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Crump Folk Going Home - Constance Holme, Holme
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Constance Holme, Holme:
Crump Folk Going Home - Paperback

2007, ISBN: 1408631245, Lieferbar binnen 4-6 Wochen Shipping costs:Versandkostenfrei innerhalb der BRD

ID: 9781408631249

Internationaler Buchtitel. In englischer Sprache. Verlag: James Press, 300 Seiten, L=216mm, B=140mm, H=17mm, Gew.=381gr, [GR: 21600 - TB/Belletristik/Biographien, Erinnerungen], [SW: - Biography / Autobiography], Kartoniert/Broschiert, Klappentext: CRUMP FOLK GOING HOME - PREFACE - THIS was my first published novel, written when not only its author, but the world, was younger in spirit when motor-cars and aeroplanes were young, too wireless was still in its infancy by-pass roads had not so much as been thought of when even the motor-bus had not yet come to sail its ship of light along the lonely reaches of our dark. It is urprising how easily he are abashed by any evidence of our past youth Show us a portrait of ourselves, in some incredible garment, and we squirm wretchedly. Show us a letter, written in the fulness of our hearts, and we push it hastily into the fire. Show us a book- What is it that makes us shrink from these samples of our past history, which prove us, in many cases, to have been not so much worse than our contemporaries It is, of course, the trusting silliness of the face under the impossible hat the trusting egotism of the letter the unblushing self-revelation of what-fondly imagining it to be perfectly new and original-we dared to call a novel. Yet, surely, to have lived at all-to have threaded that tangle of terror and ecstasy which we term experience, holding our heads as high as may be until we step, with a gesture, into the grave-is in itself an achievement of which even archangels might be proud And, to arrive at that grand conclusion, we must have had a beginning to get out of life, we must first have got into it to be wise, we must first have been foolish to be old, we must have been young. . . . Perhaps every author, looking back on his first novel, feels that it was written by a totally different person in a totally different world Nobody can possibly be more surprised than he is by the mere fact ofits existence. The thing seems just to have happened to him. He is not entirely detached from it, since he admits its claim upon him, regarding it at the same time with a mixture of pride, amusement, and shame. Nevertheless, from his point of view, it remains chiefly an accident for which, as in the case of other accidents which are laid to his account, he feels bound to offer an apology Certainly, the authors of r 91 3 have more reason than most to believe that they were different creatures in a different universe. The world war different, then. . . . It was more Ieisurely and therefore more peaceful there was more time to stand and stare. Its rhythms were still set, as it were, to the steady rap of a horses hoofs rather than to the revolutions of a motor-engine. Things were changing, as they have always changed, but they were doing it tactfully and unobtrusively. People were simpler and less restless more dependent upon each other for interest and help. Yet, only another year, and the great slide was to begin which was to alter, not only the whole face of the countryside, but the outlook of its inhabitants. Country life was at that stage which, it is said, may be seen in the sinking of a vessel, when the water seems to pause for a second before it swamps the boat. But, no matter in what age a first novel may be joyfully perpetrated, it will always have one feature in common with every other. The pathetic paradox will remain that, while it is written, more or less, in the hope that it may be read by the world, there is not the faintest conception in the authors mind of what it feels like to be read at all... CRUMP FOLK GOING HOME - PREFACE - THIS was my first published novel, written when not only its author, but the world, was younger in spirit when motor-cars and aeroplanes were young, too wireless was still in its infancy by-pass roads had not so much as been thought of when even the motor-bus had not yet come to sail its ship of light along the lonely reaches of our dark. It is urprising how easily he are abashed by any evidence of our past youth Show us a portrait of ourselves, in some incredible garment, and we squirm wretchedly. Show us a letter, written in the fulness of our hearts, and we push it hastily into the fire. Show us a book- What is it that makes us shrink from these samples of our past history, which prove us, in many cases, to have been not so much worse than our contemporaries It is, of course, the trusting silliness of the face under the impossible hat the trusting egotism of the letter the unblushing self-revelation of what-fondly imagining it to be perfectly new and original-we dared to call a novel. Yet, surely, to have lived at all-to have threaded that tangle of terror and ecstasy which we term experience, holding our heads as high as may be until we step, with a gesture, into the grave-is in itself an achievement of which even archangels might be proud And, to arrive at that grand conclusion, we must have had a beginning to get out of life, we must first have got into it to be wise, we must first have been foolish to be old, we must have been young. . . . Perhaps every author, looking back on his first novel, feels that it was written by a totally different person in a totally different world Nobody can possibly be more surprised than he is by the mere fact ofits existence. The thing seems just to have happened to him. He is not entirely detached from it, since he admits its claim upon him, regarding it at the same time with a mixture of pride, amusement, and shame. Nevertheless, from his point of view, it remains chiefly an accident for which, as in the case of other accidents which are laid to his account, he feels bound to offer an apology Certainly, the authors of r 91 3 have more reason than most to believe that they were different creatures in a different universe. The world war different, then. . . . It was more Ieisurely and therefore more peaceful there was more time to stand and stare. Its rhythms were still set, as it were, to the steady rap of a horses hoofs rather than to the revolutions of a motor-engine. Things were changing, as they have always changed, but they were doing it tactfully and unobtrusively. People were simpler and less restless more dependent upon each other for interest and help. Yet, only another year, and the great slide was to begin which was to alter, not only the whole face of the countryside, but the outlook of its inhabitants. Country life was at that stage which, it is said, may be seen in the sinking of a vessel, when the water seems to pause for a second before it swamps the boat. But, no matter in what age a first novel may be joyfully perpetrated, it will always have one feature in common with every other. The pathetic paradox will remain that, while it is written, more or less, in the hope that it may be read by the world, there is not the faintest conception in the authors mind of what it feels like to be read at all...

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Crump Folk Going Home (Paperback) - Constance Holme
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Constance Holme:
Crump Folk Going Home (Paperback) - Paperback

2007, ISBN: 1408631245

ID: 2689282314

[EAN: 9781408631249], Neubuch, [PU: Read Books, United Kingdom], Brand New Book with Free Worldwide Delivery ***** Print on Demand *****. CRUMP FOLK GOING HOME - PREFACE - THIS was my first published novel, written when not only its author, but the world, was younger in spirit when motor-cars and aeroplanes were young, too wireless was still in its infancy by-pass roads had not so much as been thought of when even the motor-bus had not yet come to sail its ship of light along the lonely reaches of our dark. It is urprising how easily he are abashed by any evidence of our past youth Show us a portrait of ourselves, in some incredible garment, and we squirm wretchedly. Show us a letter, written in the fulness of our hearts, and we push it hastily into the fire. Show us a book- What is it that makes us shrink from these samples of our past history, which prove us, in many cases, to have been not so much worse than our contemporaries It is, of course, the trusting silliness of the face under the impossible hat the trusting egotism of the letter the unblushing self-revelation of what-fondly imagining it to be perfectly new and original-we dared to call a novel. Yet, surely, to have lived at all-to have threaded that tangle of terror and ecstasy which we term experience, holding our heads as high as may be until we step, with a gesture, into the grave-is in itself an achievement of which even archangels might be proud And, to arrive at that grand conclusion, we must have had a beginning to get out of life, we must first have got into it to be wise, we must first have been foolish to be old, we must have been young. . . . Perhaps every author, looking back on his first novel, feels that it was written by a totally different person in a totally different world Nobody can possibly be more surprised than he is by the mere fact ofits existence. The thing seems just to have happened to him. He is not entirely detached from it, since he admits its claim upon him, regarding it at the same time with a mixture of pride, amusement, and shame. Nevertheless, from his point of view, it remains chiefly an accident for which, as in the case of other accidents which are laid to his account, he feels bound to offer an apology Certainly, the authors of r 91 3 have more reason than most to believe that they were different creatures in a different universe. The world war different, then. . . . It was more Ieisurely and therefore more peaceful there was more time to stand and stare. Its rhythms were still set, as it were, to the steady rap of a horses hoofs rather than to the revolutions of a motor-engine. Things were changing, as they have always changed, but they were doing it tactfully and unobtrusively. People were simpler and less restless more dependent upon each other for interest and help. Yet, only another year, and the great slide was to begin which was to alter, not only the whole face of the countryside, but the outlook of its inhabitants. Country life was at that stage which, it is said, may be seen in the sinking of a vessel, when the water seems to pause for a second before it swamps the boat. But, no matter in what age a first novel may be joyfully perpetrated, it will always have one feature in common with every other. The pathetic paradox will remain that, while it is written, more or less, in the hope that it may be read by the world, there is not the faintest conception in the authors mind of what it feels like to be read at all.

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Crump Folk Going Home - Constance Holme, Holme
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Constance Holme, Holme:
Crump Folk Going Home - Paperback

ISBN: 9781408631249

[ED: Taschenbuch], [PU: James Press], CRUMP FOLK GOING HOME - PREFACE - THIS was my first published novel, written when not only its author, but the world, was younger in spirit when motor-cars and aeroplanes were young, too wireless was still in its infancy by-pass roads had not so much as been thought of when even the motor-bus had not yet come to sail its ship of light along the lonely reaches of our dark. It is urprising how easily he are abashed by any evidence of our past youth Show us a portrait of ourselves, in some incredible garment, and we squirm wretchedly. Show us a letter, written in the fulness of our hearts, and we push it hastily into the fire. Show us a book- What is it that makes us shrink from these samples of our past history, which prove us, in many cases, to have been not so much worse than our contemporaries It is, of course, the trusting silliness of the face under the impossible hat the trusting egotism of the letter the unblushing self-revelation of what-fondly imagining it to be perfectly new and original-we dared to call a novel. Yet, surely, to have lived at all-to have threaded that tangle of terror and ecstasy which we term experience, holding our heads as high as may be until we step, with a gesture, into the grave-is in itself an achievement of which even archangels might be proud And, to arrive at that grand conclusion, we must have had a beginning to get out of life, we must first have got into it to be wise, we must first have been foolish to be old, we must have been young. . . . Perhaps every author, looking back on his first novel, feels that it was written by a totally different person in a totally different world Nobody can possibly be more surprised than he is by the mere fact ofits existence. The thing seems just to have happened to him. He is not entirely detached from it, since he admits its claim upon him, regarding it at the same time with a mixture of pride, amusement, and shame. Nevertheless, from his point of view, it remains chiefly an accident for which, as in the case of other accidents which are laid to his account, he feels bound to offer an apology Certainly, the authors of r 91 3 have more reason than most to believe that they were different creatures in a different universe. The world war different, then. . . . It was more Ieisurely and therefore more peaceful there was more time to stand and stare. Its rhythms were still set, as it were, to the steady rap of a horses hoofs rather than to the revolutions of a motor-engine. Things were changing, as they have always changed, but they were doing it tactfully and unobtrusively. People were simpler and less restless more dependent upon each other for interest and help. Yet, only another year, and the great slide was to begin which was to alter, not only the whole face of the countryside, but the outlook of its inhabitants. Country life was at that stage which, it is said, may be seen in the sinking of a vessel, when the water seems to pause for a second before it swamps the boat. But, no matter in what age a first novel may be joyfully perpetrated, it will always have one feature in common with every other. The pathetic paradox will remain that, while it is written, more or less, in the hope that it may be read by the world, there is not the faintest conception in the authors mind of what it feels like to be read at all...Versandfertig in über 4 Wochen, [SC: 0.00]

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Crump Folk Going Home - Constance Holme, Holme
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Constance Holme, Holme:
Crump Folk Going Home - Paperback

ISBN: 9781408631249

[ED: Taschenbuch], [PU: James Press], CRUMP FOLK GOING HOME - PREFACE - THIS was my first published novel, written when not only its author, but the world, was younger in spirit when motor-cars and aeroplanes were young, too wireless was still in its infancy by-pass roads had not so much as been thought of when even the motor-bus had not yet come to sail its ship of light along the lonely reaches of our dark. It is urprising how easily he are abashed by any evidence of our past youth Show us a portrait of ourselves, in some incredible garment, and we squirm wretchedly. Show us a letter, written in the fulness of our hearts, and we push it hastily into the fire. Show us a book- What is it that makes us shrink from these samples of our past history, which prove us, in many cases, to have been not so much worse than our contemporaries It is, of course, the trusting silliness of the face under the impossible hat the trusting egotism of the letter the unblushing self-revelation of what-fondly imagining it to be perfectly new and original-we dared to call a novel. Yet, surely, to have lived at all-to have threaded that tangle of terror and ecstasy which we term experience, holding our heads as high as may be until we step, with a gesture, into the grave-is in itself an achievement of which even archangels might be proud And, to arrive at that grand conclusion, we must have had a beginning to get out of life, we must first have got into it to be wise, we must first have been foolish to be old, we must have been young. . . . Perhaps every author, looking back on his first novel, feels that it was written by a totally different person in a totally different world Nobody can possibly be more surprised than he is by the mere fact ofits existence. The thing seems just to have happened to him. He is not entirely detached from it, since he admits its claim upon him, regarding it at the same time with a mixture of pride, amusement, and shame. Nevertheless, from his point of view, it remains chiefly an accident for which, as in the case of other accidents which are laid to his account, he feels bound to offer an apology Certainly, the authors of r 91 3 have more reason than most to believe that they were different creatures in a different universe. The world war different, then. . . . It was more Ieisurely and therefore more peaceful there was more time to stand and stare. Its rhythms were still set, as it were, to the steady rap of a horses hoofs rather than to the revolutions of a motor-engine. Things were changing, as they have always changed, but they were doing it tactfully and unobtrusively. People were simpler and less restless more dependent upon each other for interest and help. Yet, only another year, and the great slide was to begin which was to alter, not only the whole face of the countryside, but the outlook of its inhabitants. Country life was at that stage which, it is said, may be seen in the sinking of a vessel, when the water seems to pause for a second before it swamps the boat. But, no matter in what age a first novel may be joyfully perpetrated, it will always have one feature in common with every other. The pathetic paradox will remain that, while it is written, more or less, in the hope that it may be read by the world, there is not the faintest conception in the authors mind of what it feels like to be read at all...Versandfertig in über 4 Wochen, [SC: 0.00]

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Crump Folk Going Home - Holme Constance Holme; Constance Holme
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Holme Constance Holme; Constance Holme:
Crump Folk Going Home - Paperback

2007, ISBN: 1408631245

ID: 22421359014

[EAN: 9781408631249], Neubuch, [PU: James Press], This item is printed on demand for shipment within 3 working days.

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Details of the book
Crump Folk Going Home

CRUMP FOLK GOING HOME - PREFACE - THIS was my first published novel, written when not only its author, but the world, was younger in spirit when motor-cars and aeroplanes were young, too wireless was still in its infancy by-pass roads had not so much as been thought of when even the motor-bus had not yet come to sail its ship of light along the lonely reaches of our dark. It is urprising how easily he are abashed by any evidence of our past youth Show us a portrait of ourselves, in some incredible garment, and we squirm wretchedly. Show us a letter, written in the fulness of our hearts, and we push it hastily into the fire. Show us a book- What is it that makes us shrink from these samples of our past history, which prove us, in many cases, to have been not so much worse than our contemporaries It is, of course, the trusting silliness of the face under the impossible hat the trusting egotism of the letter the unblushing self-revelation of what-fondly imagining it to be perfectly new and original-we dared to call a novel. Yet, surely, to have lived at all-to have threaded that tangle of terror and ecstasy which we term experience, holding our heads as high as may be until we step, with a gesture, into the grave-is in itself an achievement of which even archangels might be proud And, to arrive at that grand conclusion, we must have had a beginning to get out of life, we must first have got into it to be wise, we must first have been foolish to be old, we must have been young. . . . Perhaps every author, looking back on his first novel, feels that it was written by a totally different person in a totally different world Nobody can possibly be more surprised than he is by the mere fact ofits existence. The thing seems just to have happened to him. He is not entirely detached from it, since he admits its claim upon him, regarding it at the same time with a mixture of pride, amusement, and shame. Nevertheless, from his point of view, it remains chiefly an accident for which, as in the case of other accidents which are laid to his account, he feels bound to offer an apology Certainly, the authors of r 91 3 have more reason than most to believe that they were different creatures in a different universe. The world war different, then. . . . It was more Ieisurely and therefore more peaceful there was more time to stand and stare. Its rhythms were still set, as it were, to the steady rap of a horses hoofs rather than to the revolutions of a motor-engine. Things were changing, as they have always changed, but they were doing it tactfully and unobtrusively. People were simpler and less restless more dependent upon each other for interest and help. Yet, only another year, and the great slide was to begin which was to alter, not only the whole face of the countryside, but the outlook of its inhabitants. Country life was at that stage which, it is said, may be seen in the sinking of a vessel, when the water seems to pause for a second before it swamps the boat. But, no matter in what age a first novel may be joyfully perpetrated, it will always have one feature in common with every other. The pathetic paradox will remain that, while it is written, more or less, in the hope that it may be read by the world, there is not the faintest conception in the authors mind of what it feels like to be read at all...

Details of the book - Crump Folk Going Home


EAN (ISBN-13): 9781408631249
ISBN (ISBN-10): 1408631245
Paperback
Publishing year: 2007
Publisher: James Press
300 Pages
Weight: 0,381 kg
Language: eng/Englisch

Book in our database since 24.01.2008 20:15:44
Book found last time on 19.08.2017 16:37:34
ISBN/EAN: 9781408631249

ISBN - alternate spelling:
1-4086-3124-5, 978-1-4086-3124-9


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