Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Dasara Dance: A Glimpse of Travels Through India by Thomas Klepper (best ebook reader for pc .TXT) 📖
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- Author: Thomas Klepper
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of Samsara. Then, in one moment, the absolute disappeared from his face, he looked around, seemed confused, then again he moved his hands, then his arms, then started his wild dance on the village concrete floor. His dance was the dance of a god, of Vishnu, the spirits flowed from inside his own mind and out onto space, he created the world anew with each swipe of his arm and turn of his feet. Then he stopped.
- Have you seen my wife?
- No, I said.
- Look here, she is watching us.
In the corner of the room on the east side of the house was an old black and white photo of a lady who was not smiling.
- My wife, Sita.
He sat down on the bed. He cried. His family pulled the picture down and poured out his whiskey.
- He will have to rest up, said R.K. Rai.
Salir left the room. From inside I saw him sit on the porch and watch the rain falling on his flowers, his chickens, and his paddies of rice.
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- Have you seen my wife?
- No, I said.
- Look here, she is watching us.
In the corner of the room on the east side of the house was an old black and white photo of a lady who was not smiling.
- My wife, Sita.
He sat down on the bed. He cried. His family pulled the picture down and poured out his whiskey.
- He will have to rest up, said R.K. Rai.
Salir left the room. From inside I saw him sit on the porch and watch the rain falling on his flowers, his chickens, and his paddies of rice.
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Publication Date: 11-25-2009
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