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I’m a free woman (Ooh) Oh-oh (Be free)
The low of life-Short story
by Jack London
Old Koskoosh listened greedily. Though his sight had long since faded, his hearing was still acute, and the slightest sound penetrated to the glimmering intelligence which yet abode behind the withered forehead, but which no longer gazed forth upon the things of the world. Ah! that was Sit-cum-to-ha, shrilly anathematizing the dogs as she cuffed and beat them into the harnesses. Sit-cum-to-ha was his daughter’s daughter, but she was too busy to waste a thought upon her broken grandfather, sitting alone there in the snow, forlorn and helpless. Camp must be broken. The long trail waited while the short day refused to linger. Life called her, and the duties of life, not death. And he was very close to death now.
The thought made the old man panicky for the moment, and he stretched forth a palsied hand which wandered tremblingly over the small heap of dry wood beside him. Reassured that it was indeed there, his hand returned to the shelter of his mangy furs, and he again fell to listening. The sulky crackling of half-frozen hides told him that the chief’s moose-skin lodge had been struck, and even then was being rammed and jammed into portable compass. The chief was his son, stalwart and strong, head man of the tribesmen, and a mighty hunter. As the women toiled with the camp luggage, his voice rose, chiding them for their slowness. Old Koskoosh strained his ears. It was the last time he would hear that voice. There went Geehow’s lodge! And Tusken’s! Seven, eight, nine; only the shaman’s could be still standing. There! They were at work upon it now. He could hear the shaman grunt as he piled it on the sled. A child whimpered, and a woman soothed it with soft, crooning gutturals. Little Koo-tee, the old man thought, a fretful child, and not overstrong. It would die soon, perhaps, and they would burn a hole through the frozen tundra and pile rocks above to keep the wolverines away. Well, what did it matter? A few years at best, and as many an empty belly as a full one. And in the end, Death waited, ever-hungry and hungriest of them all.
What was that? Oh, the men lashing the sleds and drawing tight the thongs. He listened, who would listen no more. The whip-lashes snarled and bit among the dogs. Hear them whine! How they hated the work and the trail! They were off! Sled after sled churned slowly away into the silence. They were gone. They had passed out of his life, and he faced the last bitter hour alone. No. The snow crunched beneath a moccasin; a man stood beside him; upon his head a hand rested gently. His son was good to do this thing. He remembered other old men whose sons had not waited after the tribe. But his son had. He wandered away into the past, till the young man’s voice brought him back.
“Is it well with you?” he asked.
And the old man answered, “It is well.”
“There be wood beside you,” the younger man continued, “and the fire burns bright. The morning is gray, and the cold has broken. It will snow presently. Even now is it snowing.”
“Ay, even now is it snowing.”
“The tribesmen hurry. Their bales are heavy, and their bellies flat with lack of feasting. The trail is long and they travel fast. I go now. It is well?”
“It is well. I am as a last year’s leaf, clinging lightly to the stem. The first breath that blows, and I fall. My voice is become like an old woman’s. My eyes no longer show me the way of my feet, and my feet are heavy, and I am tired. It is well.”
He bowed his head in content till the last noise of the complaining snow had died away, and he knew his son was beyond recall. Then his hand crept out in haste to the wood. It alone stood between him and the eternity that yawned in upon him. At last the measure of his life was a handful of fagots. One by one they would go to feed the fire, and just so, step by step, death would creep upon him. When the last stick had surrendered up its heat, the frost would begin to gather strength. First his feet would yield, then his hands; and the numbness would travel, slowly, from the extremities to the body. His head would fall forward upon his knees, and he would rest. It was easy. All men must die.
He did not complain. It was the way of life, and it was just. He had been born close to the earth, close to the earth had he lived, and the law thereof was not new to him. It was the law of all flesh. Nature was not kindly to the flesh. She had no concern for that concrete thing called the individual. Her interest lay in the species, the race. This was the deepest abstraction old Koskoosh’s barbaric mind was capable of, but he grasped it firmly. He saw it exemplified in all life. The rise of the sap, the bursting greenness of the willow bud, the fall of the yellow leaf–in this alone was told the whole history. But one task did Nature set the individual. Did he not perform it, he died. Did he perform it, it was all the same, he died. Nature did not care; there were plenty who were obedient, and it was only the obedience in this matter, not the obedient, which lived and lived always. The tribe of Koskoosh was very old. The old men he had known when a boy, had known old men before them. Therefore it was true that the tribe lived, that it stood for the obedience of all its members, way down into the forgotten past, whose very resting-places were unremembered. They did not count; they were episodes. They had passed away like clouds from a summer sky. He also was an episode, and would pass away. Nature did not care. To life she set one task, gave one law. To perpetuate was the task of life, its law was death. A maiden was a good creature to look upon, full-breasted and strong, with spring to her step and light in her eyes. But her task was yet before her. The light in her eyes brightened, her step quickened, she was now bold with the young men, now timid, and she gave them of her own unrest. And ever she grew fairer and yet fairer to look upon, till some hunter, able no longer to withhold himself, took her to his lodge to cook and toil for him and to become the mother of his children. And with the coming of her offspring her looks left her. Her limbs dragged and shuffled, her eyes dimmed and bleared, and only the little children found joy against the withered cheek of the old squaw by the fire. Her task was done. But a little while, on the first pinch of famine or the first long trail, and she would be left, even as he had been left, in the snow, with a little pile of wood. Such was the law.
He placed a stick carefully upon the fire and resumed his meditations. It was the same everywhere, with all things. The mosquitoes vanished with the first frost. The little tree-squirrel crawled away to die. When age settled upon the rabbit it became slow and heavy, and could no longer outfoot its enemies. Even the big bald-face grew clumsy and blind and quarrelsome, in the end to be dragged down by a handful of yelping huskies. He remembered how he had abandoned his own father on an upper reach of the Klondike one winter, the winter before the missionary came with his talk-books and his box of medicines. Many a time had Koskoosh smacked his lips over the recollection of that box, though now his mouth refused to moisten. The “painkiller” had been especially good. But the missionary was a bother after all, for he brought no meat into the camp, and he ate heartily, and the hunters grumbled. But he chilled his lungs on the divide by the Mayo, and the dogs afterwards nosed the stones away and fought over his bones.
Koskoosh placed another stick on the fire and harked back deeper into the past. There was the time of the Great Famine, when the old men crouched empty-bellied to the fire, and let fall from their lips dim traditions of the ancient day when the Yukon ran wide open for three winters, and then lay frozen for three summers. He had lost his mother in that famine. In the summer the salmon run had failed, and the tribe looked forward to the winter and the coming of the caribou. Then the winter came, but with it there were no caribou. Never had the like been known, not even in the lives of the old men. But the caribou did not come, and it was the seventh year, and the rabbits had not replenished, and the dogs were naught but bundles of bones. And through the long darkness the children wailed and died, and the women, and the old men; and not one in ten of the tribe lived to meet the sun when it came back in the spring. That was a famine!
But he had seen times of plenty, too, when the meat spoiled on their hands, and the dogs were fat and worthless with overeating–times when they let the game go unkilled, and the women were fertile, and the lodges were cluttered with sprawling men-children and women-children. Then it was the men became high-stomached, and revived ancient quarrels, and crossed the divides to the south to kill the Pellys, and to the west that they might sit by the dead fires of the Tananas. He remembered, when a boy, during a time of plenty, when he saw a moose pulled down by the wolves. Zing-ha lay with him in the snow and watched–Zing-ha, who later became the craftiest of hunters, and who, in the end, fell through an air-hole on the Yukon. They found him, a month afterward, just as he had crawled halfway out and frozen stiff to the ice.
But the moose. Zing-ha and he had gone out that day to play at hunting after the manner of their fathers. On the bed of the creek they struck the fresh track of a moose, and with it the tracks of many wolves. “An old one,” Zing-ha, who was quicker at reading the sign, said–“an old one who cannot keep up with the herd. The wolves have cut him out from his brothers, and they will never leave him.” And it was so. It was their way. By day and by night, never resting, snarling on his heels, snapping at his nose, they would stay by him to the end. How Zing-ha and he felt the blood-lust quicken! The finish would be a sight to see!
Eager-footed, they took the trail, and even he, Koskoosh, slow of sight and an unversed tracker, could have followed it blind, it was so wide. Hot were they on the heels of the chase, reading the grim tragedy, fresh-written, at every step. Now they came to where the moose had made a stand. Thrice the length of a grown man’s body, in every direction, had the snow been stamped about and uptossed. In the midst were the deep impressions of the splay-hoofed game, and all about, everywhere, were the lighter footmarks of the wolves. Some, while their brothers harried the kill, had lain to one side and rested. The full-stretched impress of their bodies in the snow was as perfect as though made the moment before. One wolf had been caught in a wild lunge of the maddened victim and trampled to death. A few bones, well picked, bore witness.
Again, they ceased the uplift of their snowshoes at a second stand. Here the great animal had fought desperately. Twice had he been dragged down, as the snow attested, and twice had he shaken his assailants clear and gained footing once more. He had done his task long since, but none the less was life dear to him. Zing-ha said it was a strange thing, a moose once down to get free again; but this one certainly had. The shaman would see signs and wonders in this when they told him.
And yet again, they come to where the moose had made to mount the bank and gain the timber. But his foes had laid on from behind, till he reared and fell back upon them, crushing two deep into the snow. It was plain the kill was at hand, for their brothers had left them untouched. Two more stands were hurried past, brief in time-length and very close together. The trail was red now, and the clean stride of the great beast had grown short and slovenly. Then they heard the first sounds of the battle–not the full-throated chorus of the chase, but the short, snappy bark which spoke of close quarters and teeth to flesh. Crawling up the wind, Zing-ha bellied it through the snow, and with him crept he, Koskoosh, who was to be chief of the tribesmen in the years to come. Together they shoved aside the under branches of a young spruce and peered forth. It was the end they saw.
The picture, like all of youth’s impressions, was still strong with him, and his dim eyes watched the end played out as vividly as in that far-off time. Koskoosh marvelled at this, for in the days which followed, when he was a leader of men and a head of councillors, he had done great deeds and made his name a curse in the mouths of the Pellys, to say naught of the strange white man he had killed, knife to knife, in open fight.
For long he pondered on the days of his youth, till the fire died down and the frost bit deeper. He replenished it with two sticks this time, and gauged his grip on life by what remained. If Sit-cum-to-ha had only remembered her grandfather, and gathered a larger armful, his hours would have been longer. It would have been easy. But she was ever a careless child, and honored not her ancestors from the time the Beaver, son of the son of Zing-ha, first cast eyes upon her. Well, what mattered it? Had he not done likewise in his own quick youth? For a while he listened to the silence. Perhaps the heart of his son might soften, and he would come back with the dogs to take his old father on with the tribe to where the caribou ran thick and the fat hung heavy upon them.
He strained his ears, his restless brain for the moment stilled. Not a stir, nothing. He alone took breath in the midst of the great silence. It was very lonely. Hark! What was that? A chill passed over his body. The familiar, long-drawn howl broke the void, and it was close at hand. Then on his darkened eyes was projected the vision of the moose–the old bull moose–the torn flanks and bloody sides, the riddled mane, and the great branching horns, down low and tossing to the last. He saw the flashing forms of gray, the gleaming eyes, the lolling tongues, the slavered fangs. And he saw the inexorable circle close in till it became a dark point in the midst of the stamped snow.
A cold muzzle thrust against his cheek, and at its touch his soul leaped back to the present. His hand shot into the fire and dragged out a burning faggot. Overcome for the nonce by his hereditary fear of man, the brute retreated, raising a prolonged call to his brothers; and greedily they answered, till a ring of crouching, jaw-slobbered gray was stretched round about. The old man listened to the drawing in of this circle. He waved his brand wildly, and sniffs turned to snarls; but the panting brutes refused to scatter. Now one wormed his chest forward, dragging his haunches after, now a second, now a third; but never a one drew back. Why should he cling to life? he asked, and dropped the blazing stick into the snow. It sizzled and went out. The circle grunted uneasily, but held its own. Again he saw the last stand of the old bull moose, and Koskoosh dropped his head wearily upon his knees. What did it matter after all? Was it not the law of life?
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A successful sports agent (Taraji P. Henson) mysteriously gains the ability to hear men’s thoughts. With this newfound power, she looks to outsmart her colleagues but the lengths she goes to put her relationships to the test in this hilarious comedy!Genres Comedy, RomanceDirectorAdam ShankmanStarringTaraji P. Henson, Aldis Hodge, Richard Roundtree
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History of the Novel
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The novel originated in the early 18th century after the Italian word “novella,” which was used for stories in the medieval period. Its identity has evolved and it is now considered to mean a work of prose fiction over 50,000 words. Novels focus on character development more than plot. In any genre, it is the study of the human psyche.
The Beginning
The ancestors of the novel were Elizabethan prose fiction and French heroic romances, which were long narratives about contemporary characters who behaved nobly. The novel came into popular awareness towards the end of the 1700s, due to a growing middle class with more leisure time to read and money to buy books. Public interest in the human character led to the popularity of autobiographies, biographies, journals, diaries and memoirs.
English Novels
The early English novels concerned themselves with complex, middle-class characters struggling with their morality and circumstances. “Pamela,” a series of fictional letters written in 1741 by Samuel Richardson, is considered the first real English novel. Other early novelists include Daniel Defoe, who wrote “Robinson Crusoe” (1719) and “Moll Flanders” (1722), although his characters were not fully realized enough to be considered full-fledged novels. Jane Austen is the author of “Pride and Prejudice” (1812), and “Emma” (1816), considered the best early English novels of manners.
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Novels in the 19th Century
The first half of the 19th century was influenced by the romanticism of the previous era. The focus was now on nature and imagination rather than intellect and emotion. Gothic is a strain of the romantic novel with its emphasis on the supernatural. Famous romantic novels include “Jane Eyre” (1847) by Charlotte Bronte, the prototype of many succeeding novels about governesses and mystery men; “Wuthering Heights” (1847) a Gothic romance by Emily Bronte; “The Scarlet Letter” (1850), and “The House of Seven Gables” (1851), gothic, romantic tales by Nathaniel Hawthorne about puritanism and guilt; and “Moby Dick,” (1851) Herman Melville’s work on the nature of good and evil.
Victorian Novels
The novel became established as the dominant literary form during the reign of Queen Victoria of England (1837-1901). Victorian novelists portrayed middle-class, virtuous heroes responding to society and learning wrong from right through a series of human errors. Sir Walter Scott published three-volume novels and ingeniously made them affordable to the general public by making them available for purchase in monthly installments. This marketing tactic lead to the writing innovation of sub-climaxes as a way to leave readers wanting more each month. Notable Victorian authors include Charles Dickens, considered the best English Victorian novelist, who wrote “A Christmas Carol” (1843) and Lewis Carroll, (Charles Ludwidge Dodgson), who wrote “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland” (1864) and “Through the Looking-Glass” (1871).
Realism and Naturalism
The rise of industrialization in the 19th century precipitated a trend toward writing that depicted realism. Novels began to depict characters who were not entirely good or bad, rejecting the idealism and romanticism of the previous genre. Realism evolved quickly into naturalism which portrayed harsher circumstances and pessimistic characters rendered powerless by the forces of their environment. Naturalist novels include “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” (1852) by Harriet Beecher Stowe, which was a major catalyst for the American Civil War; “Tom Sawyer” (1876) and “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn” (1885), the latter of which is considered the great American novel written by Mark Twain (Samuel Langhorne Clemens).
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Modern Novels
The 20th century is divided into two phases of literature–modern literature (1900-1945) and contemporary literature (1945 to the present), also referred to as postmodern. The characters in modern and contemporary novels questioned the existence of God, the supremacy of the human reason, and the nature of reality. Novels from this era reflected great events such as The Great Depression, World War II, Hiroshima, the cold war and communism. Famous modern novels include “To The Lighthouse” (1927) by English novelist and essayist Virginia Woolf; “Ulysses” (1921), by Irish novelist and short story writer James Joyce; “All Quiet on the Western Front” (1929), the most famous World War I anti-war novel by German novelist and journalist Erich Maria Remarque and “The Sound and the Fury” (1929) by American novelist and short story writer William Faulkner, which depicts the decline of the South after the Civil War.
Postmodern Novels
Realism and naturalism paved the way into postmodern surrealistic novels with characters that were more reflective. The postmodern novel includes magical realism, metafiction, and the graphic novel. It asserts that man is ruled by a higher power and that the universe cannot be explained by reason alone. Modern novels exhibit a playfulness of language, less reliance on traditional values, and experimentation with how time is conveyed in the story. Postmodern novels include: “The Color Purple” (1982) by Alice Walker; “In Cold Blood” (1966) by Truman Capote; the non-fiction novel “Roots” (1976) by Alex Haley; “Fear of Flying” (1973) by Erica Jong; and the leading magical realist novel, “A Hundred Years of Solitude” (1967) by Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
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About the Author
Tracy Stefan began writing professionally in 2007, with work appearing on various websites. She earned a Bachelor of Arts in creative writing and performing arts from the Evergreen State College. Stefan is also a graduate of Dell’Arte.
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Novel – Robert Langdon: The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown
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Its Soil, O Nour .. Etaf Janim – Poetry
Its Soil, O Nour
Etaf Janim
Palestinian poet living in Jordan
Translated by Nizar Sartawi
How many a beach in whose shells I hid
a new tale of Sinbad of the wondrous presence
and absence!
How many a ship suffered seasickness as I went on board!
How many a star did I trifle with promising
to bring her a basket brimming with
figs and joy …
How many a house did I warm
with fragrance, lush
gardens and life within
But I, O Noor,
like roots in our country
would feel disgraced
if I spent a single night
away
from its holy water
…………
Its soil, O Noor.
flees from the fingers that peel and can
flees from
the mind of the executioner
flees from rivalry among brothers
flees from our shy neighing, from
our weird stillness
Flees… where ..O where ??
when our anguished pulsing heritage
drags it from the its collar
to the silver of presence and faith
……………
Behold…
there in the constellations
our birds.. children.. flags
are wet with blood
And look at the hanging gardens
surrounding the neck of the sky dome
There, the fruits of dreaming shine above us
so Juicy.. so passionate
gazing at you
Extend your hands
Release your tongue
I have abandoned this humpbacked age
and smashed with my flaming slippers
the trough of despair
Hurrah! Now we pick the fruits of the dream
and they greet us
saying in conclusion:
the soil is not ours
but
from the grandfather of the seventh land
to the a star
that opened the gate latches of the sky
for our Prophet
has returned to sing amongst us
Ya mejana Ya mejana
Ya mej ana
—————————————–
Note: Poet Nour Amer who came from Acca, Palestine, to visit the Jordanian Writers Association was surprised when we asked him to bring a handful of Acca soil in his next visit.
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Woman Writes The Most Heartbreaking Poem Ever About Suicide. Wow.
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Just Like Her
Secret Homegirls – A Solo Exhibition by Yolanda Mazwana
Written by Aryn Guiney
From 3 – 29 March 2019, painter Yolanda Mazwana’s solo exhibit, Secret Homegirls, will be taking place at the Daville Baillie Gallery at Victoria Yards.
Secret Homegirls features a collection of large female nudes that are a fantastical observation of the private experiences of young women in intimate settings. Psychedelic colors and wild compositions define the rituals of engagement of young women in a fast-paced, evolving African city.
Uncompromising, stylized and simply beautiful, Mazwana’s paintings are reminiscent of the works of historical Austrian symbolist painters Gustav Klimt and Egon Schiele – her two great influences. – Davilke Baillie Gallery
Born in the Eastern Cape, Yolanda is a self-taught painter who now resides in Johannesburg in an area close to Victoria Yards. Yolanda’s work was first included in a group show at the Afropunk festival in 2017 and in 2018, she was part of the Radical Feminomic Transformation exhibit – this will be her first solo exhibit.
Along with being enrolled in the RMB Talent Unlocked programme, Yolanda also teaches art to children.
Article source: https://10and5.com/
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ORIENT MUSIC
Voices of The Night (BEAUTIFUL CHILLOUT MIX) يا ليـــــل
الباليه… رقصة العصور!
الباليه هو احد فنون الرقص إلى تعبر عن مشاعر ورغبات وتطلعات الانسان منذ اقدم العصور وهذا الفن كغيرة من الفنون مر بمراحل عديدة اضفت عليه خصائص وسمات متابينة. ففى البدء كان الرقص فنا فطريا او عفويا رغم قدرة الانسان الطبيعية على اداء الموضوعات التي تهم عالمه ومنها ما يتصل بالعلاقة الرابطة بينه وبين الالهة والطبيعة . وكان الرقص واسطة التعبير عن الفرح والقهر والخصب والقحط والأمل واليأس ثم طرا عليه التغير والتطور شانه شان بقية الفنون وقد كان لتطور مراحل الانسان عبر التاريخ تأثير كبير على تكوين ونشوء فنون الرقص المختلفة من شعب إلى آخر وقد تنامت تلك الفنون ووصلت اوج تطورها.
يعد الانسان هو الاداة الرئيسية الخالقة للحركة والتي تعتبر عماد هذا الفن والوسيلة الناقلة والمعبرة عن عالم الإنسان وإذا تتبعنا تاريخ نشوء مصطلح “باليه” حيث يعود الفضل بظهور كلمه باليه الى دومنيكو دى بياشينزا ( 1470- 1390 ) عندما اطلق اسم بالو بدلا من دنزا “ الرقص “ ويعتبر اول عرض باليه هو ما قدمه بالتازار دى بوجويولكس فى عرضه باليه كوميك دي لارينى ( 1581 ) وقد اعتبرت التقنية العالية فى الرقص الجماعي والحركات تعزيزا لمركز ايطاليا كبلد رئيسي فى تطور الباليه الا أن العديد من المختصين في فن الباليه لا يرون أن هذا دليل على كونه البداية لفن الباليه .
يقول الدكتور محمود احمد حنفي فى كتابه ( فن الباليه ) ان الرقص هو اقدم الفنون الجميلة على الاطلاق وكان اتصاله بالموسيقى وثيقا فاستخدمت الادوات الايقاعية في تنظيم حركاته و تقويتها وظلت تلك الادوات ملازمة له منذ النشأة كذلك لم تعرف الشعوب الفطرية والمدنيات القديمة في بادئ عهدها الغناء الا مقرونا بالرقص لذلك كانت الموسيقى بعنصريها الأساسين : (الايقاع – النغم ) في خدمة الرقص.
وقد يعجب المرء حين يعلم ان هذا الفن وثيق الاتصال بتراثنا القديم فإننا نرى في نقوش الأسرة الخامسة حوالي 2500 سنة ق.م نساء يرقصن جماعات رقصا بسيطا يشابه تماما احدث انواع رقص الباليه… اما فن الباليه فقد ظهر اول مرة سنه 1581 في قصر فرساي بفرنسا و قد تالف هذا الفن كما هو عليه في الوقت الحاضر من الاستهلال ( prologue) و هو مقطع افتتاحي يعرض فيه المؤلف بعض أجزاء هامة ومؤثرة في تطوير موضوع الباليه الرئيسي وترتبط تلك الأجزاء يبعضها بشكل يوجد العلاقة الموضوعية بين الحدث المعروض حاليا وبين الحدث في الماضي وأثره في نمو وتطور الموضوعات والأحداث التي تتلاحق أثناء العرض.
أما إنتاج الباليه فيمر بمراحل فنيه و عمليه عديدة تشابه في اغلبها تلك المراحل التي تمر بها المسرحية غير ان المرحلة الفنية الأولى في الباليه تسمى ( لبرتو ) lebreto حيث يتم تحويل القصة إلى حركات مسرحية موسيقية تعبر عن المضمون.
وحول بدايات هذا الفن فسوف نجد ان البدايات كانت في عصر النهضة الثقافية فى أوروبا حيث بدا الناس يهتمون بقيمة جسم الإنسان ودوره وهو الأمر الذى دفع الاقتصاد والعلوم والثقافة الى الأمام بسرعة هائلة وفى ايطاليا مهد النهضة الثقافية استخدم الارستقراطيون والامراء الفنون كوسيلة وطريقه للتباهي بقوتهم الاقتصادية وزيادة نفوذهم السياسي حيث نافس بعضهم البعض الآخر باستثمار اموال ضخمة فى الفنون والثقافة وبفضل ذلك تطورت الفنون فى هذه الفترة تطورا مذهلا وفى ظل هذه الخلفية التاريخية نشا رقص الباليه على أساس الرقص الشعبي البسيط في القصور الايطالية وتطور من لعبة رقص إلى فن بأسلوب وحركات محددة وكان الباليه رقصا بسيطا للتسلية رقصه الارستقراطيين والأمراء أنفسهم فى حفلات القصور ومآدبها وفى زفاف دوق ميلانو عام 1489 عرض “رقص المأدبة” وهو رقصه نموذجيه لهذا النوع من الباليه وفى نفس الوقت ظهرت فى القصور وظيفه جديده وهى “استاذ الرقص”.
في القرن الخامس عشر جاء الملك الفرنسي تشارلز الثامن مع جيشه إلى ايطاليا وفوجئ باكتشاف رقص “الباليه بين المأدب” الأنيق والفاخر فجلب هذا الفن والفنانين الايطاليين إلى فرنسا وفى عام 1581 عرض فى زفاف أخت ملكة فرنسا لوسن اول مسرحية رقص باليه ضخمة في التاريخ بعنوان “الباليه الكوميدى للملكة” من تأليف موسيقار واستاذ رقص ايطالي وأصبح رقص الباليه جزءا مهما في حياة القصر الفرنسي في القرن السابع عشر.
المصدر: albiladpress.com
The book that made women want sex again: Thousands of readers say novel has changed their life
They are the books credited with bringing sex back to suburbia: Fifty Shades, the mega- selling erotic trilogy by E. L. James, a fortysomething television executive and mother of two from West London.
If internet chatter is to be believed, the novels have become something of a self-help phenomena, with on-line forums bursting with women who claim that reading them has revived long-dormant sex lives.
In Fifty Shades Of Grey and its two sequels, Fifty Shades Darker and Fifty Shades Of Freedom, dashing billionaire Christian Grey has a dark side: a fetish for dominating women. His young, innocent lover Ana is asked to decide if she can become a submissive sexual partner.
The erotic novel has improved the sex lives of women across the globe
As someone who has read erotica for a living, the story held nothing new for me. The gothic romance fantasy of a young, innocent woman being seduced by a powerful, older man who owns fabulous real estate have been around since the dawn of popular fiction: just think of Jane Eyre. In the 20th Century, women writers felt emboldened to add torrid sex to the mix; Pauline Reage’s The Story Of O (a French novel published in 1954) makes 50 Shades look tame.
In fact, reading the trilogy made me hark back to the steamy romps of Jackie Collins, Jilly Cooper and other Eighties bonk-busters, or even Mills & Boon.
A book at bedtime: The first novel in the erotic Fifty Shades trilogy
One image that’s really caught public imagination is Christian binding Ana’s hands with a grey silk tie before sex. It’s hardly whips and chains, but that is the key to its success, I believe. Yes, it’s risque and taboo, but it’s set within the safe parameters of a fictional world where no one is harmed. Everything is consensual; the sex is all very tender.
Many women feel disloyal in some way for having sexual fantasies, but hanker after a little gentle experimentation. What this book has done is given a sexual template for them to explore with their partners.
Anyone in a long-standing relationship understands sex becomes repetitive, predictable or staid. Yet the worry with fantasies is: ‘Do I want them to become a reality?’
In many cases, women don’t want the fantasy to become true – but the chance to emulate a little of Christian’s mastery in 50 Shades might energise some husbands in the bedroom, should their wives request it.
It’s hardly groundbreaking, but these books have reached women who have never looked at this kind of thing before – and inspired their erotic imagination, opening up boundaries they would once never have considered, let alone crossed.
It has allowed them to enjoy sex again, which can only be a healthy thing.
WHAT READERS ARE SAYING…
I’m a mum of a twentysomething and a ten-year-old, married for almost 12 years – a professional with a career and never a single moment to myself. I heard about these and read them in six days. I found myself feeling different and looking at my husband in a way I never have. Needless to say, I am planning a date night with no kids. I was reminded what marriage is, and am so very glad I read them.
Posting on abcnews.go.com
My wife and I (both 41 with two young kids) read it and loved it. Spiced up our relationship too. It is not degrading to women.
Posting on abcnews.go.com
I’m a mother of two young kids, work full-time, not getting enough sleep and totally uninterested in sex. Reading the books reminded me of things I have forgotten or relegated to the back of my mind while making dinner, running errands or balancing work and family have come to the forefront. I have seen a glimpse of the person I was before having kids – someone who enjoyed having sex, even looked forward to it.
Tamara Engel, blog, mommyish.com
Author E L James has inspired women’s imaginations and is improving sex lives all over the world
After reading, my husband finally ‘got it’!! Our marriage is stronger than ever!! He is much more attentive to my needs, we’re enjoying the greatest level of intimacy we’ve ever experienced. We are in our mid-50s and are acting like teenagers!! and . . . who cares what the kids think!!
CLD, amazon.co.uk
There’s nothing like adding spice to marriage or relationships, and personally, I have to say that although I’d never entertained such activities, it’s definitely breathed new life into an otherwise stale concept. Who even knew it needed addressing? Open minds people, you’ll love it.
Amazon_gal7, amazon.co.uk
It’s a good read, quite hot in places. It is far-fetched: so what, if you enjoy it? It reminded me of when my best friend and I as teenagers would sneak out her mum’s Harold Robbins books just to read the racy, sexy bits.
mumof4sons, mumsnet.com
I have learned something from the book – sex really can be fun. I found out that I have led quite a sheltered life. I’m almost 47 and have definitely been missing out on some things. The next time I see my man he is definitely in for a treat.
anon, mumsnet.com
WHAT THE EXPERTS SAY…
It taps into our sexual subconscious and is a turn-on because it allows us to envision sexual scenarios. Even if the idea never crossed our minds before, we may want to role-play similar themes, or simply keep it as a fantasy. It allows women an escape from busy lives – whether single or coupled, with or without kids, having good sex or stuck in a sex rut.
Amy Levine, sex coach and founder of IgniteYourPleasure.com
This sort of fiction is fantastic. We forget that the most important erotic organ is the brain. Men are more turned on by what they see, women by what they hear. We always think women are different to men – but lots of women like really quick and powerful sex. It’s good for us to realise we’re all having fantasies about exciting sex and that it’s normal, not shameful. Whatever turns you on, as long as it’s safe and legal, is fine.’
Psychologist Marisa Peer
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