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  A Laodicean - A Story of To-day

  Thomas Hardy

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  "A Laodicean: A Story of To-day" tells the tale of Paula Power, the heiress to a great fortune and a modern castle, who wrestles with her affections between two men: George Somerset, a young architect passionate about the new, and Captain De Stancy, who represents the allure of the old. Set within a rapidly changing Victorian society, the novel explores themes of tradition versus progress, love versus duty, and the quest for identity in the midst of technological advancement and social upheaval. Hardy weaves a complex narrative that questions the true nature of modernity and loyalty in an era of uncertainty.

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  Angel in Disguise An - From...

  T S Arthur

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  The bookshelves of American literature are incredible collections that have gathered together centuries of very talented authors.  From this continent their fame spread and whilst among their number many are now forgotten or neglected their talents endure.  Among them is T S Arthur.

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  The Eyes Have It - A seemingly...

  Philip K. Dick

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  Philip Kindred Dick was born in 1928.  Widely considered one of the greatest science fiction writers, his talents were immense but he lived almost his whole life on the edge of poverty. Born prematurely on December 16, 1928 his twin sister died which caused a shadow over the rest of his life.  Many of his works would refer to the ‘phantom twin’.  Bizarrely her tiny body was buried in Colorado where her parents also had Phillips name inscribed on the tombstone. Eventually upon his death in 1982 he too was interred in the same plot. Phillip sold his first short story in 1951 and then became a full time writer selling his first novel in 1955.  He wrote continually and whilst considered a genius of the science fiction genre he was ignored by the mainstream.  Now of course much of his work is turned into films and he is rightly lauded.  All his work is at times visionary, and haunting dealing with many themes. Dick wrote of his work. "In my writing I even question the universe; I wonder out loud if it is real, and I wonder out loud if all of us are real."

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  The Old Bell-Ringer - From their...

  Vladimir Korolenko

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  Vladimir Galaktionovich Korolenko was born in Zhytomyr, Ukraine, then part of the Russian Empire on 27th July 1853. 
  His father died when he was 13 and life was then often struck with bouts of poverty, which resulted in his education being somewhat erratic.   A spell in exile at 23 was followed by another as the politics of the times opposed his volatile but heart-felt passions. 
  Writing was also coming to the fore and in 1879 his debut short story telling of a young Narodnik searching for social and spiritual identity, was published. 
  In 1881, Korolenko refused to swear allegiance to the new Russian Tsar and was again exiled, this time much farther afield.  He spent the next three years doing manual work, but took time to study local customs and history.  These impressions in exile provided rich material for his writings. 
  In 1885 he was allowed to settle in Nizhny, where again he repeatedly questioned the authorities.  That same year ‘Makar's Dream’ established his literary reputation and was part of his first collection ‘Sketches and Stories’, the following year. 
  In the early 1890’s when famine struck Central Russia, he went to work on relief missions, collecting donations, supervising the delivery and distribution of food, opening 45 free canteens, all this while writing the graphic reports that would later be published as ‘In the Year of Famine’ in 1893. 
  By 1896 despite some psychological disorders, he was well regarded amongst Russian writers and was even a member of the Russian Academy of Sciences.  Throughout his writing career Korolenko was a staunch advocate of human rights, putting that sacred activity above what he called his 'part-time-writing'. 
  In the Revolutionary year of 1905, under his editorship, Russkoye Bogatstvo published the Manifest by the Petersburg Soviet of the Workers' deputies. Korolenko was now repeatedly harassed by the authorities, had his flat raided many times and materials confiscated. 
  As a lifetime opponent of Tsarism, he guardedly welcomed the Revolution of 1917.  Once the nature of Bolshevism was established, he soon started to criticize it. During the Russian Civil War that ensued, he condemned both the Red Terror and the White Terror.  
  Despite suffering from a progressive heart disorder, he collected food packages for children in famine-stricken Moscow and Petrograd as well as organised orphanages and shelters for the homeless.  
  Vladimir Korolenko died in Poltava, Ukraine, of the complications of pneumonia on 25th December 1921.  He was 68.

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  Antic Hay

  Aldous Huxley

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  Theodore Gumbril, a mild young Oxford tutor, has become thoroughly dismayed by the formality of college life and the staid British institutions of learning. An impetuous need for celebration, even rebellion, possesses him. He and his bohemian companions embark on wild and daring bacchanalian adventures that steer them resolutely away from stifling conventions of behavior, charging them for the first time with an exuberant vitality and lust for life. 
  A sardonic and outspoken novel, Antic Hay unfolds its polemical theme against the backdrop of London’s postwar nihilistic bohemia. This is Huxley at his biting, brilliant best—a novel charged with excitement and loud with satiric laughter at conventional morality and stuffy people everywhere.

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  Landor's Cottage

  Edgar Allan Poe

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  A Pendant to ‘The Domain Of Arnheim.’: During a pedestrian tour last summer, through one or two of the river counties of New York, I found myself, as the day declined, somewhat embarrassed about the road I was pursuing. The land undulated very remarkably; and my path, for the last hour, had wound about and about so confusedly, in its effort to keep in the valleys, that I no longer knew in what direction lay the sweet village of B——, where I had determined to stop for the night. The sun had scarcely shone — strictly speaking — during the day, which nevertheless had been unpleasantly warm. A smoky mist, resembling that of the Indian summer, enveloped all things, and of course, added to my uncertainty. Not that I cared much about the matter. If I did not hit upon the village before sunset, or even before dark, it was more than possible that a little Dutch farmhouse, or something of that kind, would soon make its appearance — although, in fact, the neighborhood (perhaps on account of being more picturesque than fertile) was very sparsely inhabited. At all events, with my knapsack for a pillow, and my hound as a sentry, a bivouac in the open air was just the thing which would have amused me.

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