Read e-book Death By Chopstick (A Felly van Vliet Mystery Book 2)

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As an international teacher on assignment, our heroine has placed herself in a world where the past has not quite merged with its future. There are many taking advantage along the way, as present day China comes to the forefront with nothing certain and nobody who they seem. Full of rich insight into the developing world, Felly questions all she confronts while playing out her part as an international teacher in an educational environment of warmly humorous characters and their more avaricious counterparts.

Click to read the first 2 chapters. Click a button for a selection page to choose the E-Book or Paperback version. How dare you, sir? Martello you call it? But ours is the omphalos. Haines asked Stephen. I'm not equal to Thomas Aquinas and the fiftyfive reasons he has made to prop it up. Wait till I have a few pints in me first.

Chunk Fifteen. Is it some paradox?

We have grown out of Wilde and paradoxes. It's quite simple. He proves by algebra that Hamlet's grandson is Shakespeare's grandfather and that he himself is the ghost of his own father. Haines said, beginning to point at Stephen. He himself? Japhet in search of a father! And it is rather long to tell. Buck Mulligan, walking forward again, raised his hands. That beetles o'er his base into the sea , isn't it? Buck Mulligan turned suddenly for an instant towards Stephen but did not speak. In the bright silent instant Stephen saw his own image in cheap dusty mourning between their gay attires.

Eyes, pale as the sea the wind had freshened, paler, firm and prudent. The seas' ruler, he gazed southward over the bay, empty save for the smokeplume of the mailboat, vague on the bright skyline, and a sail tacking by the Muglins. The Father and Son idea. The Son striving to be atoned with the Father. Buck Mulligan at once put on a blithe broadly smiling face. He looked at them, his wellshaped mouth open happily, his eyes, from which he had suddenly withdrawn all shrewd sense, blinking with mad gaiety. My mother's a jew, my father's a bird.

He held up a forefinger of warning. Goodbye, now, goodbye.

Death by Chopstick

He capered before them down towards the fortyfoot hole, fluttering his winglike hands, leaping nimbly, Mercury's hat quivering in the fresh wind that bore back to them his brief birdlike cries. Gerroff, willya? I'm enjoying this, and am not yet confused, but Kafka inserts would set my brain on fire. How are you, anyway?

Any more recommendations like Red Notice? Like JJ isn't crazy enough.


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Very interesting. Also, Moonlight Hotel by Scott Anderson. A novel but with his experience as a war correspondent, he really brings a touch of realism to the book.

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Very well told tale. You should be so lucky! Gorgeous 'clette is way out of your league. Chunk Sixteen. He's rather blasphemous. I'm not a believer myself, that is to say.

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Still his gaiety takes the harm out of it somehow, doesn't it? What did he call it? Joseph the joiner? Haines asked. I mean, a believer in the narrow sense of the word. Creation from nothing and miracles and a personal God.

Haines stopped to take out a smooth silver case in which twinkled a green stone. He sprang it open with his thumb and offered it. Haines helped himself and snapped the case to. He put it back in his sidepocket and took from his waistcoatpocket a nickel tinderbox, sprang it open too, and, having lit his cigarette, held the flaming spunk towards Stephen in the shell of his hands. Either you believe or you don't, isn't it? Personally I couldn't stomach that idea of a personal God.

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You don't stand for that, I suppose? He walked on, waiting to be spoken to, trailing his ashplant by his side. Its ferrule followed lightly on the path, squealing at his heels. My familiar, after me, calling Steeeeeeeeeephen. A wavering line along the path. They will walk on it tonight, coming here in the dark.

He wants that key. It is mine, I paid the rent. Now I eat his salt bread. Give him the key too. He will ask for it. That was in his eyes. Stephen turned and saw that the cold gaze which had measured him was not all unkind. You are your own master, it seems to me. Haines said. A crazy queen, old and jealous. Kneel down before me. Haines said again.

What do you mean? Haines detached from his underlip some fibres of tobacco before he spoke. An Irishman must think like that, I daresay. We feel in England that we have treated you rather unfairly. It seems history is to blame. Sadly, neither of those in our library. It's a part history, broadcast in 15 minute chunks, available on DVD. Nice to be able to put the blame on "history". Was Haines a Marxist? The jury will now retire and consider its verdict.

Congratters on your ten-thousandth post, by the way! I don't know how you managed to avoid getting caught up in the grand reshuffle but I'm sure my number should be closer to yours. Richard told me what your real number was - 10,, to be precise - and asked me if he should adjust it. I told him that it would be better - for you , dear boy - to leave it as it is.

Chunk Seventeen.