but he began to suspect something was going on. I got so I couldn't tolerate his touch-too much tension, too much deceit. Too much good stuff somewhere else. He must have felt the change come over me because he began to probe and question, wanted to know where I was every minute of the day. Called at odd hours in the afternoon and of course I was out. Even when I was with Laurence, I was somewhere else. He threatened me with divorce and I got scared so I confessed up. That was the biggest mistake of my life because he divorced me anyway."

As punishment.

As only Laurence Fife knew how. In spades.

Where is he now?

My lover? Why do you ask?

Her tone was instantly guarded, her expression wary.

Laurence must have known who he was. If he was punishing you, why not punish the other guy too?

I don't want to cast suspicion on him, she said. That would be a lousy thing to do. He had nothing to do with Laurence's death. I'll give you a written guarantee.

What makes you so sure? A lot of people were mistaken about a lot of things back then and Nikki paid a price for it.

Hey, she said sharply, Nikki was represented by the best lawyer in the state. Maybe she got a few bad breaks and maybe not, but there's no point in trying to lay the blame on someone who had nothing to do with it.

I'm not trying to blame anyone. I'm just trying to come up with a direction on this thing. I can't force you to tell me who he is.

That's right and I think you'd have a hell of a time finding out from anyone else.

Copyright © Sue Grafton

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The story of a girl named Alice who falls down a rabbit hole into a fantasy world populated by peculiar and anthropomorphic creatures. The tale plays with logic in ways that have given the story lasting popularity with adults as well as children. It is considered one of the most characteristic examples of the genre of literary nonsense.

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ALICE IN WONDERLAND by Lewis Carroll

By the time she had caught the flamingo and brought it back, the fight was over, and both the hedgehogs were out of sight: 'but it doesn't matter much,' thought Alice, 'as all the arches are gone from this side of the ground.' So she tucked it away under her arm, that it might not escape again, and went back for a little more conversation with her friend.

When she got back to the Cheshire Cat, she was surprised to find quite a large crowd collected round it: there was a dispute going on between the executioner, the King, and the Queen, who were all talking at once, while all the rest were quite silent, and looked very uncomfortable.

The moment Alice appeared, she was appealed to by all three to settle the question, and they repeated their arguments to her, though, as they all spoke at once, she found it very hard indeed to make out exactly what they said.

The executioner's argument was, that you couldn't cut off a head unless there was a body to cut it off from: that he had never had to do such a thing before, and he wasn't going to begin at HIS time of life.

The King's argument was, that anything that had a head could be beheaded, and that you weren't to talk nonsense.

The Queen's argument was, that if something wasn't done about it in less than no time she'd have everybody executed, all round. (It was this last remark that had made the whole party look so grave and anxious.)

Alice could think of nothing else to say but  'It belongs to the Duchess: you'd better ask HER about it.'

'She's in prison,' the Queen said to the executioner: 'fetch her here.'

And the executioner went off like an arrow.

The Cat's head began fading away the moment he was gone, and, by the time he had come back with the Duchess, it had entirely disappeared; so the King and the executioner ran wildly up and down looking for it, while the rest of the party went back to the game.

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Take an unforgettable journey through the English countryside and into the homes of its inhabitants—four-legged and otherwise—with the world's best-loved vet. For over 25 years readers have delighted to the storytelling genius of James Herriot, the Yorkshire veterinarian whose fascinating vignettes brim with the wonder of life, animal and human.

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ALL CREATURES GREAT AND SMALL by James Herriot

Then I returned to the drawing room, my sherry glass was filled and I settled down by the fire to listen to Mrs. Pumphrey. It couldn’t be called a conversation because she did all the talking, but I always found it rewarding.

Mrs. Pumphrey was likeable, gave widely to charities and would help anybody in trouble. She was intelligent and amusing and had a lot of waffling charm; but most people have a blind spot and hers was Tricki Woo. The tales she told about her darling ranged far into the realms of fantasy and I waited eagerly for the next instalment.

Oh Mr. Herriot, I have the most exciting news. Tricki has a pen pal! Yes, he wrote a letter to the editor of Doggy World enclosing a donation, and told him that even though he was descended from a long line of Chinese emperors, he had decided to come down and mingle freely with the common dogs. He asked the editor to seek out a pen pal for him among the dogs he knew so that they could correspond to their mutual benefit. And for this purpose, Tricki said he would adopt the name of Mr. Utterbunkum. And, do you know, he received the most beautiful letter from the editor (I could imagine the sensible man leaping upon this potential gold mine) who said he would like to introduce Bonzo Fotheringham, a lonely dalmatian who would be delighted to exchange letters with a new friend in Yorkshire.

I sipped the sherry. Tricki snored on my lap. Mrs. Pumphrey went on.

But I’m so disappointed about the new summerhouse—you know I got it specially for Tricki so we could sit out together on warm afternoons. It’s such a nice little rustic shelter, but he’s taken a passionate dislike to it. Simply loathes it—absolutely refuses to go inside. You should see the dreadful expression on his face when he looks at it. And do you know what he called it yesterday? Oh, I hardly dare tell you. She looked around the room before leaning over and whispering: He called it ‘the bloody hut’!

The maid struck fresh life into the fire and refilled my glass. The wind hurled a handful of sleet against the window. This, I thought, was the life. I listened for more.

And did I tell you, Mr. Herriot, Tricki had another good win yesterday? You know, I’m sure he must study the racing columns, he’s such a tremendous judge of form. Well, he told me to back Canny Lad in the three o’clock at Redcar yesterday and, as usual, it won. He put on a shilling each way and got back nine shillings.

Copyright © James Herriot

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Written from the German point of view.  It is a universal story of men at war. It tells of the courage and comradeship of a generation sent to fight in the mud and blood of front line trenches in ‘the war to end all wars’.

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ALL QUIET ON THE WESTERN FRONT by Erich Maria Remarque

There are rumours of an offensive. We go up to the front two days earlier than usual. On the way we pass a shelled school-house. Stacked up against its longer side is a high double wall of yellow, unpolished, brand-new coffins. They still smell of resin, and pine, and the forest. There are at least a hundred.

That's a good preparation for the offensive, says Müller astonished.

They're for us, growls Detering.

Don't talk rot, says Kat to him angrily.

You be thankful if you get so much as a coffin, grins Tjaden, they'll slip you a waterproof sheet for your old Aunt Sally of a carcase.

The others jest too, unpleasant jests, but what else can a man do?- The coffins are really for us. The organisation surpasses itself in that kind of thing.

Ahead of us everything is shimmering. The first night we try to get our bearings. When it is fairly quiet we can hear the transports behind the enemy lines rolling ceaselessly until dawn. Kat says that they do not go back but are bringing up troops--troops, munitions, and guns.

The English artillery has been strengthened, that we can detect at once. There are at least four more batteries of nine-inch guns to the right of the farm, and behind the poplars they have put in trench mortars. Besides these they have brought up a number of those little French beasts with instantaneous fuses.

We are now in low spirits. After we have been in the dugouts two hours our own shells begin to fall in the trench. This is the third time in four weeks. If it were simply a mistake in aim no one would say anything, but the truth is that the barrels are worn out. The shots are often so uncertain that they land within our own lines. To-night two of our men were wounded by them.

The front is a cage in which we must await fearfully whatever may happen. We lie under the network of arching shells and live in a suspense of uncertainty. Over us Chance hovers. If a shot comes, we can duck, that is all; we neither know nor can determine where it will fall.

It is this Chance that makes us indifferent. A few months ago I was sitting in a dugout playing skat; after a while I stood up and went to visit some friends in another dugout. On my return nothing more was to be seen of the first one, it had been blown to pieces by a direct hit. I went back to the second and arrived just in time to lend a hand digging it out. In the interval it had been buried.

Copyright © this translation, Putnam & Co. Ltd.

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1958 — America is about to emerge into a bright new age — an age that will last until the 1000 days of John F. Kennedy’s presidency. Three men move beneath the glossy surface of power. Where the CIA, the Mob, J. Edgar Hoover, Howard Hughes, Jimmy Hoffa, Cuban political exiles, and various loose cannons conspire in a covert anarchy.  ‘'Intense and flamboyant. The plot runs on high-octane violence. One emerges breathless, shaken and ready to change one’s view of recent American history.’ —Sunday Telegraph

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AMERICAN TABLOID by James Ellroy

Bobby knew that he was pimping for Jack-supplying him with the numbers of especially susceptible old flames.

Questions and answers next: practice for deflecting skepticism.

Kemper braked for a woman lugging groceries. His game snapped to the present tense.

Bobby thinks I'm chasing leads on Anton Gretzler. I'm really protecting Howard Hughes' pet thug.

Q: You seem bent on crashing the Kennedy inner circle.

A: I can spot corners a mile off. Cozying up to Democrats doesn't make me a Communist. Old Joe Kennedy's as far right as Mr. Hoover.

Q: You cozied up to Jack rather fast.

A: If circumstances had been different, I could have been Jack.

Kemper checked his notebook.

He had to go by Tiger Kab. He had to go to Sun Valley and show mug shots to the witness who saw the big man avert his face off the Interstate.

He'd show him old mug shots-bad current Bondurant likenesses. He'd discourage a confirmation: you didn't really see this man, did you?

A tiger-striped taxi swerved in front of him. He saw a tiger striped hut down the block.

Kemper pulled up and parked across the street. Some curbside loungers smelled COP and dispersed.

He walked into the hut. He laughed-the wallpaper was fresh-flocked tiger-striped velveteen.

Four tiger-shirted Cubans stood up and circled him. They wore their shirttails out to cover waistband bulges.

Kemper pulled his mug shots out. The tiger men circled in tighter. A man pulled out a stiletto and scratched his neck with the blade.

The other tiger men laughed. Kemper braced the closest one. Have you seen him?

The man passed the mug strip around. Every man flashed recognition and said No.

Kemper grabbed the strip. He saw a white man on the sidewalk checking his car out.

The knife man sidled up close. The other tiger men giggled. The knife man twirled his blade right upside the gringo's eyes.

Kemper judo-chopped him. Kemper snapped his knees with a sidekick. The man hit the floor prone and dropped his shiv.

Kemper picked it up. The tiger men backed off en masse. Kernper stepped on the knife man's knife hand and slammed the blade through it.

The knife man screamed. The other tiger men gasped and tittered. Kemper exited with a tight little bow.

Copyright © James Ellroy

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Clyde Griffiths is the ambitious but immature young boy, who takes a job as a bellboy at the Green-Davidson Hotel, one of Kansas City’s finest. The boys he meets are much more sophisticated than he is, and they introduce Clyde to the world of alcohol and prostitution.

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AN AMERICAN TRAGEDY by Theodore Dreiser

The interesting part of all this was that Clyde, in spite of a certain strain of refinement which caused him to look askance at most of this, was still fascinated by the crude picture of life and liberty which it offered.  Among such as these, at least, he could go, do, be as he had never gone or done or been before.  And particularly was he pleased and enlightened—or rather dubiously liberated—in connection with his nervousness and uncertainty in regard to his charm or fascination for girls of his own years.  For up to this very time, and in spite of his recent first visit to the erotic temple to which Hegglund and the others had led him, he was still convinced that he had no skill with or charm where girls were concerned.  Their mere proximity or approach was sufficient to cause him to recede mentally, to chill or palpitate nervously, and to lose what little natural skill he had for conversation or poised banter such as other youths possessed.  But now, in his visits to the home of Ratterer, as he soon discovered, he was to have ample opportunity to test whether this shyness and uncertainty could be overcome. For it was a center for the friends of Ratterer and his sister, who were more or less of one mood in regard to life.  Dancing, card playing, lovemaking rather open and unashamed, went on there. Indeed, up to this time, Clyde would not have imagined that a parent like Mrs. Ratterer could have been as lackadaisical or indifferent as she was, apparently, to conduct and morals generally.  He would not have imagined that any mother would have countenanced the easy camaraderie that existed between the sexes in Mrs. Ratterer's home. And very soon, because of several cordial invitations which were extended to him by Ratterer, he found himself part and parcel of this group—a group which from one point of view—the ideas held by its members, the rather wretched English they spoke—he looked down upon.  From another point of view—the freedom they possessed, the zest with which they managed to contrive social activities and exchanges—he was drawn to them.  Because, for the first time, these permitted him, if he chose, to have a girl of his own, if only he could summon the courage.

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Watkin Tench, a British Marine officer, describes his experiences in the First Fleet which established the first settlement in Australia in 1788. It provides a fascinating and entertaining account of the arrival and first four years of the colony.

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A NARRATIVE OF THE EXPEDITION TO BOTANY BAY by Watkin Tench

In running along shore, we cast many an anxious eye towards the land, on which so much of our future destiny depended. Our distance, joined to the haziness of the atmosphere, prevented us, however, from being able to discover much. With our best glasses we could see nothing but hills of a moderate height, cloathed with trees, to which some little patches of white sandstone gave the appearance of being covered with snow. Many fires were observed on the hills in the evening. As no person in the ship I was on board had been on this coast before, we consulted a little chart, published by Steele, of the Minories, London, and found it, in general, very correct; it would be more so, were not the Mewstone laid down at too great a distance from the land, and one object made of the Eddystone and Swilly, when, in fact, they are distinct. Between the two last is an entire bed of impassable rocks, many of them above water. The latitude of the Eddystone is 43 deg 53 1/2 min, longitude 147 deg 9 min; that of Swilly 43 deg 54 min south, longitude 147 deg 3 min east of Greenwich. In the night the westerly wind, which had so long befriended us, died away, and was succeeded by one from the north-east. When day appeared we had lost sight of the land, and did not regain it until the 19th, at only the distance of 17 leagues from our desired port. The wind was now fair, the sky serene, though a little hazy, and the temperature of the air delightfully pleasant: joy sparkled in every countenance, and congratulations issued from every mouth. Ithaca itself was scarcely more longed for by Ulysses, than Botany Bay by the adventurers who had traversed so many thousand miles to take possession of it. Heavily in clouds came on the day  which ushered in our arrival. To us it was a great, an important day, though I hope the foundation, not the fall, of an empire will be dated from it.

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The king of the exasperated quip discovers that: bombing North Carolina is bad for Yorkshire; we can look forward to exploding at the age of 62; Russians look bad in Speedos. But not as bad as we do; and wasps are the highest form of life. Jeremy Clarkson bursts the pointless little bubbles of the idiots while celebrating the special, the unique and the sheer bloody brilliant.

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AND ANOTHER THING by Jeremy Clarkson

What I cannot abide, however, are people whose hobbies are solely designed to make a noise. I’m talking about born-again motorbikers who come to the countryside on a sunny Sunday specifically to make as much racket as possible. One day I will silence them by stretching a piece of cheese wire across the road.

I’m also talking about campanologists who wait for the country to have a monumental hangover before polluting the Sunday morning stillness with their infernal bells.

Why? If God thinks getting a bunch of beardies to play ‘Home Sweet Home’ on six tons of brass at seven in the morning is a sensible way of summoning his flock, he can get lost. It’s all very well banging on about peace and love, but what I want on a Sunday is a bit of peace and quiet.

I wouldn’t mind, but church congregations are now so small that everyone would fit in the vicar’s Ford Fiesta. So why doesn’t he pop round to pick up everyone personally? And quietly. No leaning on your horn like an idle minicab driver, thanks very much.

I also think it’s about time that something was done about microlights. Sure, an RAF jet is much louder, but by the time you’ve got back on to your chair, it’s already knocking people over in Cornwall. A microlight, on the other hand, struggles to make headway in even the gentlest of breezes so it just sits above your garden all day.

I think it’s fine for people to have their own aircraft but I would impose a minimum speed limit up there of, let’s say, 600 mph. This minimises the inconvenience for those of us on the ground.

That’s a simple solution. What’s not simple is what I should do about the blackbird that has nested in the eaves, just six inches from my pillow.

This morning its chicks woke me at 5.20 and I spent the next two hours trying to think of what might be done.

My wife suggests that we get a cat, but this is impossible because I hate the way their bottoms look like dishcloth holders. Mostly, though, I hate them because they give me asthma, which would keep me awake even more than the birds.

It would be much easier to blow the nest, and everything in it, to kingdom come with my 12-bore. Yet I cannot bring myself to do that.

I’m not even certain it’s legal.

It probably is legal to remove the nest gently and put it in the dustbin. But, again, it seems wrong. Weird, isn’t it? I would enjoy beheading a biker but I cannot bring myself to kill five baby blackbirds.

I thought about taking a leaf out of the Birmingham Sky Orchestra’s book and bombarding them through the night with old prog rock from a Sony Walkman, in the hope that they would sleep during the day.

But I’m told that baby blackbirds aren’t like baby people and that this won’t work. Nor will milk laced with heroin, apparently.

So what I’m going to do is feed them with lots of grain until they’re really fat. Then I shall drown them in armagnac. And then, after they’ve been in the Aga for eight minutes, I shall pop them into a baked potato and eat them.

It’s called payback

Copyright © Jeremy Clarkson

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Born in Depression-era Brooklyn to Irish immigrants and raised in the slums of Limerick, Ireland. Frank’s mother, Angela, has no money to feed the children since Frank’s father, Malachy, rarely works, and when he does he drinks his wages. Yet Malachy—exasperating, irresponsible, and beguiling—does nurture in Frank an appetite for the one thing he can provide: a story.

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ANGELA’S ASHES by Frank McCourt

What are we going to do now, Dad?

I don’t know, son.

Ahead of us women in shawls and small children are picking up coal along the road.

There, Dad, there’s coal.

Och, no, son. We won’t pick coal off the road. We’re not beggars.

He tells Mam the coal yards are closed and we’ll have to drink milk and eat bread tonight, but when I tell her about the women on the road she passes Eugene to him.

If you’re too grand to pick coal off the road I’ll put on my coat and go down the Dock Road.

She gets a bag and takes Malachy and me with her. Beyond the Dock Road there is something wide and dark with lights glinting in it. Mam says that’s the River Shannon. She says that’s what she missed most of all in America, the River Shannon. The Hudson was lovely but the Shannon sings. I can’t hear the song but my mother does and that makes her happy. The other women are gone from the Dock Road and we search for the bits of coal that drop from lorries. Mam tells us gather anything that burns, coal, wood, cardboard, paper. She says, There are them that burn the horse droppings but we’re not gone that low yet. When her bag is nearly full she says, Now we have to find an onion for Oliver. Malachy says he’ll find one but she tells him, No, you don’t find onions on the road, you get them in shops.

The minute he sees a shop he cries out, There’s a shop, and runs in.

Oonyen, he says. Oonyen for Oliver.

Mam runs into the shop and tells the women behind the counter, I’m sorry. The woman says, Lord, he’s a dote. Is he an American or what?

Mam says he is. The woman smiles and shows two teeth, one on each side of her upper gum. A dote, she says, and look at them gorgeous goldy curls. And what is it he wants now? A sweet?

Ah, no, says Mam. An onion.

The woman laughs, An onion? I never heard a child wanting an onion before. Is that what they like in America?

Mam says, I just mentioned I wanted to get an onion for my other child that’s sick. Boil the onion in milk, you know.

True for you, missus. You can’t beat the onion boiled in milk. And look, little boy, here’s a sweet for yourself and one for the other little boy, the brother, I suppose.

Mam says, Ah, sure, you shouldn’t. Say thank you, boys.

Copyright © Frank McCourt

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Animal Farm is a dystopian novel reflecting events leading up to and during the Stalin era in the Soviet Union. The novel addresses the corruption of revolution by its leaders and how wickedness, indifference, ignorance, greed and myopia destroy any possibility of a Utopia.

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ANIMAL FARM by George Orwell

But just at that moment, as though at a signal, all the sheep burst out into a tremendous bleating of—

Four legs good, two legs BETTER! Four legs good, two legs BETTER! Four legs good, two legs BETTER!

It went on for five minutes without stopping. And by the time the sheep had quieted down, the chance to utter any protest had passed, for the pigs had marched back into the farmhouse.

Benjamin felt a nose nuzzling at his shoulder. He looked round. It was Clover. Her old eyes looked dimmer than ever. Without saying anything, she tugged gently at his mane and led him round to the end of the big barn, where the Seven Commandments were written. For a minute or two they stood gazing at the tatted wall with its white lettering."

My sight is failing, she said finally. Even when I was young I could not have read what was written there. But it appears to me that that wall looks different. Are the Seven Commandments the same as they used to be, Benjamin? For once Benjamin consented to break his rule, and he read out to her what was written on the wall. There was nothing there now except a single Commandment. It ran:

ALL ANIMALS ARE EQUAL BUT SOME ANIMALS ARE MORE EQUAL THAN OTHERS

After that it did not seem strange when next day the pigs who were supervising the work of the farm all carried whips in their trotters. It did not seem strange to learn that the pigs had bought themselves a wireless set, were arranging to install a telephone, and had taken out subscriptions to 'John Bull', 'Tit-Bits', and the 'Daily Mirror'. It did not seem strange when Napoleon was seen strolling in the farmhouse garden with a pipe in his mouth—no, not even when the pigs took Mr. Jones's clothes out of the wardrobes and put them on, Napoleon himself appearing in a black coat, ratcatcher breeches, and leather leggings, while his favourite sow appeared in the watered silk dress which Mrs. Jones had been used to wearing on Sundays.

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Widely regarded as a pinnacle in realist fiction. Anna Karenina explores the themes of hypocrisy, jealousy, faith, fidelity and marriage. ‘The supreme novel of the married woman's passion for a younger man.’ —The Observer's The 100 Greatest Novels of All Time

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ANNA KARENINA by Leo Tolstoy

The hotel of the provincial town where Nikolay Levin was lying ill was one of those provincial hotels which are constructed on the newest model of modern improvements, with the best intentions of cleanliness, comfort, and even elegance, but owing to the public that patronizes them, are with astounding rapidity transformed into filthy taverns with a pretension of modern improvement that only makes them worse than the old-fashioned, honestly filthy hotels.  This hotel had already reached that stage, and the soldier in a filthy uniform smoking in the entry, supposed to stand for a hall-porter, and the cast-iron, slippery, dark, and disagreeable staircase, and the free and easy waiter in a filthy frock coat, and the common dining room with a dusty bouquet of wax flowers adorning the table, and filth, dust, and disorder everywhere, and at the same time the sort of modern up-to-date self-complacent railway uneasiness of this hotel, aroused a most painful feeling in Levin after their fresh young life, especially because the impression of falsity made by the hotel was so out of keeping with what awaited them. As is invariably the case, after they had been asked at what price they wanted rooms, it appeared that there was not one decent room for them; one decent room had been taken by the inspector of railroads, another by a lawyer from Moscow, a third by Princess Astafieva from the country.  There remained only one filthy room, next to which