Seconds later, a car leaves at full speed. Without thinking twice, Marlowe enters the house and finds Carmen Sternwood drugged up. Geiger lies dead on the floor. Inside a decorative object, Marlowe finds a camera without plates. He takes her back home and tells the butler he has not been there and that Carmen has spent all day without leaving the house.
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He wants to show Marlowe a car that was found floating in the sea; it belongs to General Sternwood. The body of his chauffeur was inside. It could have been a suicide or a murder. The next day Vivian Rutledge tells Marlowe that they are being blackmailed again with some compromising photos of her sister. When the doorbell rings, Brody opens the door. He gets shot and dies. Everyone seems satisfied with Marlowe. However Marlowe is not fully convinced. Even when Vivian assures him that everything is over. Moreover, it seems that Regan has appeared.
But Marlowe decides to pursue the investigation, on his own. In any case, whether or not true, this anecdote reflects that some aspects of the plot can be confusing. A real classic that, in my view, is worth keeping to be seen as many times as we wish. Incidentally, today Lauren Bacall would have turned ninety. Estoy deseando ver todas ellas, aunque de momento solo tengo los dos primeros DVDs. En particular, si su padre le ha pedido encontrar a Sean Regan.
No se lo cree y espera hasta la hora de cierre. Marlowe sigue a Geiger hasta su casa y espera fuera toda la noche. De repente, se oye un disparo en el interior. Sin pensarlo dos veces, Marlowe entra en la casa y encuentra a Carmen Sternwood drogada. Geiger yace muerto en el suelo. Cuando regresa, el cuerpo de Geiger ha desaparecido.
Quiere mostrarle a Marlowe un coche que fue encontrado flotando en el mar y pertenece al general Sternwood. El cuerpo de su chofer estaba dentro. Todas las pistas conducen a Marlowe hasta Joe Brody y la dependienta de la tienda de Geiger.
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Cuando suena el timbre, Brody abre la puerta. Recibe un disparo y muere. Marlowe sale corriendo para atrapar al asesino, que resulta el chofer de Geiger. Todo el mundo parece satisfecho con Marlowe. Ha sido capaz de mantener el nombre de la Sternwood fuera del caso. Incluso cuando Vivian le asegura que todo ha terminado. What a great film! Lo esencial es que tenga el nivel que demanda la empresa, independientemente de si lo ha aprendido en una academia o durante un viaje de estudios.
Comprende y utiliza expresiones sencillas para satisfacer necesidades inmediatas. Entiende frases cotidianas sobre cuestiones conocidas familia, compras, ocupaciones, lugares. Lectura: entiende las ideas principales de textos complejos tanto de temas concretos como abstractos. Click on the pictures within the grid to find out which books these leading authors regularly reread and which novels they are desperate to unlock the secrets of Tom Lamont on the pleasures of rereading. Link to this interactive. You have to reread — the surface amusements of plot, subject and mystery drop away, the deeper pleasures of prose and reflection stay.
The most memorable rereadings in my life have been of Proust, who I read when I was 16, 18, 30 and 40 — every time a different novel. Clearly, this is an issue worth revisiting. Or I try again to read something I failed to get through three times before and end up falling at exactly the same fence. There are certain books and poems that I reread with pleasure.
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But the book that sticks in my mind is Rivals by Jilly Cooper. I found it great fun, and decided to reread it the following summer — then again many a summer after that.
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Pure escapism and a non-guilty pleasure. What about Jack Kerouac now? Or Lawrence Durrell? I find rereading a strange activity in general. With this impossible wealth of literature to pick from, retreading old ground seems like being one of those people who stay in the same guesthouse in Lyme Regis every summer rather than get out the atlas. You have to find out by experience what everyone tells you: that a good book is never the same twice.
Rereading is a pleasure and duty of middle age, and illuminating, even if it only sheds light on how you yourself have changed. A novel is different when you read as a practitioner, and I saw that the first book in particular, Men at Arms , offers a masterclass in structure. This time around my bourgeois pleasure was enhanced by reading the trilogy in a Folio Society edition, rather than a grubby library book.
It glowed like something living amid the grey beeping machines. I tend to reread small books.
But in the two decades that I have been writing novels myself I have reread infrequently, and what I have reread has mostly been short. Perhaps it is because I find the slender, literary long-form innately interesting. Perhaps it is because novels are like affairs, and small novels — with fewer pages of plot to them — are affairs with less history, affairs that involved just a few glances across a dinner table or a single ride together, unspeaking, on a train, and therefore affairs still electric with potential, still heart-quickening, even after the passage of all these years. Rereading is crucial.
If a plot of a book grabs me I gallop to the end, and only on later readings appreciate the depth of the characters, the wit, or the beauty of the language. Poetry I reread constantly. With other books I tend to seek favourite passages: the glorious end of The Incredible Journey by Sheila Burnford, or the last, heartbreakingly lovely scene from The Boy with a Cart by Christopher Fry.
In my youth I joyfully devoured Proust then shamingly abandoned him, until last night. Back in bed I read until dawn. I almost never reread.
I first read them as a teenager and was dazzled; now, as a writer, I wanted to try to unpick them, unlock the mystery, see how it worked. I failed completely, of course. And if I had to pick a single one of those to keep on rereading? Both are so much more than the sum of their parts — painful, truthful, slippery, perfect. It was probably in the late 60s that I first read the book, and I must have reread the short, gnomic stories dozens of times.
With its playful yet deeply earnest scepticism, this beautiful story liberates the reader from every false and demeaning certainty. And when I read a great new book the experience tends to have the quality of rereading: I feel the book has known me all my life. A well-made book is a thing that continues its own making. I never set out to be well read but I did always want to be well reread. And I find fresh truths there every year, just as, over time, you find new lines on your face… and the joy is seeing them and knowing they were always just waiting to emerge, and for you to find them.
By 50, you might know something about the costs of idealism, the penalties of romance, the management of delusion, the persistence of hope or the expanding nature of your capacity for wonder. Since I sleep in the shadow of my to-read pile, it would feel dangerously irresponsible to read the same book twice. I do, however, reread paragraphs, pages or scenes if they contain something I want to steal for my own work.http://zefisyfy.tk
He managed to seamlessly combine the ordinary — a bickering family car journey — with the extraordinary — a chemical cloud blooming in the rear-view mirror. But no amount of rereading could make this scene give up its secrets. I probably reread novels more often than I read new ones. The novel form is made for rereading.
By the time you reach the end of the novel you will have forgotten the beginning and much of what happens in between: not the main outlines but the fine work, the detail and the music of the sentences — the particular words, through which the novel has its life. Inevitably this brings on a certain disenchantment. The only book I know of that successfully resists this process is The Great Gatsby. Fitzgerald was forever the inspired amateur, and Gatsby has all the tremulousness and delicacy of a masterpiece made against the odds.
He managed it once and never again — but what an achievement it is, a kind of miracle, ever fresh, ever new, no matter how many times one ventures back into its sad, soiled and enchanted world.
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