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زبان اسوه علم

زبان اسوه علم
Learning Every Thing In The Domain Of Language 
نویسندگان

I was walking home from my office one January evening. It was a Monday.
The weather was very cold, and there were some low clouds around the tops
of the buildings. Once I'd left the main road, there weren't many people in
the dark, narrow streets of Budapest's Thirteenth District. Everything was
very quiet. It felt as if the city was waiting for something.
As I walked I thought about what had happened at work. I had argued with
one of the Hungarians I worked with. It was the first serious problem since
I'd arrived. I was trying to think what to do about it, and I was also hoping
that my wife, Andrea, had made one of her nice hot soups for dinner.
After about five minutes it started to snow heavily, so that the streets were
soon completely white. As I was walking along a very dark part of one street
there was the noise of a door shutting loudly inside a building. Then I heard
the sound of someone running.
Suddenly, the street door opened and a man came out of it and ran straight
into me. I fell over into the snow, shouting something like, 'Hey, watch
where you're going!' - my words were loud in the empty street. The man
turned to look at me for a moment. 'Sorry,' he said very quietly, in
Hungarian, before walking quickly away.
What I saw at that moment, in that dark winter street was very strange, and
I felt very afraid. Because what I saw was me. My face looking down at me.
My mouth saying sorry.


Adapted from:

How I Met Myself,David A. Hil,Cambridge Readers,Published January 2002.

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طبقه بندی: Books & Ebooks، Downloads، Story & Novels،
برچسب ها: novel، reading،
[ شنبه 26 تیر 1389 ] [ 05:54 ب.ظ ] [ M Amin ]

A Haunted House

by

Virginia Woolf

Whatever hour you woke there was a door shutting. From room to room they went, hand in hand, lifting here, opening there, making sure--a ghostly couple.

"Here we left it," she said. And he added, "Oh, but here tool" "It's upstairs," she murmured. "And in the garden," he whispered. "Quietly," they said, "or we shall wake them."

But it wasn't that you woke us. Oh, no. "They're looking for it; they're drawing the curtain," one might say, and so read on a page or two. "Now they've found it,' one would be certain, stopping the pencil on the margin. And then, tired of reading, one might rise and see for oneself, the house all empty, the doors standing open, only the wood pigeons bubbling with content and the hum of the threshing machine sounding from the farm. "What did I come in here for? What did I want to find?" My hands were empty. "Perhaps its upstairs then?" The apples were in the loft. And so down again, the garden still as ever, only the book had slipped into the grass.

ادامه مطلب

طبقه بندی: Story & Novels،
[ چهارشنبه 23 اسفند 1385 ] [ 10:52 ب.ظ ] [ M Amin ]
.: Weblog Themes By Iran Skin :.

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درباره وبلاگ

سلام...زبان ابزاری است اجتماعی در جهت هر چه بیشتر نزدیک ساختن انسان ها به یکدیگر و زبان دوم بابی است برای ساختن من جدید درون خود و کشف حقایقی که تاکنون بدان دست نیافته ایم!



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