Michael Parmelee Parmelee itibaren Kemenesmagasi, Macaristan
This book criticises the postmodern contempt for science with regards to alternative medicine, the environmental movement and GM-crops. The only criticism to be made that is apparent throughout the book is that Dick Taverne fails to address some justified worries (e.g. patenting in GM-crops). Well worth reading for anybody buying organic food.
Poetic, reminds me of Anne Michaels. Stronger plot than Written on the Body. Love story. There are mystical elements I can't reconcile, esp. Pew's age.
This was the first Louis La'mour book that I've read. I've heard a lot about the utter readability and magnetizing power of all his works, so I thought it was time to pick one up. Apparently my brother-in-law has been stockpiling these for a while, and I picked one out at random. It was a good one. This story in particular included an account of a prospector during the gold rush, which I am absolutely engrossed by. No, not the kind of prospector that you imagine who only has two teeth left, and a couple of accumulated layers of epi-'dirt'-mis covering his nearly protruding bones; a yokel with the IQ of a marmot, breath that would peel the tar off the street, grammar and accent that would make a dictionary want to grow ears just to gouge them out and curse Webster for bringing him into existence. Anyway...where was I? Oh, yeah... prospectors. But THIS prospector was a man of true grit in a pretty interesting story that kept me turning the 140 pages. It was an easy, fun read that included an excellent gun fight between two champion gunslingers. The author himself had many enlightening experiences to draw upon that informed his tales, and I could sense the reality to the backdrop of his stories. Apparently La'mour was even stranded in survival-type situations several times, and had to gut out his existence in a contest against man and nature. La'mour has a deep-rooted appreciation for our affiliation with the dirt, and has a rich poetic appraisal of man's need to be out in the open air. Evidently, Ms. Nature makes an even better lover than mother. He would probably find himself simpatico with the words of George MacDonald , "No human consciousness can be clean, until it lies wide open to the eternal sun, and the all-potent wind; until, from a dim-lighted cellar it becomes a mountain-top." And again, I find myself back to George. It all comes back full-circle, doesn't it? All roads lead to George.