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kollekció: Angol nyelvű könyvek

“Do you speak English? A princessz ijedten felelt tökéletes angolsággal, de hirtelen abbahagyta. Hiszen angolul magyarázta el, hogy mért nem tud angolul!”
(Rejtő Jenő)


Lilien Polocz - Champion ​Of The Soul
A ​Formula1 pilot's life not simple, well I say? The young Ryan Wilson Sauber pilot of luck in his carerr.But suddenly dies the World cup. But Ryan get to heaven where the angels are big deal to him. Meanwhile, his brother 16-year-old Gemma and team-mate Felipe desperately look to the future, but three months after you arrive in a new team-mate Marcus Ericsson whose soul Ryan Willson connected. Marcus is not easy to live like that, but why was his life back Ryan Willson Marcus Ericsson body? The answer édespaja to reveal the secret of evil, but you can not do this alone, cut him with teammate Felipe in the "adventure". But later one of them will not be easy world as Gemma did not .....

Forrai István - The ​Chaos
A ​few hilarious essays you can read in this book, containing not scientifically demonstrated ideas. “Who soups with the devil, needs a long spoon” is it right or not, I’m trying to find an answer. It isn't easy, but at least I try!

Catherine Owen - Choice ​Cookery
By ​choice cookery is meant exactly what the words imply. There will be no attempt to teach family or inexpensive cooking, those branches of domestic economy having been so excellently treated by capable hands already. It may be said en passant, however, that even choice cooking is not necessarily expensive. Many dishes cost little for the materials, but owe their daintiness and expensiveness to the care bestowed in cooking or to a fine sauce. For instance: cod, one of the cheapest of fish, and considered coarse food as usually served, becomes an epicurean dish when served with a fine Hollandaise or oyster sauce, and it will not even then be more expensive than any average-priced boiling fish. Flounder served as sole Normande conjures up memories of the famous Philippe, whose fortune it made, or it may be of luxurious little dinners at other famous restaurants, and is suggestive, in fact, of anything but economy. Yet it is really an inexpensive dish.

Brander Matthews - Poems ​of American Patriotism
Looked ​eastward from the farms, And twice each day the flowing sea Took Boston in its arms; The men of yore were stout and poor, And sailed for bread to every shore. And where they went on trade intent They did what freemen can, Their dauntless ways did all men praise, The merchant was a man. The world was made for honest trade,— To plant and eat be none afraid.

Oravecz Imre - Távozó ​fa
Oravecz ​Imre megindítóan személyes új kötetében a tél hideg fényével pásztázza végig létezése lehetőségeit és adottságait. Apró megfigyelések, végtelen következtetések az élet örök körforgásából. A természetből rajzolódik ki az ember, és az életből a halál. A Távozó fa a Magvetőnél megjelenő Oravecz Imre életműkiadás első kötete.

Mautner Zsófia - Budapest ​Bites
Hazánk ​legismertebb gasztrobloggere nem kevesebbre vállalkozott legújabb, angol nyelvű szakácskönyvében, mint hogy bemutassa a mai magyar konyhát a külföldiek számára - a gulyáson innen és túl.

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J. M. Barrie - Peter ​Pan
This ​is a timeless classic of children's literature in an exquisite full colour edition that will be cherished by all ages. It is fully illustrated with distinctive stained edging and decorative endpapers. It is suitable for children aged 10 to 13 years old. Neverland is home to Peter Pan, a young boy who has never grown up. On one of his visits to London, Peter makes the acquaintance of young Wendy Darling, whom he invites to travel with him to Neverland and become the mother of his gang of Lost Boys. Flying through the night sky to Neverland, Wendy and her brothers John and Michael are soon caught up in marvellous adventures with the Indian Princess Tiger Lily, the loyal fairy Tinker Bell and Peter's nemesis, a sinister hook-handed pirate known as Captain Hook. Spun by J.M. Barrie from his stage play of the same name, „Peter Pan” is a timeless classic of children's literature. Illustrated with plates by F.D. Bedford, this exquisite full-colour edition features an elegant bonded-leather binding, a satin-ribbon bookmark, distinctive stained edging and decorative endpapers. It's a book that will be cherished by readers of all ages.

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J. M. Barrie - Courage
To ​the Red Gowns of St. Andrews Canada, 1922 You have had many rectors here in St. Andrews who will continue in bloom long after the lowly ones such as I am are dead and rotten and forgotten. They are the roses in December; you remember someone said that God gave us memory so that we might have roses in December. But I do not envy the great ones. In my experience—and you may find in the end it is yours also—the people I have cared for most and who have seemed most worth caring for—my December roses—have been very simple folk. Yet I wish that for this hour I could swell into someone of importance, so as to do you credit. I suppose you had a melting for me because I was hewn out of one of your own quarries, walked similar academic groves, and have trudged the road on which you will soon set forth. I would that I could put into your hands a staff for that somewhat bloody march, for though there is much about myself that I conceal from other people, to help you I would expose every cranny of my mind.

J. M. Barrie - Dear ​Brutus
The ​scene is a darkened room, which the curtain reveals so stealthily that if there was a mouse on the stage it is there still. Our object is to catch our two chief characters unawares; they are Darkness and Light. The room is so obscure as to be invisible, but at the back of the obscurity are French windows, through which is seen Lob's garden bathed in moon-shine. The Darkness and Light, which this room and garden represent, are very still, but we should feel that it is only the pause in which old enemies regard each other before they come to the grip. The moonshine stealing about among the flowers, to give them their last instructions, has left a smile upon them, but it is a smile with a menace in it for the dwellers in darkness. What we expect to see next is the moonshine slowly pushing the windows open, so that it may whisper to a confederate in the house, whose name is Lob. But though we may be sure that this was about to happen it does not happen; a stir among the dwellers in darkness prevents it.

J. M. Barrie - Quality ​Street
The ​scene is the blue and white room in the house of the Misses Susan and Phoebe Throssel in Quality Street; and in this little country town there is a satisfaction about living in Quality Street which even religion cannot give. Through the bowed window at the back we have a glimpse of the street. It is pleasantly broad and grass-grown, and is linked to the outer world by one demure shop, whose door rings a bell every time it opens and shuts. Thus by merely peeping, every one in Quality Street can know at once who has been buying a Whimsy cake, and usually why. This bell is the most familiar sound of Quality Street. Now and again ladies pass in their pattens, a maid perhaps protecting them with an umbrella, for flakes of snow are falling discreetly. Gentlemen in the street are an event; but, see, just as we raise the curtain, there goes the recruiting sergeant to remind us that we are in the period of the Napoleonic wars. If he were to look in at the window of the blue and white room all the ladies there assembled would draw themselves up; they know him for a rude fellow who smiles at the approach of maiden ladies and continues to smile after they have passed. However, he lowers his head to-day so that they shall not see him, his present design being converse with the Misses Throssel's maid.

J. M. Barrie - Peter ​and Wendy
All ​children, except one, grow up. They soon know that they will grow up, and the way Wendy knew was this. One day when she was two years old she was playing in a garden, and she plucked another flower and ran with it to her mother. I suppose she must have looked rather delightful, for Mrs. Darling put her hand to her heart and cried, 'Oh, why can't you remain like this for ever!' This was all that passed between them on the subject, but henceforth Wendy knew that she must grow up. You always know after you are two. Two is the beginning of the end. Of course they lived at 14, and until Wendy came her mother was the chief one. She was a lovely lady, with a romantic mind and such a sweet mocking mouth. Her romantic mind was like the tiny boxes, one within the other, that come from the puzzling East, however many you discover there is always one more; and her sweet mocking mouth had one kiss on it that Wendy could never get, though there it was, perfectly conspicuous in the right-hand corner.

J. M. Barrie - Margaret ​Ogilvy
On ​the day I was born we bought six hair-bottomed chairs, and in our little house it was an event, the first great victory in a woman’s long campaign; how they had been laboured for, the pound-note and the thirty threepenny-bits they cost, what anxiety there was about the purchase, the show they made in possession of the west room, my father’s unnatural coolness when he brought them in (but his face was white)—I so often heard the tale afterwards, and shared as boy and man in so many similar triumphs, that the coming of the chairs seems to be something I remember, as if I had jumped out of bed on that first day, and run ben to see how they looked. I am sure my mother’s feet were ettling to be ben long before they could be trusted, and that the moment after she was left alone with me she was discovered barefooted in the west room, doctoring a scar (which she had been the first to detect) on one of the chairs, or sitting on them regally, or withdrawing and re-opening the door suddenly to take the six by surprise. And then, I think, a shawl was flung over her (it is strange to me to think it was not I who ran after her with the shawl), and she was escorted sternly back to bed and reminded that she had promised not to budge, to which her reply was probably that she had been gone but an instant, and the implication that therefore she had not been gone at all. Thus was one little bit of her revealed to me at once: I wonder if I took note of it.

J. M. Barrie - Tommy ​and Grizel
O.P. ​Pym, the colossal Pym, that vast and rolling figure, who never knew what he was to write about until he dipped grandly, an author in such demand that on the foggy evening which starts our story his publishers have had his boots removed lest he slip thoughtlessly round the corner before his work is done, as was the great man's way—shall we begin with him, or with Tommy, who has just arrived in London, carrying his little box and leading a lady by the hand? It was Pym, as we are about to see, who in the beginning held Tommy up to the public gaze, Pym who first noticed his remarkable indifference to female society, Pym who gave him——But alack! does no one remember Pym for himself? Is the king of the Penny Number already no more than a button that once upon a time kept Tommy's person together? And we are at the night when they first met! Let us hasten into Marylebone before little Tommy arrives and Pym is swallowed like an oyster.

J. M. Barrie - Sentimental ​Tommy
The ​celebrated Tommy first comes into view on a dirty London stair, and he was in sexless garments, which were all he had, and he was five, and so though we are looking at him, we must do it sideways, lest he sit down hurriedly to hide them. That inscrutable face, which made the clubmen of his later days uneasy and even puzzled the ladies while he was making love to them, was already his, except when he smiled at one of his pretty thoughts or stopped at an open door to sniff a potful. On his way up and down the stair he often paused to sniff, but he never asked for anything; his mother had warned him against it, and he carried out her injunction with almost unnecessary spirit, declining offers before they were made, as when passing a room, whence came the smell of fried fish, he might call in, "I don't not want none of your fish," or "My mother says I don't not want the littlest bit," or wistfully, "I ain't hungry," or more wistfully still, "My mother says I ain't hungry." His mother heard of this and was angry, crying that he had let the neighbors know something she was anxious to conceal, but what he had revealed to them Tommy could not make out, and when he questioned her artlessly, she took him with sudden passion to her flat breast, and often after that she looked at him long and woefully and wrung her hands.

J. M. Barrie - Echoes ​of the War
Three ​nice old ladies and a criminal, who is even nicer, are discussing the war over a cup of tea. The criminal, who is the hostess, calls it a dish of tea, which shows that she comes from Caledonia; but that is not her crime. They are all London charwomen, but three of them, including the hostess, are what are called professionally 'charwomen and' or simply 'ands.' An 'and' is also a caretaker when required; her name is entered as such in ink in a registry book, financial transactions take place across a counter between her and the registrar, and altogether she is of a very different social status from one who, like Mrs. Haggerty, is a charwoman but nothing else. Mrs. Haggerty, though present, is not at the party by invitation; having seen Mrs. Dowey buying the winkles, she followed her downstairs, so has shuffled into the play and sat down in it against our wish. We would remove her by force, or at least print her name in small letters, were it not that she takes offence very readily and says that nobody respects her. So, as you have slipped in, you sit there, Mrs. Haggerty; but keep quiet.

J. M. Barrie - Auld ​Licht Idylls
Early ​this morning I opened a window in my schoolhouse in the glen of Quharity, awakened by the shivering of a starving sparrow against the frosted glass. As the snowy sash creaked in my hand, he made off to the water-spout that suspends its "tangles" of ice over a gaping tank, and, rebounding from that, with a quiver of his little black breast, bobbed through the network of wire and joined a few of his fellows in a forlorn hop round the henhouse in search of food. Two days ago my hilarious bantam-cock, saucy to the last, my cheeriest companion, was found frozen in his own water-trough, the corn-saucer in three pieces by his side. Since then I have taken the hens into the house. At meal-times they litter the hearth with each other's feathers; but for the most part they give little trouble, roosting on the rafters of the low-roofed kitchen among staves and fishing-rods.

J. M. Barrie - A ​Window in Thrums
On ​the bump of green round which the brae twists, at the top of the brae, and within cry of T'nowhead Farm, still stands a one-storey house, whose whitewashed walls, streaked with the discoloration that rain leaves, look yellow when the snow comes. In the old days the stiff ascent left Thrums behind, and where is now the making of a suburb was only a poor row of dwellings and a manse, with Hendry's cot to watch the brae. The house stood bare, without a shrub, in a garden whose paling did not go all the way round, the potato pit being only kept out of the road, that here sets off southward, by a broken dyke of stones and earth. On each side of the slate-coloured door was a window of knotted glass. Ropes were flung over the thatch to keep the roof on in wind.

J. M. Barrie - The ​Little Minister
The ​Little Minister is set in Thrums, a Scottish weaving village based on Barrie’s birthplace, and concerns Gavin Dishart, a young impoverished minister with his first congregation. The weavers he serves soon riot in protest against reductions in their wages and harsh working conditions.

J. M. Barrie - The ​Little White Bird
The ​introduction of Peter Pan and his magical world has made The Little White Bird from J. M. Barrie one of the works that will last for generations. Filled with fantasy and whimsy this little book will thrill children and adults alike and be one of your families favorites for years to come.

J. M. Barrie - What ​Every Woman Knows
James ​Wylie is about to make a move on the dambrod, and in the little Scotch room there is an awful silence befitting the occasion. James with his hand poised—for if he touches a piece he has to play it, Alick will see to that—raises his red head suddenly to read Alick's face. His father, who is Alick, is pretending to be in a panic lest James should make this move. James grins heartlessly, and his fingers are about to close on the 'man' when some instinct of self-preservation makes him peep once more. This time Alick is caught: the unholy ecstasy on his face tells as plain as porridge that he has been luring James to destruction. James glares; and, too late, his opponent is a simple old father again. James mops his head, sprawls in the manner most conducive to thought in the Wylie family, and, protruding his underlip, settles down to a reconsideration of the board. Alick blows out his cheeks, and a drop of water settles on the point of his nose.

Catherine Owen - Culture ​and Cooking
Alexandre ​Dumas, père, after writing five hundred novels, says, "I wish to close my literary career with a book on cooking." And in the hundred pages or so of preface—or perhaps overture would be the better word, since in it a group of literary men, while contributing recondite recipes, flourish trumpets in every key—to his huge volume he says, "I wish to be read by people of the world, and practiced by people of the art" (gens de l'art); and although I wish, like every one who writes, to be read by all the world, I wish to aid the practice, not of the professors of the culinary art, but those whose aspirations point to an enjoyment of the good things of life, but whose means of attaining them are limited.There is a great deal of talk just now about cooking; in a lesser degree it takes its place as a popular topic with ceramics, modern antiques, and household art. The fact of it being in a mild way fashionable may do a little good to the eating world in general. And it may make it more easy to convince young women of refined proclivities that the art of cooking is not beneath their attention, to know that the Queen of England's daughters—and of course the cream of the London fair—have attended the lectures on the subject delivered at South Kensington, and that a young lady of rank, Sir James Coles's daughter, has been recording angel to the association, is in fact the R. C. C. who edits the "Official Handbook of Cookery."

Kalmár Erzsébet - Paleo ​is Good for You
This ​is a paleo cookbook written by a Hungarian gastroblog author, who has had an autoimmune disease for years combined with several allergies. After research on the internet for medical recommendations she came across the Paleo diet and her exciting challenge had begun. She found that Paleo was not as boring as she thought it was going to be, and that you can make a variety of delicious dishes to most peoples' tastes. These recipes reflect her Hungarian background tastes combined with international flavours and experimentation.You will find some simple recipes and some that are more advanced, including drinks, main dishes and desserts, hopefully everyone can find their favourite dishes and enjoy them.

Balogh Dániel - The ​Orphan's Father
“The ​Orphan’s Father” is a story, a dream, a vision. It is an honest stack of imagery about hope and coping. It is a collection of thoughts and fears and abandonment. What it isn’t, is a straightforward, “classic” read with a clear sequence of events lined up to please the brain. Instead, it was written to be felt, seen and lived. Leo Brown is a lonely, middle-aged man who tries to survive by escaping into the past, and by seeking approval from the ones who once mattered; but after all, he is just a man, like millions of his kind: a wrinkled, faded, red balloon, that was left to shrink in a corner of his youth.

M. M. Pattison Muir - The ​Story of Alchemy and the Beginnings of Chemistry
For ​thousands of years before men had any accurate and exact knowledge of the changes of material things, they had thought about these changes, regarded them as revelations of spiritual truths, built on them theories of things in heaven and earth (and a good many things in neither), and used them in manufactures, arts, and handicrafts, especially in one very curious manufacture wherein not the thousandth fragment of a grain of the finished article was ever produced. The accurate and systematic study of the changes which material things undergo is called chemistry; we may, perhaps, describe alchemy as the superficial, and what may be called subjective, examination of these changes, and the speculative systems, and imaginary arts and manufactures, founded on that examination. We are assured by many old writers that Adam was the first alchemist, and we are told by one of the initiated that Adam was created on the sixth day, being the 15th of March, of the first year of the world; certainly alchemy had a long life, for chemistry did not begin until about the middle of the 18th century.

Mór Jókai - The ​Slaves of the Padishah
The ​S—— family was one of the richest in Wallachia, and consequently one of the most famous. The head of the family dictated to twelve boyars, collected hearth-money and tithes from four-and-fifty villages, lived nine months in the year at Stambul, held the Sultan's bridle when he mounted his steed in time of war, contributed two thousand lands-knechts to the host of the Pasha of Macedonia, and had permission to keep on his slippers when he entered the inner court of the Seraglio. In the year 1600 and something, George was the name of the first-born of the S—— family, but with him we shall not have very much concern. We shall do much better to follow the fortunes of the second born, Michael, whom his family had sent betimes to Bucharest to be brought up as a priest in the Seminary there. The youth had, however, a remarkably thick head, and, so far from making any great progress in the sciences, was becoming quite an ancient classman, when he suddenly married the daughter of a sub-deacon, and buried himself in a little village in Wallachia. There he spent a good many years of his life with scarce sufficient stipend to clothe him decently, and had he not tilled his soil with his own hands, he would have been hard put to it to find maize-cakes enough to live upon.

Cornelius Mathews - The ​Indian Fairy Book
The ​following stories have been, time out of mind, in their original form, recited around the lodge-fires and under the trees, by the Indian story-tellers, for the entertainment of the red children of the West. They were originally interpreted from the old tales and legends by the late Henry R. Schoolcraft, and are now re-interpreted and developed by the Editor, so as to enable them, as far as worthy, to take a place with the popular versions of the Arabian Nights' Entertainments, Cinderella, Little Red Riding Hood, and other world-renowned tales of Europe and the East, to which, in their original conception, they bear a resemblance in romantic interest and quaint extravagance of fancy. The Editor hopes that these beautiful and sprightly legends of the West, if not marred in the handling, will repay, in part at least, the glorious debt which we have incurred to the Eastern World for her magical gifts of the same kind.

James Sheridan Knowles - The ​Hunchback
Ehhez a könyvhöz nincs fülszöveg, de ettől függetlenül még rukkolható/happolható.

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Ismeretlen szerző - Stories ​by English Authors: Africa
Do ​I know why Tom Donahue is called "Lucky Tom"? Yes, I do; and that is more than one in ten of those who call him so can say. I have knocked about a deal in my time, and seen some strange sights, but none stranger than the way in which Tom gained that sobriquet, and his fortune with it. For I was with him at the time. Tell it? Oh, certainly; but it is a longish story and a very strange one; so fill up your glass again, and light another cigar, while I try to reel it off. Yes, a very strange one; beats some fairy stories I have heard; but it's true, sir, every word of it. There are men alive at Cape Colony now who'll remember it and confirm what I say. Many a time has the tale been told round the fire in Boers' cabins from Orange state to Griqualand; yes, and out in the bush and at the diamond-fields too.

Richard Brinsley Sheridan - St. ​Patrick's Day, or, the scheming lieutenant
1 ​Sol. I say you are wrong; we should all speak together, each for himself, and all at once, that we may be heard the better. 2 Sol. Right, Jack, we'll argue in platoons. 3 Sol. Ay, ay, let him have our grievances in a volley, and if we be to have a spokesman, there's the corporal is the lieutenant's countryman, and knows his humour. Flint. Let me alone for that. I served three years, within a bit, under his honour, in the Royal Inniskillions, and I never will see a sweeter tempered gentleman, nor one more free with his purse. I put a great shammock in his hat this morning, and I'll be bound for him he'll wear it, was it as big as Steven's Green. 4 Sol. I say again then you talk like youngsters, like militia striplings: there's a discipline, look'ee in all things, whereof the serjeant must be our guide; he's a gentleman of words; he understands your foreign lingo, your figures, and such like auxiliaries in scoring. Confess now for a reckoning, whether in chalk or writing, ben't he your only man?

Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu - Checkmate
There ​stands about a mile and a half beyond Islington, unless it has come down within the last two years, a singular and grand old house. It belonged to the family of Arden, once distinguished in the Northumbrian counties. About fifty acres of ground, rich with noble clumps and masses of old timber, surround it; old-world fish-ponds, with swans sailing upon them, tall yew hedges, quincunxes, leaden fauns and goddesses, and other obsolete splendours surround it. It rises, tall, florid, built of Caen stone, with a palatial flight of steps, and something of the grace and dignity of the genius of Inigo Jones, to whom it is ascribed, with the shadows of ancestral trees and the stains of two centuries upon it, and a vague character of gloom and melancholy, not improved by some indications not actually of decay, but of something too like neglect.

Judit Lívia Lőrincz - The ​Mexican Red-kneed Tarantula
Hi ​everyone! I’m a Mexican Red-kneed Tarantula, and here’s my story. I used to live in a tiny terrarium in a house in Budapest. My owner loved the colour red, so I guess that’s why he bought me. The red poppies always faded too quickly in his vase, and his hibiscus never bloomed red flowers, because he always forgot to water it.

Mór Jókai - The ​Green Book
Ehhez a könyvhöz nincs fülszöveg, de ettől függetlenül még rukkolható/happolható.

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