Brady
77691
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Brady
Ich rauch erstmal eine....
Cyprinus schrieb:prinzhessin schrieb:
Aber echt, was ein Depp!
Schön, dass Du so eine differenzierte Meinung hast. Was, bitte erwartest Du von einem guten Buch? Ein paar Vorschläge:
[ulist]Spannungsbogen. Bogen (hat Enden!)Entwicklung der Hauptpersonen (z.B. Jon Schnee)Überschaubarkeit der Handlungsstränge [/ulist]
Ich bezweifle nicht, dass der Erzählstil gefällig ist. Nur er Mann verzettelt sich total. Das finde ich so langsam frustrierend.
Depp du raffst es nicht einmal....
Schobberobber72 schrieb:Brady schrieb:Aragorn schrieb:Schobberobber72 schrieb:Basaltkopp schrieb:
Und Peterchen kommt voll aggro von seiner Mondfahrt zurück. Zum Kotzen!
Allerdings! Dabei hätte ich wetten können, dass Ernie den guten Bert auch schon des öfteren mit seinem Besenstiel bearbeitet hat!
Wenn ich das so lese, könnte man fast meinen, daß Du selbst gerne "in der Mitte" liegen würdest und Dir ordentlich einen vom Orange- und Gelbkopp verplätten lassen würdest!
geb mal in der forensuche rosa wg und schobberobber72...
Depp
Komisch...ich frag mich grad warum Aragorn sich löschen hat lassen...
Aragorn schrieb:Schobberobber72 schrieb:Basaltkopp schrieb:
Und Peterchen kommt voll aggro von seiner Mondfahrt zurück. Zum Kotzen!
Allerdings! Dabei hätte ich wetten können, dass Ernie den guten Bert auch schon des öfteren mit seinem Besenstiel bearbeitet hat!
Wenn ich das so lese, könnte man fast meinen, daß Du selbst gerne "in der Mitte" liegen würdest und Dir ordentlich einen vom Orange- und Gelbkopp verplätten lassen würdest!
geb mal in der forensuche rosa wg und schobberobber72...
To be or not to be, that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing, end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover’d country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action. – Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember’d.
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing, end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover’d country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action. – Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember’d.