1984
George Orwell.
Published: 1949
Chapter One
It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him.
روزی آفتابی و سرد در ماه آوریل بود. و ساعتها سیزده بار زنگ میزدند (1 بعد از ظهر). وینستون اسمیت که در تلاش برای فرار کردن از سرمایۀ زننده، (سوزان) چانه اش را به سینه اش چسبانده بود، به سرعت از لای درهای شیشه ای عمارت بزرگ پیروزی (اسم عمارت) به درون خزید. هرچند آنقدر سرعتش زیاد نبود که مانع شود که گرد و خاک شن آلود که در هوا شناور بودند (میچرخیدند) را با خود به داخل نیاورد
Never Let Me Go
A novel by
Kazuo Ishiguro
To Lorna and Naomi
England, late 1990s
Part One
Chapter One
My name is Kathy H. I’m thirty-one years old, and I’ve been a carer now for over eleven years. That sounds long enough, I know, but actually they want me to go on for another eight months, until the end of this year. That’ll make it almost exactly twelve years. Now I know my being a carer so long isn’t necessarily because they think I’m fantastic at what I do. There are some really good carers who’ve been told to stop after just two or three years. And I can think of one carer at least who went on for all of fourteen years despite being a complete waste of space. So I’m not trying to boast. But then I do know for a fact they’ve been pleased with my work, and by and large, I have too. My donors have always tended to do much better than expected. Their recovery times have been impressive, and hardly any of them have been classified as “agitated,” even before fourth donation. Okay, maybe I am oasting now. But it means a lot to me, being able to do my work well, especially that bit about my donors staying “calm.” I’ve developed a kind of instinct around donors. I know when to hang around and comfort them, when to leave them to themselves; when to listen to everything they have to say, and when just to shrug and tell them to snap out of it.
ادامه مطلب ...by Laurence Housman
Tiki-pu was a small grub of a thing; but he had a true love of Art deep down in his soul. There it hung mewing and complaining, struggling to work its way out through the raw exterior that bound it.
Tiki-pu s master professed to be an artist: he had apprentices and students, who came daily to work under him, and a large studio littered about with the performances of himself and his pupils. On the walls hung also a few real works by the older men, all long since dead.
ادامه مطلب ...As narrated by Robert Kiyosaki
I had two fathers, a rich one and a poor one. One was highly educated and intelligent; he had a Ph.D. and completed four years of undergraduate work in less than two years. He then went on to Stanford University, the University of Chicago, and Northwestern University to do his advanced studies, all on full financial scholarships. The other father never finished the eighth grade.
Both men were successful in their careers, working hard all their lives. Both earned substantial incomes. Yet one struggled financially all his life. The other would become one of the richest men in Hawaii. One died leaving tens of millions of dollars to his family, charities and his church. The other left bills to be paid.