Cars

Get your copy at alibris.com

( 4.6/5.0 ★ | 362 downloads )
-- Click the link to download --

https://click.linksynergy.com/link?id=*C/UgjGtUZ8&offerid=1494105.26
530786936708103&type=15&murl=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.alibris.com%2Fsearch%2
Fbooks%2Fisbn%2F0786936708103
Cars

ISBN: 0786936708103
Category: Media > DVDs & Movies
File Fomat: PDF, EPUB, DOC...
File Details: 12.9 MB
Language: English
Website: alibris.com
Short description: Very Good. USED.

DOWNLOAD: https://click.linksynergy.com/link?id=*C/UgjGtUZ8&
offerid=1494105.26530786936708103&type=15&murl=http%3A%2F%2F
www.alibris.com%2Fsearch%2Fbooks%2Fisbn%2F0786936708103
 Cars

• Click the link: https://click.linksynergy.com/link?id=*C/UgjGtUZ8&offerid=1494105.2653078693670810

3&type=15&murl=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.alibris.com%2Fsearch%2Fbooks%2Fisbn%2F0786936708103 to do
latest version of Cars in multiple formats such as PDF, EPUB, and more.

• Don’t miss the chance to explore our extensive collection of high-quality resources, books, and guides on
our website. Visit us regularly to stay updated with new titles and gain access to even more valuable
materials.
.
 44
In Chamber Seven are the files of Thinking.

Very few visitors. Still, they have things there

that merit being thought of times on end.

There stands a gentleman called the Friend of Thought,

giving everyone who’s so inclined

the fundamentals of the laws of mind.
He points in sadness to a crowd of thoughts
which might have saved us were they timely set

to work upon the soul’s development

but which, since soul was not much evident,
were hung up in oblivion’s cabinet.

But as our days of vacancy would drag

someone always came here and besought

a look at this or that old line of thought

which, given a new twist, might briefly snag

new interest until that too would flag.

 45
The Calculator running all the time

to calculate our minimum of hope

outpaces all our flights of thought

and pulverizes objects of our thought

so comically that on perfection’s ice

the very act of thinking takes a spill.
Then the brain laughs out the way brains will,
a snob exposed in slipperiness of mind,

a mental brute now totally hemmed in

by the quotients of the calculator-works.
A shrug inherited from former days

is all he’s up to: mind’s icy sneer

of bitter barrenness, a world-grimace.
 46
We listen daily to the sonic coins

provided every one of us and played

through the Finger-singer worn on the left hand,

We trade coins of diverse denominations:

and all of them play all that they contain

and though a dyma scarcely weighs one grain
it plays out like a cricket on each hand
blanching here in this distraction-land.

Through the Finger-singers in our rings

we keep some slight connectedness with things.
And now the goster-pieces play their rondies

and now the rindel-pieces pipe their gondies.

Her hand held tight against her lovely cheek

and Finger-singer pressing her ear’s tip,

Heba listens to a dyma-coin,

but flinches suddenly and switches dreams

upon her Finger-singer: sudden streams

of yurghing pleasure captivate her ear.

I asked her, after finishing my round,

Why did you flinch? And she replied:

I picked up calls for help and pleas for mercy.

This coin is carrying a scream from Gond.
 47
A number-group philosopher and mystic

of the aleph-number school comes often

with filled-in query-card to feed the Gopta-works,

bows silently to Isagel the bright

and tiptoes down Aniara out of sight.

And Isagel, who finds the questions reasoned,

takes in his flock of formulas and codes them
for the Gopta-board’s third thought-position.

And when she has transformed the number-sets

and gopted carefully the tensor modes
she takes them over to the Gopta-cart

to which she hitches space-assistant Robert,

our brains-trust’s loyal dray for number-loads.

When our numerosopher returns

Isagel must tell him how the land lies:

despite all Robert’s unremitting tries,

on what he asked no Gopta can advise.

The question dealt with “rate of miracle”
in the Cosmos mathematically conceived.

It seems to coincide so much with chance

that chance and miracle must have one source;

one answer seems to do for either force.

And Dr. Quantity (we use that phrase)

makes a silent bow, resigned to grief,

and tiptoes down Aniara’s passageways.
 48
A poetess arose within our world

with songs so beautiful they lifted us

beyond ourselves, on high to spirit’s day.

She blazoned our confinement gold with fire

and sent the heavens to the heart’s abode,

changing every word from smoke to splendor.

She was a native of the land of Rind,

and Rindi myths enveloping her life

collectively became a sacred wine.

She herself was blind. From birth, a child

of nights in thousands with no glimpse of day,

but those blind eyes of hers appeared to be

a dark well’s floor, the pupil of all song.

The miracle that she had brought with her

was human soulplay on the soul of words,

the visionary’s play on weal and woe.

And we were silenced by the holiness

and we were blinded by the loveliness

in spaces bottomless where we would hark

to Songs of Rind she made up in the dark.
 49 THE BLIND WOMAN
The lengthy way I’ve traveled here

from Rind to these environs

is night in color like the way

I took in Rind.

Dark as before. As always.

But the dark turned cooler.
That was where the change lay.
All tolerable dark abandoned me

and to my temples
and to my bosom, kindred to the spring,
cold darkness came and settled in

forever.
A dismal rushing in the Rindic aspen

rattled in the night. I started shivering.

It was autumn. They talked of the maples ablaze,

the sunset in a valley not far distant,

It was described as red

with gleaming spokes and evening-purple.

And facing it the forest stood, they said,

flaring against the night.

They mentioned too the shade beneath the trees

ever whiter with the coming of the frost

as if its grass had been the summer's hair

quickly aging.

This is how it was described to me:

a backdrop of a fresh-frost white on gold

that flamed up when the summer paid in full

its debt to the collection-agent, cold.

And autumn’s grand excesses were described:

all golden things cast into summer's grave.

The splendor spread before us, so they said,

was like a funeral in gypsy style:

its mustering of red and yellow cloths

and golden banderoles from Ispahan.

But I stood cold and silent in that dark,

only hearing everything I loved

vanish in a dark and icy wind

and the aspens final rattling told

that soon the summer would lie dead in Rind.

The wind then shifted round

and in the night

came the black and terrifying heat.

I fell into the arms of someone

running toward me.

And this someone frightened me.

How could I know in that hot darkness

who it was

that caught me as I fell, embraced me.

If it was a devil or a person.

Because the roaring grew, the hot wind swelled

into a hurricane,

and he who held me cried out ever louder,

yet in a voice that seemed so far away:

Shield your eyes. It's coming. You'll be blinded.

Then I made my voice as piercing as I could

and shrieked in answer: I am blind

and therefore shielded. I have never seen,

but always only felt the land of Rind.

Then he released me, running for his life,

where I don’t know, in the dark’s hot roar

outvoiced only by a sudden burst

of fearsome thunderclaps from far away

rolling in my direction, and I blind.

Then down I fell again and set off creeping.

I crept the forests of the land of Rind.

I succeeded in reaching a hollow in the rocks

where the trees weren't falling, the heat was not intense.

There I lay, happy almost, amid rocks

and prayed god Rind for help and for my soul’s defense.
And someone from the roar entered the hollow

(O miracle)
and bore me to a van with closed compartments

and someone transported me all through the night

to Rindon airfield
where a refugee-agent, silenced

by a voice shout-shattered, hoarsely wheezed

my number and my name and bade me join

the current bound for the goldonder-sluice.

The years that followed were my destiny.

On the Martian tundra I learned how,
like an envoy sent from Rind, to move the guard

with sad songs for a destiny so hard.

I learned to read the braille of mighty screams

in faces which I felt of with my hand.

It was as songstress for “Reclaim the Tundra”

that later I would go back to my land.

It was cold there now, all plantlife injured.
But stubborn wills persisted in their plan

to save the soil by means of a new substance

science had discovered: geosan.

How that would come about I can’t explain,

and many said the idea would misfire.
“What none could do, but everyone's desire”

the plan was called in common conversation.

So I up and left my home and inspiration

for my songs about the land of Rind and sought

the post of singer, serving Chamber Three.

I’m there now, singing “Ah the Dale, ah me!”

and “Little Bird out in the Rosewoods Yonder.”
But also “The Cast-Iron Song” a Gonder

sings so often here in our goldonder.

All struggling for heaven is a struggling for joy
and the aim of every heart is paradise.

How baleful, then, if shady powers should lead

and gather those consumed with wrath and greed

into that struggle, darkening its advance

with flags of vengeance, hate, intolerance.

How hard for mankind to perceive the true

as a natural desire that can be realized.

How hard to know one’s way so early on.

How hard to stand there droning at the altar,

appealing to a god about whose laws

the only thing we know is that he suffers

from all that does not wholly serve his cause.

How hard to fit belief to daily living.

How hard to grasp a god of sacrifice.

How hard not to be thinking in our silence:

must still more sacrificial blood be let

and why have executioners not vanished yet?

How hard not to be thinking in our silence.

And practices of grace, how hard to grasp

for one who's never spoken with the dead

and never found an answer from those graves
to which no fairies steal with magic staves,

for from death’s bonds only one has come

to meet his god when all the others, dumb

and blind among the miseries of decay,

must lie there till all time has passed away.

How hard to keep one’s faith in life to come.

How right to have the wish for life to come.

It witnesses to a delight in living

and an urge to see its loveliness once more,

not simply die like dragonflies on shore.

How right to witness a delight in living.

How right to set one’s life above one’s death.

How hard the squirming in a grave-deep crevice.

How easy to believe in life to come.

Sunk in earth the generations lie

in stark-blind fields beneath the springtime wind

and as one choir they raise their voices high

in blindmen’s anthems to the land of Rind.

With the limbs of their bodies ravaged into soil

daily they celebrate their god gone blind

who knows all things and has no need to see

those shapes of life whose raiment he assigned.

The tender elements will rot away,

the solid elements are meant to hold;

but time does pass and soon there comes a day

when solid elements decay to mould.

And soon with ease their chorus is delivered

to the tops of trees, and every leaf is breathing

to any breeze that may be passing by

that death, lapped in summer, makes a joyful seething,

As selflessly as lovely summers do,

so the soul of life goes, as ungraspable

as lovely summers which have gone away

and every year come visiting anew.

 ☾ ☾ ☾

Enthralled, we listen to the sightless maid.

Then several speak from where they stand, tight-lipped:

What lovely words she summoned to her aid.

What lovely words she came upon in Rind.

But merely words they are, and merely wind.

 50 THE ARCH-COMIC SANDON
The arch-comic Sandon was living in space and delighted

each woman and man whom sensations of light-years united.

When the sun had averted its blaze from the bands of deported,
at our nightmare paresis the arch-comic Sandon cavorted.

If delight dropped to zero from suns glaring out from afar,

the arch-comic Sandon gave voice to a screech called a Blahr.

We howled when he entered on stage with his three-legged car.

Our thanks was a howl and he answered right back with a blahr.

But everything falls to the grave, which adores jeux d’esprit.

The arch-comic Sandon was lost in the vast cosmic sea.

Used up and worn down by the burdensome fortunes of man,

the arch-comic gave up his blahr, filling out his life-span.

 51
A lady of the world, a beautiful gold leaf

upon a choice branch of the Yedis nobles,

exquisite of shape, her hair divided

on the left side blue, the right side black

and with a splendid stone comb

of rarest Yabian fire-agate
in a finely upswept bun, the height of hairstyle,
is describing to another Yedis lady

how, in her palanquin, she once looked out

from Geining Highland to the Setokaidi Sea,
where the moon rose like a perfect lantern

with the sated glow of autumn.

I find both of these ladies

on a day when I am sorting mima shards

and playing them in shock and solitude.

Once the mima captured their attractions,

the wonder of their beauty, Yedis-eyed.

And the language they had spoken at one time
by the Setokaidi Sea.

To think that Mima is no longer with us.

To think that Our Superior is dead.

I cannot grasp it. Nothing now makes sense.

The goddess dead of grief. And we condemned.

 52 SHARDS FROM MIMA
Look at her, the one wound tight

in the latest fashions, walking in her casing

like a mannequin.
Ah me, she is forever worthy by the sea

that curves from Teb to Cape Atlantis.

in aphroditic surreality
to be preserved forever uncorroded
by time and salt.

Don’t believe it.

That woman has lain moldering
four million years, and nobody,

not even the mighty culture

that bore her, has left the faintest trace.

O, what a beauty.
Lord God, how can you?

And what lovely and modern clothing.

Heba, do you see

that marvelous belt
and the cut of the waistline,

what attention
to the possibility of women living

a garments life

in time, season by season

but all the same

so deeply merged with art and beauty

that its proper backdrop is the sea

at Cape Atlantis.

God, how can you?

Where is pain the greatest?

In you who garner all?

In us who see and know

how all is garnered?

Your omnipotence—our impotence.

Switch off. We'll go and yurg.

Did you see?

That outfit can be partially co-ordinated

with the Tany line, with Yibb and Sesi-Yedis

and other styles of cut

from Dorisburg.
 53 THE SPEAR
In our eleventh year we saw a vision,

the narrowest and meagerest of visions:

a spear that traveled through the Universe.

We both had come out of the same direction

and it did not veer off, but held its course.

Its rate of speed exceeded the goldonder’s
so that the spear
moved promptly off beyond us.

But afterwards we sat in groups for hours,

speaking excitedly with one another
about the spear, about its path and origin.

But no one knew, and nobody could know.

Some tried to guess, but nobody believed.

In some sense, it was not to be believed,

lacked meaning as an object of belief.

It was simply flying through the Universe.

The Void-spear moved along its pointless course.

But nonetheless this vision had

the power to alter many people’s brains:

Three went mad, one was a suicide.

And still another started up a sect,

a shrill, dry, tediously ascetic crew

from whom Aniara long had much ado.

So we were all struck by the spear, head on.

 54 CHEFONE’S GARDEN
Intending to keep in close touch with the Researcher Corps,

the High Command gave them a dinner in “Spring Evermore,”

the sort of a greenhouse goldonders have always in place,

in folk humor known as “the flying plantations of space.”

The best part of man there keeps watch over all that is born.
They are miniature Edens where nothing is ragged and torn,

where from nights of the clear staring spaces and glinting

machinery,
mankind can be back and at home among soft living greenery.

Our High Command sat now alongside the Researcher Corps,

and the question was: how to protect our own “Spring Evermore”?

How act to preserve ever more of the life of the race,

how safeguard our heirloom of “flying plantations of space”?

They cast their eyes first on the beautiful park all around,

encircled by arches that vanished in grass-mantled ground.

Picture-perfect it was: the glowing spring heavens, the Edenic hedge

with a circular streamlet contrived along its inner edge.

Up to the sky, which the eye looked on last, a dove flew.

A woman unclothed was sitting in grass hyssop-blue.

Ample of bosom and posed for her beauty’s enhancing,

she seemed to me wondrously fair, for the dusk was advancing.

Why, to her very eyebrows the woman's great beauty held bright,
and that was the cause for my stepping so close to the sight.

But in spite of the drinks I had lately got under my belt,

seldom had beauty dealt pain like the pain this one dealt.

I kept rubbing my eyes, not believing that I was awake:

for this was the Maid of the Mount whom a Dragon did take.

That hackneyed old ballad which no one could tolerate singing

was reality here in the seas where goldonders were swinging.

They dismiss the adventure, and see just the woman undressed.

Will the Mount be dismissed? Will the Dragon too be dispossessed?

But I, though the High Command’s guest, nonetheless wanted fact

about how dragons order their lives, how they manage and act.
I asked her: How is it, my beauty, so charming, so bare,

could this park where you dwell serve the Dragon perchance as his
lair?

She answered: I’m one of the folk in the fire crying Sombra

and you're of the folk who cremated all life in Xinombra.

My hate for your people’s as hard as my loving embrace

of each tree, of each plant in “the flying plantations of space.”

Then Chefone’s chamber grew dark as I entered, astounded,

and by blackening shame my abundant distress was compounded.

I had to recoil at the look that the slave maid conferred,

and I no more found meaning in anything else that occurred.

In silence I bowed to her nakedness, then walked away

as up to the heavens all manner of birds raised their lay.

And with Chefone hardly concerned that I stay in my place,

I slipped off unobserved from “the flying plantations of space.”

But long did I think of that woman so lovely and bare.

And long did I feel that the Dragon and I were a pair.
 55
At the Planetarium deck, which is protected

by a bright transparent plexi-bowl,

the lifts are emptied of whoever wish

to use the star-deck for a quiet stroll

and see approaching us a nova’s flare

from out the coils of Berenice’s hair.

The astronomer—made humble by his trade—

tells us how a universe is gaming

in distant galaxies with novas flaming

and, tired of gifts forever being made
the photophage, with unimaginable ire

suddenly breaks down and flings the fire

of an exhausted love's concluding blaze

into the photophage’s thankless rays.

A cheeky space snob listens with contempt

and in a stock tone of the Late Goldondian

wherein one instantly perceives the Gondian

disgustedly he hones a phrase and down
it sinks into a whisper of derision

level with his weary, deep-space frown.

This caused the ship’s astronomer to freeze

and close with apologies that evening’s show

of points of interest in the cosmic seas.

 56
One day I met Chefone in the passageway

leading into Gopta Chamber Three.

With scorn he asked: “What do the birdies say

this year, your Doris-thrush and chickadee?

Is the mima now recovered from her smart?

I saw you hunting long and feverishly
beneath her bosom for what ailed her heart.
Perhaps you found the wee locality.”

I blurt a scared goldonder-salutation,

reporting to him that she died of grief.
Although clairvoyant, she saw no salvation

for people caged within this demon-fief.

Then Chefone guffaws as though he saw

the funniest of sights in Mima’s dens,

and I want to collapse in mute despair,

remembering my home in Doric glens.

But Chefone, bored senseless by all tears,

walks on and leaves me standing stiff and cold,