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Everyone knows that the twelve months of the year never meet but in this charming folk tale a little girl saw all twelve months at one time. Deep in the forest around a blazing fire the Months meet together as brothers in the depths of the Winter.
On a freezing January night, a wicked woman ordered her stepdaughter to go into the forest to find flowers. The poor child, bundled in her ragged clothes, sets out on her impossible quest. She is without hope knowing that she cannot return without flowers and that flowers won't bloom until March. The young girl weeps as she walks on until she comes upon a glade where twelve men stand warming themselves by a huge fire. They listen to her story, and you must read this book if you want to find out how they help her.
This children's book is based on a Soviet-era Russian play The Twelve Months by Samuel (or Samuil) Marshak. With delightful color illustrations by Diane Stanley, this book is a delight to read. A longer version of Marshak's story was released in English in 1967 by Dorothy Nathan.
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I LOVE THIS BOOK ... because it contains many interesting messages, received through automatic writing and signed by the highest of celestial angels including the apostles John and Paul and Luke as well as many others, above all, of course, messages signed by Jesus himself.
I LOVE THIS BOOK ... because, besides telling me alot about Jesus and God`s Love for us, it also includes messages dealing with the questions of how we - as simple human beings - can finally become angels, what`s the use of personal soulful prayer and how spiritual healing works.
I can only recommend this book.
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If language presupposes a set of initial limitations it is necessary to find a method to breach them. Molloy examines a kind of ontological condition of narrative that suggests more is being left unwritten than is actually being written: Not to want to say, not to know what you want to say, not to be able to say what you think you want to say, and never to stop saying, or hardly ever, that is the thing to keep in mind, even in the heat of composition. He suggests that it is a human condition to be unable to really express oneself as well as being a fault of language. Rather than see language as a smooth path towards self-expression he sees numerous irregular bumps, the nots, which cut away at the original intended thought. Instead of trying to find an ulterior mode of expression he suggests that expression should simply be conscious of these limitations of language. In this way language is able to delete itself in the midst of its expression. Words are not deleted on the paper, but expressed and then claims are made afterward that the intention of the word does not inhabit the content. A conclusion drawn is that language is inherently muddy and incapable of any pure form of self-expression. This is a dramatic contrast to the use of language by many other Modernists. Unlike Molly's soliloquy in Ulysses where grammar was manipulated in order to simulate thought's form, Molloy's thoughts cannot be allowed to settle so comfortably into words but must be second-guessed and deleted in order to create an appropriate form of expression. This is one temporary solution Beckett makes to illuminate language's limitations and explain how written language can never say what is actually true partly because the actual is never quite a certainty.
Molloy is searching within his narrative to find a purpose for writing. He declares early on in the narrative that he does not know why he writes other than that it is for someone else and if he doesn't he will be scolded, but he does not know to what end the writing is for. It is more an obligation than a wish to express himself or to find a means of communication. Even though Molloy writes every day he never arrives at a sense that his identity has been collected and transcribed into a permanent form: And truly it little matters what I say, this or that or any other thing. Saying is inventing. Wrong, very rightly wrong. You invent nothing, you think you are inventing, you think you are escaping, and all you do is stammer out your lesson, the remnants of a pensum one day got by heart and long forgotten, life without tears, as it is wept. When arriving at a conclusion he immediately negates it by explaining why the opposite is true. Writing does not explain his experience. It only filters his thoughts into a form with a prearranged value attached to it. He is criticizing the false revelation of narrative that seeks to convey a true meaning through dead words. It is commonly and mistakenly perceived that there is a physical attachment between words and things when really as Molloy states there are: no things but nameless things, no names but thingless names. The relation between a word and object has no basis in reality, but is merely circumstantial. Because Molloy is unable to explain things without naming them he is only capable of conveying an approximate sense of what he is trying to describe. This prevents the possibility that what he writes will be regarded as a set of absolute truths related from one person to another. It allows reality to be maintained as an open question rather than a closed answer. This seems to be the central point of most of Beckett's work. He makes fascinating statements about the nature of language in Molloy. As always in Beckett's work, it achieves a comic and devastating quality that you will find in no other work.