в сетевой библиотеке LiveLib: идея - собрать в одной подборке давно изданные детские книги, у которых почти нет читателей.

http://www.livelib.ru/selection/14444


сначало я нашла Рам и Рум, потом еще всякое разное, а потом любимую Бранку Юрца, а про охотника Бачо у меня была в картинках

кажется, что авторы знакомые, но по названию вроде не читала

tsokotukha.livejournal.com/419184.html?nc=4#com...

Интраверт же, наконец, может удовлетворить свою жажду общения (а она у него не слабее, чем экстраверта), не принимая в общении никакого участия. Он может часами бродить по сети, читая эпические мегасрачи с многими тысячами коментов - и ни ..........................))))))))))))))))

конечно, любовь ......но ,в общем, как пункт назначения, как цель, любовь не выдерживает никакой критики. ждать любви глупо, жертвовать ради любви чем-нибудь — тоже. особенно, если жертвуешь не своими, а, как обычно это бывает, чужими покоем, чувствами, мечтами, нужное подчеркнуть.

тут любопытно, конечно, что когда-то — и по космическим меркам не так уж и давно — я придерживался другой, более романтической точки зрения, верил в настоящую любовь, что бы это ни значило, думал, что любовь оправдывает все и так далее. но теперь я так не думаю, и в этом отношении я изменился очень сильно, но в то же время очень незаметно для себя....и ты понимаешь, что забота это любовь. что прощать это любовь. что не замечать какие-то вещи — это тоже любовь. что любовь это промолчать или поговорить. и сморозить какую-нибудь хуйню это тоже иногда любовь. что любовь это процесс, что она в мелочах, что ее — не то чтобы очень..............
2k.livejournal.com/647099.html#comments

интересно сравнить со своими...

vodianoj.livejournal.com/145955.html?nc=11#comm...
Скот Адамс (автор Дильберта) опубликовал возрасты, когда он перестал верить в разные вещи. Прекрасный список, ИМХО:


Here is the approximate age at which I stopped believing in different stuff.

Age 8

Superman
Santa Claus
Tooth Fairy
Easter Bunny

Age 11

God
Angels
Miracles
Money isn't important for happiness

20s

Reincarnation
Ghosts
People are mostly rational
Unquestioned patriotism is a good thing
Any college is as good as any other
Memories are generally accurate
Looks don't matter
Wealth doesn't make you more attractive
Gay is a choice
Alcoholism is a choice

30s

School reputation doesn't matter
History as taught in school is generally accurate
You can do anything you set your mind to
Flying saucers are visiting on a regular basis
Hard work is almost always rewarded
Some men don't enjoy porn
Individuals can pick good stocks if they do research
Management is a science

40s

Food pyramid
Vitamin supplements are backed by science
Free will
Solving your problems can bring you lasting happiness

Age 50

Common sense exists (as opposed to experience)
Drink eight glasses of water a day
Exercising is a big help for losing weight
A calorie is a calorie
Don't swim soon after eating
Wash hands with hot water to kill germs
Marijuana is bad for adult health (Note: still probably bad for kids)
Stretching helps athletic performance
Humans are more likely to be real than artificial/software
Everyone will die
The government isn't controlled by big money
The stock market is mostly legitimate

у меня закончился Мост оба сезона
и отсмотрен True Detective


мне надо срочно найти новый наркотик

tsokotukha.livejournal.com/

Нынешняя жизнь дает человеку множество возможностей не встречаться с собой - Интернет со всеми его многообразными соблазнами ....... Некоторые, по-моему, живут, выныривая на поверхность только для сна (во время еды можно тоже что-нибудь смотреть или читать)

mark_haddon
labels say nothing about a person. they say only how the rest of us categorise that person. good literature is always about peeling labels off. moreand treating real people with dignity is always about peeling the labels off. a diagnosis may lead to practical help. but genuinely understanding another human being involves talking and listening to them and finding out what makes them an individual, not what makes them part of a group.

я нашла)

Let it shine!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
a еще мелкая оказалась МакКензи из Вероники Марс))))))

Laocoon's Children Year Two: Secret Tongues
None of the professors or prefects heard the halfbreed remark, but plenty of the students did, and by lights-out half the school knew that Professor Tonks' father was a Muggleborn, while the other half had been treated to various mutations of the story including, but not limited to, Professor Tonks being a Muggleborn, Professor Tonks' father eating Muggleborns, and Professor Tonks having some form of illicit relations with Montague, which was quashed by a horrified Montague himself.


о что именно случилось и как, этого никто толком не знал, и поэтому к Натке подбегали о расспросами один за другим без перерыва.
Спрашивали: верно ли, что Толька сломал себе ногу? Верно ли, что Тольке во время вчерашнего фейерверка стукнуло осколком по башке? Верно ли, что
доктор сказал, что Толька теперь будет и слепой, и глухой, и вроде как бы совсем дурак? Или только слепой? Или только глухой? Или не глухой и не
слепой, а просто полоумный?

copperbadge.livejournal.com/2823931.html



There are reasons I've never gone back, but most of them sound like excuses. One reason is the time commitment, the time I could be writing my own fiction instead. This is not to slam fanfic in any way; fanfic is important, transformative works are important, and more than that fanfic has been good to me. It made an otherwise unremarkable young man into a writer. My skill at storytelling didn't bolt out of nowhere; I spent eight years writing fanfic before I wrote my first novel and fifteen before I wrote a good one. My work in fandom since this journal was started in 2003 is the result of years of practice (and occasional failure) before I came to LJ.

If you want to write fanfic and you're good at it or even if you just plain have fun, god bless you, do your thing and be ye unashamed. Fanfic is awesome. I never planned for it to be a training ground for my original fiction. It just worked out that way.





For BtvS it was Giles, dry and educated and surrounded by people who most of the time didn't care. Welcome to my high school years. In Discworld it was Sam Vimes, because he was a cynical bastard who still tried to do what was right, and that was very much me in undergrad. In Harry Potter I came to the canon as a staggering lonely, underpaid teacher, so I felt a strong resonance with Lupin, who tried to be kind and to educate and still survive. I only really became involved in Torchwood when Ianto took a more central place in the second season, because I was the office-boy with a secret life, and he said all the smartass shit I never have the immediate wit to say.

(The fact that all of these men are also deeply repressed and damaged, usually by a traumatic event in their youth, is another essay for another time.)

I never wanted to be the boss. I wanted to be the terrier, the teacher, the butler. I've always wanted to be the sidekick. Unfortunately, the sidekick usually dies, and never gets as much airtime, because, you know...he's the sidekick.

Perhaps it is fortunate -- because I wouldn't have realised this otherwise -- that my last two conduits, Lupin and Ianto, are dead. I've tried to shrug them both off but they are painful, in part because I'm not sure they actually did serve the story in the way their authors intended, in part because that's me who didn't get a death scene, that's me who died because of a stupid stunt. That's me, and it hurts, and I can't help that. However alive they might be in stories and in my head, they're dead in the canon and that can't mean nothing.

I feel stupid that I'm hurt by deaths that were chosen by their creators for a reason, deaths that are incidentally fictional. But I am. I don't want this to happen again, because maybe they did have a good and legitimate reason for dying and I just can't see it since that's me.

Stealing Harry - теперь когда вся версия есть на archive можно не заморачиваться с кусочничаньем, а тихонечко читать, не торопясь и в свое удовольствие










"Nymphadora made them," she said, just as Sirius bit into one. Sirius paused for a moment, apparently decided to go through with it, and bit the rest of the way. Snape eyed them with the suspicion of a man who's seen exactly how many ways the sandwich-maker in question could screw up a potion.







Despite the house-elves' best efforts, Draco was a small, thin child, which in his mind was a good thing: it meant he could squeeze himself into the shadows of the hallway pilaster-columns, behind flowerpots, through holes in the garden hedges. Smallness was essential to Draco's existence, because the smaller you were, the better you could hide from Narcissa.
Considered objectively -- and Draco did a lot of objective considering -- Narcissa was not a bad mother. She kept him reasonably well-fed, clean, and neatly dressed. He had two excellent if somewhat dull tutors. But he knew she wasn't like other mums. Other mums didn't scream in the hallways when something wasn't precisely as they wanted it. Other mums had people to tea. Other mums didn't curse their husband's name on a regular basis. Other mums took their own sons out to Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade or to museums and libraries. He knew they did. He'd read books.
Draco never went out unless his tutors took him. He knew Narcissa did go out, because he saw her leaving and returning, but she never acknowledged him unless she could help it, or unless he'd done something wrong. Taking him on trips or to go shopping was utterly out of the question.
When he was younger, Draco occasionally did something wrong simply to make sure she still knew he existed. Usually he realised the foolhardiness of this about three minutes after he'd done it. It was one of the many reasons Draco had identified and prepared several hiding places in every room of the house, for when Narcissa began screaming.
He also had places into which he couldn't fit -- or, after a growth spurt in his ninth year, could no longer fit -- and he used those to hide his belongings. They were things he didn't want Narcissa to see, or anything she might take away from him. There was an envelope of newspaper clippings about nothing in particular, just interesting stories he'd saved; a funny-shaped bottle he'd nicked from the kitchen; a picture of his father he'd found while exploring the upper rooms one day, when he'd cajoled one of the house-elves into unlocking the door at the top of the stairs which led to the rest of the house.
The problem was the photograph, he thought, as he gazed down from the ceiling at Narcissa, who was tearing the kitchen apart. If she'd found any of the other things she would have been furious that he was bringing filthy rubbish into the house, but finding a photograph of Lucius had put her into a frothing rage.
Draco kept carefully out of view, not just of his mother but of the house-elves, so that they couldn't tell on him if she demanded to know where he was. He'd discovered the high cross-beams in the shadowy ceiling a while ago, and knew he couldn't be seen if he kept to the south end of the room.
Clearly this called for some fast thinking. She was going to ask the house-elves, and then she was going to find all the places he kept stuff. He couldn't let that happen. This wasn't childish caprice; this was defending his territory.
He slipped off the upper-beams and down onto the lower ones; from there he dangled by his fingers until he got a toe-hold on the edge of the hatch that passed between the kitchen and the dining room. He slipped through it, landing lightly, and made for the hallway, arriving there a split second before Narcissa did. She shrieked when she saw him, and the full wrath of his mother descended on his head.