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Martian Chronicles

What would you say if you give to read a book about a future time and past (a novel written decades ago and set between 1999 and 2029)? What if, moreover, speaks of a slightly different Mars to Earth, where humans travel by rocket (yes, rockets, those silver floor landing, and even a family can rent and drive) and Mars ( yes, yes, Mars) are slightly lower, with gold eyes, tanned skin, drink, air and use dreams as a means to communicate (or not)?

Ya. The suspension of disbelief going for a walk. And the sense of wonder it would be very crude to sustain the story by herself.

And yet ...

However, Ray Bradbury wrote this fix-up with such foundations, some elements of the narrative, and in 1949, must have seemed a trifle, a trifle unlikely. Still, after so many years as a reader (but taking into account, alas, how many rare books are for reading me ...), with each rereading remains at that position. The

my favorite book.

The secret is not so, some precisely that sense of unreality with which they open the book, which sets the tone to continue: Bradbury does not intend to narrate a space adventure, an epic epic even if some of it in the history of the colonization of Mars, or a speculation about another civilization: The Martian Chronicles is above all an inner journey. As such, opens with a rocket, with the ignition, bringing a sudden and fleeting summer to winter in Ohio. No epic, no futuristic environments, without fanfare, a rocket, a landscape, a mood. One of the best-looking statements.

This inner journey before us, the Martians will, on occasion, as the counterpoint clearly guilty of a humanity beset by self-destructive compulsion. Later, they become a victim struggling to survive by taking advantage of weaknesses human, to succumb to a man who is incapable of having something beautiful without destroying it.


But if the destructive zeal of humanity is the axis that the book (as almost all the characters, for one reason or another, fleeing from it, say it is the engine of almost any action) the real issues Martian Chronicles the carrying these in their backpacks: loneliness, misunderstanding, broken dreams, imagination mediocrity, the social mediocrity, hope. Yes, because the last two stories, perhaps the most moving of the genre, just a spark of hope that gives the book a minimum tone do not desperately optimistic pessimist. And, in turn, offers some redemption for the cruel and self-destructive nature of man.

In short, The Martian Chronicles can be described as a science fiction fable, a story book for adult children, or adults who have a sense of wonder of children. A book to be seduced. A wonderful book.

What Is The Price For L.a. Fitness

A mob solo

I'm afraid that the facts I mention are much more common than many would like.

Monday morning, about 8:30 am, on the platform 2 of the suburban train station Arc de Triomf. Camino del curro. Kneaded, like all morning, and is seen my natural habitat is under the sheets. Resigned (and, I repeat, very dog-eared, which makes me rather limited amount), mackerel me on the narrow sidewalk toward the provisional output.

Arc de Triomf is one of the oldest stations. I correct: it is one of the stations look more like a relic of the entire network. A barrel vault so narrow, poorly lit that resembles a crypt or catacombs, suffering chronically damp, scrubby platforms and, worst of all, fairly deep and with access only by stairs. Not a lift or a ramp. Stairs. For a year or so is works (well) to make it a exchanger accessible for everyone. Meanwhile, no one pound of those sixty-odd steps (the last section, finally, with an escalator).

If the stairs were already insufficient (for their discomfort and tightness), now at peak accumulation is stifling. The output of the west side (of Paseo de Sant Joan) are closed, and has enabled a single common output to the two platforms and train both the Metro, which is plugged in comes a convoy of Renfe. Or I'll tell you when it matches one of the Metro.

As I was saying: Monday morning at the foot of the first flight of stairs, step costaleros and just in front of me a young woman with a baby carriage prepares to take the car to pulse while people around her and leaves her behind. I approached her and has the following conversation:

Me: - Would you help him up the car? "Ask stupid as they come, the woman is not very high and is painted to have an athletic build.
She: "Yes, thank you very much, I could really use. "It's getting to the side and holding the left side of the car. I reached down and grabbed the frame on the right side. Every morning I raise my own.
Me: I look around and start a casual conversation about the future works and lifts to ease the embarrassment that makes me see how people spend everything. Every morning at rush hour, and all the whores up one morning the car down the stairs, preventing or run over those that push up and the few who dare to fall upstream. So hard and so heavy is not helping to raise a car, and pussy!