Jumat, 26 Juli 2013

[E967.Ebook] Ebook C5R03 - Royal Conservatory Celebration Series - Piano Repertoire Level 3 Book 2015 Edition, by Royal Conservatory

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C5R03 - Royal Conservatory Celebration Series - Piano Repertoire Level 3 Book 2015 Edition, by Royal Conservatory

The Piano Repertoire books provide a representative collection of pieces from the Baroque, Classical, Romantic, and contemporary style periods. These volumes are the ultimate resource for examinations, recitals, festivals, competitions, auditions, and personal enjoyment.

About Celebration Series!

Celebration Series, is a comprehensive series of Repertoire and Etudes for piano presenting a well-rounded collection of music from the Baroque era to the present day. Featuring an outstanding spectrum of piano literature, each book includes high quality recordings to inspire practice and performance. Celebration Series, 2015 Edition provides teachers and students with a thoroughly engaging and pedagogically sound collection of teaching materials.



List A: Baroque Repertoire
Harlequinade Composed by Johann Ludwig Krebs
Musette in D Major, BWV Anh. 126 Composed by Johann Sebastian Bach (attr.)
Menuet in E flat major Composed by Johann Mattheson
Polonaise in G Minor, BWV Anh. 119 Composed by Johann Sebastian Bach (attr.)
Gavotte in G Major, HWV 491 Composed by George Frideric Handel
Gigue A L'Angloise Composed by Georg Philipp Telemann
List B: Classical and Classical-style Repertoire
Sonatina in C Major, op. 36, no. 1 (I, II, III) Composed by Muzio Clementi
Sonatina in A Minor, op. 94, no. 4 (I) Composed by Albert Biehl
Sonatina in G Major (I) Composed by Thomas Attwood
Sonatina No. 2 in F Major, op. 257, no. 2 (IV: Finale) Composed by Theodore Lack
List C: Romantic, 20th-, and 21st-century Repertoire
The Song of Twilight Composed by Yoshinao Nakada
Arctic Voices Composed by Susan Griesdale
Variations On A Russian Folk Song Composed by Isaak Berkovich
Holiday Parade Composed by Rhonda Bennett
A Little Piece, op. 6, no. 11 Composed by Alexander Gedike
Clowns, Op. 39, No. 20 Composed by Dmitri Kabalevsky
Allegro Moderato Composed by Bela Bartok
Wild Mignonette, op. 205, no. 1 Composed by Cornelius Gurlitt
Funny Puppy Composed by Anne Crosby Gaudet
Morning Prayer, Op. 39, No. 1 Composed by Pyotr Il'yich Tchakovsky
Picnic 1920 Composed by Mike Schoenmehl
Interlude Composed by Martha Mier
Zinc Pink Composed by Dennis Alexander
Summer Drought Composed by Janet Gieck

  • Sales Rank: #60225 in Books
  • Brand: The Frederick Harris Music Company
  • Published on: 2015-04-01
  • Binding: Paperback
  • 40 pages

Most helpful customer reviews

1 of 1 people found the following review helpful.
Excellent Curriculum
By S. Wang
I teach piano full time and my students enter into the Royal Conservatory's adjudication twice a year. This is part of the standard curriculum, which means you will never have to worry about choosing the wrong pieces. Additionally, I appreciate the design of the curriculum. The choices cover different periods/styles. The complexity and challenges are progressive, but the pieces remain between 1-3 pages long which allows the students to accomplish their tasks. For me, the added value of the shorter pieces is the students can get through more new music on an ongoing basis. This strengthens their sight reading ability.

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Kamis, 25 Juli 2013

[U238.Ebook] Free Ebook Keep Chickens!: Tending Small Flocks in Cities, Suburbs, and Other Small Spaces, by Barbara Kilarski

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Keep Chickens!: Tending Small Flocks in Cities, Suburbs, and Other Small Spaces, by Barbara Kilarski

No matter how small your lot is, you can keep chickens and enjoy fresh eggs every morning. Barbara Kilarski shares her passion for poultry as she fills this guide with tips and techniques for successfully raising chickens in small spaces. Spotlighting the self-sufficient pleasures of tending your own flock, Kilarski offers detailed information on everything from choosing breeds that thrive in tight quarters and building coops to providing medical care for sick animals. You’ll have fun as you keep happy and productive chickens.

  • Sales Rank: #1580342 in eBooks
  • Published on: 2015-02-27
  • Released on: 2015-02-27
  • Format: Kindle eBook

From Booklist
Chickens are hot right now, as attested by articles on backyard chickens in the Wall Street Journal and House and Garden (not to mention Martha Stewart and her palatial henhouses). Kilarski is a self-proclaimed "city chick," and her approach to chicken keeping reflects this background. This is a book for people who want to keep chickens in the city or suburbs, not for those with large flocks in the country. Kilarski also makes an important point--keeping chickens in this context really means keeping hens, as roosters with their crowing are generally illegal in urban areas. In eight short chapters, the author covers the basics of chicken keeping, including feeds and feeding, coop and henhouse design, breeds that are suitable for backyard flocks, and recipes featuring the fresh eggs that the hens will provide. Sidebars offer factoids about chickens and poultry keeping. The text is profusely illustrated with period advertisements and includes a color gallery of hens and coops. Nancy Bent
Copyright � American Library Association. All rights reserved

Review
..".the pet of choice...could well be the lowly chicken. From Washington State to Martha's Vineyard, upscale homeowners are placing orders for fancy chickens, hatching their own chicks, and signing up for classes on raising the birds."

From the Back Cover

If you find yourself reading up on fancy breeds of chickens, if you've taken to sketching coop designs on cocktail napkins, then you're ready to join the nationwide chicken boomlet! And you need Keep Chickens!

Most helpful customer reviews

38 of 40 people found the following review helpful.
a really nice book! but watch out for one dangerous piece of advice
By N. Ferguson R.
This is a nice introduction for those thinking about keeping a few pet chickens. An easy, quick, and fun read. The author's enthusiasm is infectious. She helps you to feel that you, too, can keep chickens! :)

I was disappointed by one part of the book, though. The author strongly advocates using rat poison to deal with the rodents that inevitably want to dip into chicken feed and invade chicken coops. She states that using a box for the poison which has a small entry hole will prevent cats and dogs from being poisoned. Don't count on it! Rat poison is an anticoagulant which slowly kills rats and mice by causing massive internal bleeding. When cats or dogs catch and eat these sick, miserable rodents (or scavenge dead rodents) they are inevitably killed, too-- there is no effective treatment. I personally know of two dogs and two cats which died horrible deaths after ingesting poisoned rodents. So... unless you want to risk killing your own pets and your neighbor's pets, avoid rat poison. There are plenty of other alternatives on the market.

All of the chicken books I have read have the same advice regarding poison, so this isn't a downside for this particular book. (The Storey Guide by Gail Damerow has a little more guidance about which poisons are the most dangerous, but still advocates using poison.) Overall, it was a great book!

53 of 58 people found the following review helpful.
Great book for the small flock owner!
By Okie in Alaska
Ok, I have to be honest. I don't own any chickens.... yet. I plan on building a coop this spring and getting some though. I have been reading lots of books on chickens and I recommend this one for the small flock owner along with Storey's Guide to Raising Chickens.
For one thing Keeping Chickens is more warm fuzzy, pro-chicken as pets kind of book than any of the other books I have read. Some of the other books get a little dry especially in the "processing" chapter. I can only have three hens and they are going to be pampered pets so the "processing" parts don't interest me.
It has some nice color pictures in the middle and lots of good chicken advice throughout. I was dissapointed by the lack of more detailed coop design although she gives lots of good tips and advice on building one.
I do have one bone to pick with the author though. The book lists some of the major cities and their chickens laws and it got Juneau's wrong. She listed that there were no rules and cited the animal control ordinances as proof. Actually, there are rules and they are in title 49 of the zoning and planning ordinances. Be warned, check your local laws for yourself. Call Animal Control, the Humane Society or the City and double check!

23 of 24 people found the following review helpful.
Charming except for one thing...
By C. M. Okon
I love the simplicity of this little book. The author makes it sound so doable to keep chickens in the city. However, I was dismayed to read that she so flippantly suggests using poison as way to manage rats, who are inevitably drawn to the chicken feed. Well, the problem with poisoning rats--who die of a "bad stomache" as she describes it -- is that these rats not only suffer a horribly cruel demise but also could be eaten by predators such as raptors who will suffer a similar end. I know this very thing happened in San Francisco, where the red tailed hawk population was affected by rat poison placed in Golden Gate Park.
I am just surprised that a book published by an "eco friendly" company would allow such a cavalier recommendation to use a method that is anything but eco-friendly in the larger sense. I love chickens but there is a larger world and context beyond them. Still, it is useful and enjoyable how-to on raising chickens, and if it were minus the presumptious attitude about ridding the coop of rats it would be something I'd recommend.

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Rabu, 24 Juli 2013

[L231.Ebook] Ebook Download Live Life My Way, by Ed Walsh

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Live Life My Way, by Ed Walsh

I wrote this book as a answer to the many people, like myself, who have grown tired of their lifestyle and are seeking a new one . A change of lifestyles ,one from the 40 hour week doldrums of surviving from paycheck to paycheck to one which offers the meeting of new friends, world wide travel, adventure, and exploring. The new lifestyle I chose was to do these things aboard a sailboat where living costs are low and adventure is high. My book talks about how to survive in this new lifestyle and it's contents can be used as a reference if you decide you need a change too. Not many of us were born with a silver spoon in our mouths and I may not have ever been a millionaire but I have met some who have become friends with my wife and I. My lifestyle change went from a machinest to a carpenter to a full time sailor and its sometimes pitfalls which I describe as "pot-holes in Paradise" "Live Life My Way" is an enjoyable book to read and offers many helpful hints as to a lifestyle change so you too can enjoy freedom from your "time clock life."It all started with a dream. Maybe it will affect you the same way.

  • Sales Rank: #2173257 in eBooks
  • Published on: 2011-10-19
  • Released on: 2011-10-19
  • Format: Kindle eBook

Most helpful customer reviews

1 of 1 people found the following review helpful.
ED WALSH'S BOOK LIVE LIFE MY WAY
By MATT MADDOX
I HAVE JUST FINISHED READING MR. WALSH'S BOOK AND I THOROUGHLY ENJOYED READING IT. I WAS FASCINATED BY HIS AND PAT'S ADVENTURES THROUGHOUT THE CARRIBIAN AND UP AND DOWN THE INTER-COASTAL WATERWAYS. THE UPS AND DOWNS, THE JOY AND FEARS OF THEIR YEARS OF TRAVEL, WAS ASTOUNDING. HIS EXPLANATION OF THE PLACES THEY VISITED, THE NEW FRIENDS THEY MADE AND THE OLD FRIENDS THEY RECONNECTED WITH WAS VERY VIVID. THE BIRDS AND ANIMALS THEY BECAME ACQUAINTED WITH WAS VERY ENJOYABLE TO READ ABOUT. THIS IS AN EASY READ BOOK THAT I WOULD RECCOMMEND TO ANYONE THAT ENJOYS READING AS MUCH AS I DO.

1 of 1 people found the following review helpful.
So much fun
By Jane Knowles
I am so not a sailor, but followed these experiences with a grin throughout the book. I absolutely could not put it down. What a couple!! I envy their enthusiasm for taking chances and finding joy in life with their dreams and each other. Write another one...So glad to see you at Butch and Maggies!!! Now Pat needs to write her story. I am soo thirsty for more from the Walsh's. Happy trails to you both. I love your RV.

1 of 1 people found the following review helpful.
Review "Live Life My Way"
By need help lvl 9
This book is about a man who wanted to live his life outside of the "rat race" and finally did. It covers his adventures sailing, primarily in the Caribbean. It is a good book to read for anybody but especially those with similar dreams about living outside of the "rat race" from one who did.

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Selasa, 09 Juli 2013

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  • Sales Rank: #2085459 in eBooks
  • Published on: 2008-04-21
  • Released on: 2008-04-21
  • Format: Kindle eBook

From the Back Cover
Floating-Rate Securities is the only complete resource on "floaters" that fills the information void surrounding these complex securities. It explains the basics of floating rate securities, how to value them, techniques to compute spread measures for relative value analysis, and much more.

About the Author
Frank J. Fabozzi is a financial consultant, the editor of the Journal of Portfolio Management, and an Adjunct Professor of Finance at Yale University's School of Management.
Steven V. Mann is an Associate Professor of Finance at the Darla Moore School of Business, University of South Carolina. He is a consultant to investment/commercial banks and has conducted more than sixty training programs for financial institutions throughout the United States.

Most helpful customer reviews

1 of 1 people found the following review helpful.
Advanced treatment of floaters
By Prosumer21
This Fabozzi compilation provides a good treatment of floating rate securities, at a level above anything you see in the CFA material, but not by much. If you want a background in floaters, this book is a good step. For people who don't work with floaters all that much, it is good to understand the concepts here anyway because they will reinforce anything you know about fixed rate bonds and reveal any gaps you didn't know you had. With trading in CMO and ABS floaters greatly diminshed over the last 3 years, some of this book won't be relevant to too many pro's. For what it provides, the book is probably overpriced by a factor of 5, but it's not intended for the average person. I'd say the ideal reader is a bond mkt pro who needs to understand the topic. For those working actively with these securities, a 1-hr sitdown with an experienced sellside trader will accomplish the same.

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Sabtu, 06 Juli 2013

[Y204.Ebook] Free PDF A Long Way Home, by Saroo Brierley, Larry Buttrose

Free PDF A Long Way Home, by Saroo Brierley, Larry Buttrose

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A Long Way Home, by Saroo Brierley, Larry Buttrose

A Long Way Home, by Saroo Brierley, Larry Buttrose



A Long Way Home, by Saroo Brierley, Larry Buttrose

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A Long Way Home, by Saroo Brierley, Larry Buttrose

[Based on this book, the 2016 movie Lion stars Rooney Mara, Nicole Kidman, and Dev Patel.]

To know who you are, you need to know where you come from. - - A Long Way Home is a moving, poignant, and inspirational true story of survival and triumph against incredible odds. It celebrates the importance of never letting go of what drives the human spirit: hope.

At only five years old, Saroo Brierley got lost on a train in India. Unable to read or write or recall the name of his hometown or even his own last name, he survived alone for weeks on the rough streets of Calcutta before ultimately being transferred to an agency and adopted by a couple in Australia. Despite his gratitude, Brierley always wondered about his origins. Eventually, with the advent of Google Earth, he had the opportunity to look for the needle in a haystack he once called home and pore over satellite images for landmarks he might recognize or mathematical equations that might further narrow down the labyrinthine map of India. One day, after years of searching, he miraculously found what he was looking for and set off to find his family.

  • Sales Rank: #442463 in Books
  • Published on: 2014-06-12
  • Formats: Audiobook, MP3 Audio
  • Original language: English
  • Number of items: 1
  • Dimensions: 7.75" h x 5.25" w x .50" l,
  • Running time: 27000 seconds
  • Binding: MP3 CD
  • 1 pages

Review
''Vikas Adam's rich voice and smooth delivery results in a polished performance of this miraculous memoir. Verdict: Recommend to all biography/memoir listeners, especially those who enjoy stories of families reunited against long odds.'' --Library Journal (starred review)

''An incredible story.'' --BBC

About the Author
When SAROO BRIERLEY used Google Earth to find his long-lost birthplace half a world away, his story made global headlines. That story is being published in several languages around the world and has been adapted into a major feature film. Brierley was born in Khandwa, Madhya Pradesh, India. He currently lives in Hobart, Tasmania.

Excerpt. � Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
1.

Remembering

When I was growing up in Hobart, I had a map of India on my bedroom wall. My mum—my adoptive mother—had put it there to help me feel at home when I arrived from that country at the age of six to live with them in 1987. She had to teach me what the map represented—I was completely uneducated. I didn’t even know what a map was, let alone the shape of India.

Mum had decorated the house with Indian objects—there were some Hindu statues, brass ornaments and bells, and lots of little elephant figurines. I didn’t know then that these weren’t normal objects to have in an Australian house. She had also put some Indian printed fabric in my room, across the dresser, and a carved wooden puppet in a brightly colored outfit. All these things seemed sort of familiar, even if I hadn’t seen anything exactly like them before. Another adoptive parent might have made the decision that I was young enough to start my life in Australia with a clean slate and could be brought up without much reference to where I’d come from. But my skin color would always have given away my origins, and anyway, she and my father chose to adopt a child from India for a reason, as I will go into later.

The map’s hundreds of place-names swam before me throughout my childhood. Long before I could read them, I knew that the immense V of the Indian subcontinent was a place teeming with cities and towns, with deserts and mountains, rivers and forests—the Ganges, the Himalayas, tigers, gods!—and it came to fascinate me. I would stare up at the map, lost in the thought that somewhere among all those names was the place I had come from, the place of my birth. I knew it was called “Ginestlay,” but whether that was the name of a city, or a town, or a village, or maybe even a street—and where to start looking for it on that map—I had no idea.

I didn’t know for certain how old I was, either. Although official documents showed my birthday as May 22, 1981, the year had been estimated by Indian authorities, and the date in May was the day I had arrived at the orphanage from which I had been offered up for adoption. An uneducated, confused boy, I hadn’t been able to explain much about who I was or where I’d come from.

At first, Mum and Dad didn’t know how I’d become lost. All they knew—all anyone knew—was that I’d been picked off the streets of Calcutta, as it was still known then, and after attempts to find my family had failed, I had been put in the orphanage. Happily for all of us, I was adopted by the Brierleys. So to start with, Mum and Dad would point to Calcutta on my map and tell me that’s where I came from—but in fact the first time I ever heard the name of that city was when they said it. It wasn’t until about a year after I arrived, once I’d made some headway with English, that I was able to explain that I didn’t come from Calcutta at all—a train had taken me there from a train station near “Ginestlay.” That station might have been called something like “Bramapour,” “Berampur” . . . I wasn’t sure. All I knew was that it was a long way from Calcutta, and no one had been able to help me find it.

Of course, when I first arrived in Australia, the emphasis was on the future, not the past. I was being introduced to a new life in a very different world from the one I’d been born into, and my new mum and dad were putting a lot of effort into facing the challenges that experience brought. Mum didn’t worry too much about my learning English immediately, since she knew it would come through day-to-day use. Rather than trying to rush me into it, she thought it was far more important at the outset to comfort and care for me, and gain my trust. You don’t need words for that. She also knew an Indian couple in the neighborhood, Saleen and Jacob, and we would visit them regularly to eat Indian food together. They would speak with me in my own language, Hindi, asking simple questions and translating instructions and things Mum and Dad wanted me to know about how we’d live our life together. Being so young when I got lost and coming from a very basic background, I didn’t speak much Hindi, either, but being understood by someone was a huge help in becoming comfortable about my new surroundings. Anything my new parents weren’t able to communicate through gestures and smiles, we knew Saleen and Jacob could help us with, so we were never stuck.

I picked up my new language quite quickly, as children often do. But at first I spoke very little about my past in India. My parents didn’t want to push me to talk about it until I was ready, and apparently I didn’t show many signs that I gave it much thought. Mum remembers a time when I was seven, when out of the blue I got very distressed and cried out, “Me begot!” Later she found out I was upset that I had forgotten the way to the school near my Indian home, where I used to watch the students. We agreed that it probably didn’t matter anymore. But deep down, it mattered to me. My memories were all I had of my past, and privately I thought about them over and over, trying to ensure that I didn’t “beget.”

In fact, the past was never far from my mind. At night memories would flash by and I’d have trouble calming myself so I could sleep. Daytime was generally better, with lots of activity to distract me, but my mind was always busy. As a consequence of this and my determination not to forget, I have always recalled my childhood experiences in India clearly, as an almost complete picture—my family, my home, and the traumatic events surrounding my separation from them have remained fresh in my mind, sometimes in great detail. Some of these memories were good, and some of them bad—but I couldn’t have one without the other, and I couldn’t let them go.

My transition to life in another country and culture wasn’t as difficult as one might expect, most likely because, compared to what I’d gone through in India, it was obvious that I was better off in Australia. Of course, more than anything I wanted to find my mother again, but once I’d realized that was impossible, I knew I had to take whatever opportunity came my way to survive. Mum and Dad were very affectionate, right from the start, always giving me lots of cuddles and making me feel safe, secure, loved, and above all, wanted. That meant a lot to a child who’d been lost and had experienced what it was like for no one to care about him. I bonded with them readily, and very soon trusted them completely. Even at the age of six (I would always accept 1981 as the year of my birth), I understood that I had been awarded a rare second chance. I quickly became Saroo Brierley.

Once I was safe and secure in my new home in Hobart, I thought perhaps it was somehow wrong to dwell on the past—that part of the new life was to keep the old locked away—so I kept my nighttime thoughts to myself. I didn’t have the language to explain them at first anyway. And to some degree, I also wasn’t aware of how unusual my story was—it was upsetting to me, but I thought it was just the kind of thing that happened to people. It was only later, when I began to open up to people about my experiences, that I knew from their reactions it was out of the ordinary.

Occasionally the night thoughts would spill over into the day. I remember Mum and Dad taking me to see the Hindi film Salaam Bombay! Its images of the little boy trying to survive alone in a sprawling city, in the hope of returning to his mother, brought back disturbing memories so sharply that I wept in the dark cinema. After that, my parents only took me to fun Bollywood-style movies.

Even sad music of any kind (though particularly classical) could set off emotional memories, since in India I had often heard music emanating from other people’s radios. Seeing or hearing babies cry also affected me strongly, probably because of memories of my little sister, Shekila. The most emotional thing was seeing other families with lots of children. I suppose that, even in my good fortune, they reminded me of what I’d lost.

But eventually I began talking about the past. Only a month or so after my arrival, I described to Saleen my Indian family in outline—mother, sister, two brothers—and that I’d been separated from my brother and become lost. I didn’t have the resources to explain too much, and Saleen gently let me lead the story to where I wanted it to go rather than pressing me. Gradually, my English improved; we were speaking Hinglish, but we were all learning. I told Mum and Dad a few more things, like the fact that my father had left the family when I was very little. Most of the time, though, I concentrated on the present: I had started going to school, and I was making new friends and discovering a love of sport.

Then one wet weekend just over a year after I’d arrived in Hobart, I surprised Mum—and myself—by opening up about my life in India. I’d probably come to feel more settled in my new life and now had some words to put to my experiences. I found myself telling her more than ever before about my Indian family: about how we were so poor that we often went hungry, or how my mother would have me go around to people’s houses in the neighborhood with a pot to beg for any leftover food. It was an emotional conversation, and Mum held me close during our talk. She suggested that together we draw a map of the place I was from, and as she drew, I pointed out where my family’s home was on our street, the way to the river where all the kids played, and the bridge under which you walked to get to the train station. We traced the route with our fingers and then drew the home’s layout in detail. We put in where each member of my family slept—even the order in which we lay down at night. We returned to the map and refined it as my English improved. But in the whirl of memories brought on by first making that map, I was soon telling Mum about the circumstances of my becoming lost, as she looked at me, amazed, and took notes. She drew a wavy line on the map, pointing to Calcutta, and wrote, “A very long journey.”

A couple of months later, we took a trip to Melbourne to visit some other kids who had been adopted from the same Calcutta orphanage as me. Talking enthusiastically in Hindi to my fellow adoptees inevitably brought back the past very vividly. For the first time, I told Mum that the place I was from was called “Ginestlay,” and when she asked me where I was talking about, I confidently, if a little illogically, replied, “You take me there and I’ll show you. I know the way.”

Saying aloud the name of my home for the first time since arriving in Australia was like opening a release valve. Soon after that, I told an even more complete version of events to a teacher I liked at school. For over an hour and a half, she wrote notes, too, with that same amazed expression. Strange as I found Australia, for Mum and my teacher, hearing me talk about India must have been like trying to understand things that had occurred on another planet.

• • •

The story I told them was about people and places I’d turned over in my mind again and again since I arrived in Australia, and which I would continue to think about often as I grew up. Not surprisingly, there are gaps here and there. Sometimes I’m unsure of details, such as the order in which incidents occurred, or how many days passed between them. And it can be difficult for me to separate what I thought and felt then, as a child, from what I’ve come to think and feel over the course of the twenty-seven years that followed. Although repeated revisiting and searching the past for clues might have disturbed some of the evidence, much of my childhood experience remains vivid in my memory.

Back then, it was a relief to tell my story, as far as I understood it. Now, since the life-changing events that sparked after my thirtieth birthday, I am excited by the prospect that sharing my experiences might inspire hope in others.

2.

Getting Lost

Some of my most vivid memories are the days I spent watching over my baby sister, Shekila, her grubby face smiling up at me as we played peekaboo. She always looked at me with adoring eyes, and it made me feel good to be her protector and hero. In the cooler seasons, Shekila and I spent many nights waiting alone in the chilly house like newly hatched chicks in a nest, wondering if our mother would come home with some food. When no one came, I’d get the bedding out—just a few ragged sheets—and cuddle with her for warmth.

During the hot months of the year, my family would join the others with whom we shared the house and gather together outside in the courtyard, where someone played the harmonium and others sang. I had a real sense of belonging and well-being on those long, warm nights. If there was any milk, the women would bring it out and we children got to share it. The babies were fed first, and if any was left over, the older ones got a taste. I loved the lingering sensation of its sticky sweetness on my tongue.

On those evenings I used to gaze upward, amazed at how spectacular the night sky was. Some stars shone brightly in the darkness, while others merely blinked. I wondered why flashes of light would suddenly streak across the sky for no reason at all, making us “ooh” and “aah.” Afterward we would all huddle together, bundled up in our bedding on the hard ground, before closing our eyes in sleep.

That was in our first house, where I was born, which we shared with another Hindu family. Each group had their own side of a large central room, with brick walls and an unsealed floor made of cowpats and mud. It was very simple but certainly no chawl—those warrens of slums where the unfortunate families of the megacities like Mumbai and Delhi find themselves living. Despite the closeness of the quarters, we all got along. My memories of this time are some of my happiest.

My mother, Kamla, was a Hindu and my father a Muslim—an unusual marriage at the time, and one that didn’t last long. My father spent very little time with us (I later discovered he had taken a second wife), and so my mother raised us by herself.

My mother was very beautiful, slender, with long, lustrous black hair—I remember her as the loveliest woman in the world. She had broad shoulders, and limbs made of iron from all her hard work. Her hands and face were tattooed, as was the custom, and most of the time she wore a red sari. I don’t remember much about my father, since I only saw him a few times. I do recall that he wore white from top to bottom, his face was square and broad, and his curly dark hair was sprinkled with gray.

As well as my mother and my baby sister, Shekila, whose name was Muslim unlike ours, there were also my older brothers, Guddu and Kallu, whom I loved and looked up to. Guddu was tall and slim, with curly black hair down to his shoulders. He was light-skinned, and his face resembled my mother’s. Usually he wore short shorts and a white shirt—all our clothes were hand-me-downs from the neighbors, but because of the heat we didn’t need much. Kallu was heavier than Guddu, broad from top to bottom, with thin hair. On the other hand, I had short, straight, thick hair, and I was extremely skinny as a child; my face resembled my father’s more than my mother’s.

When my father did live with us, he could be violent, taking his frustrations out on us. Of course, we were helpless—a lone woman and four small children. Even after he moved out, he wanted to be rid of us altogether. At the insistence of his new wife, he even tried to force us to leave the area so that he could be free of the burden that our presence brought to bear. But my mother had no money to leave, nowhere to live, and no other way to survive. Her small web of support didn’t extend beyond our neighborhood. Eventually, my father and his wife quit the area themselves and moved to another village, which improved things for us a bit.

I was too young to understand the separation of my parents. My father simply wasn’t around. On a few occasions I found I had been given rubber flip-flops and was told he’d bought new shoes for all of us, but beyond that he didn’t help out.

The only vivid memory I have of seeing my father was when I was four and we all had to go to his house to visit his new baby. It was quite an expedition. My mother got us up and dressed, and we walked in the terrible heat to catch the bus. I remember seeing my mother coming toward me from the outdoor ticket booth, her image hazy in the wavering heat emanating from the tarmac. I kept a particular eye on Shekila, who was exhausted by the sizzling temperature. The bus journey was only a couple of hours, but with the walking and waiting, the journey took all day. There was another hour’s walk at the other end, and it was dark by the time we reached the village. We spent the night huddled together in the entranceway of a house owned by some people my mother knew (they had no room inside to offer, but the nights were hot and it wasn’t unpleasant). At least we were off the streets.

Only the next morning, after we had shared a little bread and milk, I found out that my mother wasn’t coming with us—she was not permitted. So we four children were escorted up the road by a mutual acquaintance of our parents to our father’s place. My mother would wait at her friend’s house.

Despite all this—or perhaps being oblivious to most of it—I was very happy to see my father when he greeted us at the door. We went inside and saw his new wife and met their baby. It seemed to me his wife was kind to us—she cooked us a nice dinner and we stayed the night there. But in the middle of the night I was shaken awake by Guddu. He said that he and Kallu were sneaking out, and asked if I wanted to come along. But all I wanted to do was sleep. When I woke again, it was to hear my father answering a loud knocking at the front door. A man had seen my brothers running from the village into the open countryside beyond. The man was worried they could be attacked by wild tigers.

I later learned that Guddu and Kallu had attempted to run away that night—they were upset by what was happening in our family and wanted to get away from our father and his other wife. Fortunately, they were found later that morning, safe and sound.

But one problem morphed into another: the same morning, standing in the street, I saw my father approaching and realized that he was chasing after my mother, with a couple of people following behind him. Not far from me, she suddenly stopped and spun on her heel to face him, and they argued and shouted angrily. Quickly they were joined by other people on both sides. Perhaps their personal argument tapped into the tension between Hindus and Muslims, and it quickly turned into a confrontation. The Hindus lined up with my mother, facing the Muslims, who were aligned with my father. Tempers rose very high, and many insults were exchanged. We children gravitated toward our mother, wondering what would happen with all the shouting and jostling. Then, shockingly, my father hurled a small rock that hit my mother on the head. I was right next to her when it struck her and she fell to her knees, her head bleeding. Luckily, this act of violence seemed to shock the crowds, too, cooling tempers rather than exciting them. As we tended to my mother, the crowd on both sides started to drift away.

A Hindu family found the room to take us in for a few days while my mother rested. They told us later that a police officer had taken my father away and locked him up in the cells at the village police station for a day or two.

This episode stayed with me as an example of my mother’s courage in turning to face down her pursuers, and also of the vulnerability of the poor in India. Really, it was just luck that the crowds backed off. My mother—and perhaps all of us—could easily have been killed.

Although we weren’t brought up as Muslims, after my father left, my mother moved us to the Muslim side of town, where I spent most of my childhood. She may have felt that we would fare better there, since the neighborhood was a little less destitute. Even after we moved, I don’t remember having any religious instruction as a child, other than the occasional visit to the local shrine. But I do remember simply being told one day that I wasn’t to play with my old friends anymore because they were Hindus. I had to find new—Muslim—friends. Back then the religions didn’t mix, and neither did the people.

When we moved to our new house, we all carried everything we owned, which was only some crockery and bedding. I cradled in my arms small items such as a rolling pin and light pots and pans. I was excited about being in a new place, although I didn’t really know what was happening. At that point I didn’t understand what religion was. I just saw Muslims as people who wore different garments than Hindus; the men dressed all in white and some had long beards, with white hats on their heads.

In our second home, we were by ourselves but in more cramped quarters. Our flat was one of three on the ground level of a red-brick building and so had the same cowpat-and-mud floor we’d had before. Just a single room, it had a little fireplace in one corner and a clay tank in another for water to drink and sometimes wash with. There was one shelf where we kept our sleeping blankets. Only rich people could afford electricity, so we made do with candlelight. I was afraid of the spiders that would crawl along the wall. There were mice, too, but they didn’t bother me the way the insects did. The structure was always falling apart a little—my brothers and I would sometimes pull out a brick and peer outside for fun before putting it back in place.

Our town, which I knew as “Ginestlay,” was generally hot and dry, except during the heavy rains of the monsoon. A range of large hills in the distance was the source of the river that ran past the old town walls, and in the monsoon, the river would break its banks and flood the surrounding fields. We used to wait for the river to recede after the rains stopped so we could get back to trying to catch small fish in more manageable waters. In town, the monsoon also meant that the low railway underpass filled with water from the stream it crossed and became unusable. The underpass was a favorite place for the local kids to play, despite the dust and gravel that rained down on us when a train crossed.

Our neighborhood in particular, with its broken and unpaved streets, was very poor. It housed the town’s many railway workers, and to the more wealthy and highborn citizenry, it was literally on the wrong side of the tracks. There wasn’t much that was new, and some of the buildings were tumbling down. Those who didn’t live in communal buildings lived in tiny houses like we had: one or two rooms down narrow, twisting alleyways, furnished in the most basic way—a shelf here and there, a low wooden bed and a tap over a drain, perhaps.

The streets were full of cows wandering around, even in the town center, where they might sleep in the middle of the busiest roads. Pigs slept in families, huddled together on a street corner at night, and in the day they would be gone, foraging for whatever they could find. It was almost as if they worked nine to five and clocked off to go home and sleep. Who knew if they belonged to anyone—they were just there. Most people didn’t eat pork, as it was considered unclean. There were goats, too, kept by the Muslim families, and chickens pecking in the dust.

Unfortunately, there were also lots of dogs, which scared me—some were friendly, but many were unpredictable or vicious. I was particularly afraid of dogs after I was chased by one, snarling and barking. As I ran away, I tripped and hit my head on a broken tile sticking up from the old pathway. I was lucky not to lose an eye but got a bad gash along the line of my eyebrow, which a neighbor patched up with a bandage. When I’d finally resumed my walk home, I ran into Baba, our local holy man, who would give advice and a blessing to local people. Baba told me never to be afraid of dogs—that they would only bite you if they felt you were scared of them. I tried to keep that advice in mind but remained nervous around dogs on the street. I knew from my mother that some dogs had a deadly disease that you could catch, even if they didn’t do worse than nip you. I still don’t like dogs, and I’ve still got the scar.

Since my father wasn’t around, my mother had to support us. Soon after Shekila’s birth, she went off to work on building sites. Since she was a strong woman, she was able to do the hard work involved, carrying heavy rocks and stones on her head in the hot sun. She worked six days a week from morning until dusk for a handful of rupees—something like a dollar and thirty cents. This meant that I didn’t see very much of her. Often she had to go to other towns for work and could be away for days at a time. It was a great feeling to see her walking up the street after several days’ absence. You couldn’t miss her since she always wore a red sari. Usually on Saturdays she would come home, and often she brought back some food. Yet she still couldn’t earn enough money to provide for herself and four children. At age ten Guddu went to work, too, and his first long shift of about six hours washing dishes in a restaurant earned him less than half a rupee.

We lived one day at a time. There were many occasions when we begged for food from neighbors, or begged for money and food on the streets by the marketplace and around the railway station. Sometimes my mother would send me out in the evening to knock on doors and ask for leftovers. I’d set off with a metal bowl. Some scowling people angrily shouted “Go away!” while others might have something to give me—perhaps a little kichery, biryani rice (rice layered with meat), or yogurt curry. Occasionally I got a thrashing if I was too persistent.

Once I found a partially broken glass jar near my house. It had contained mango pickle, but most of it had been scraped out. I decided to use my fingers to get what remained in the jar. I tried to avoid the glass particles, but I was so hungry that I gulped down whatever I could scoop out.

Often when walking around the neighborhood, I would see crockery that had been left outside to be cleaned. I usually checked to see if anything was stuck to the bottom of the pot. Typically any leftover food was covered with flies, which I’d shoo away before devouring whatever remained. Sometimes a dog was hanging around, and I didn’t know if it had licked the pot or not. I’d get a rock and chase it away before eating what was left. When you’re starving, you aren’t too particular about what you put into your mouth. On days when no food was available, you just wouldn’t eat.

Hunger limits you because you are constantly thinking about getting food, keeping the food if you do get your hands on some, and not knowing when you are going to eat next. It’s a vicious cycle. You want something to fill your stomach, but you don’t know how to get it. Not having enough to eat paralyzes you and keeps you living hour by hour instead of thinking about what you would like to accomplish in a day, week, month, or year. Hunger and poverty steal your childhood and take away your innocence and sense of security. But I was one of the lucky ones because I not only survived but learned to thrive.

• • •

One big impact that our Muslim neighborhood had on my upbringing wasn’t pleasant—circumcision at about age three. I don’t know why I had to endure it even though we weren’t converts to Islam—perhaps my mother thought it wise to go along with some of the local area’s customs to keep the peace, or maybe she was told it was a requirement of our living there. For whatever reason, it was done without anesthetic, so it’s unsurprisingly one of my clearest and earliest memories.

I was playing outside when a boy came up and told me I was needed at home. When I got there, I found a number of people gathered, including Baba. He told me that something important was going to happen, and my mother told me not to worry, that everything would be all right. Then several men from the neighborhood ushered me into the larger upstairs room of our building. There was a big clay pot in the middle of the room, and they told me to take my shorts off and sit down on it. Two of them took hold of my arms, and another stood behind me to support my head with his hand. The remaining two men held my body down where I sat on top of the clay pot. I had no idea what was going on, but I managed to stay fairly calm—until another man arrived with a razor blade in his hands. I cried out and tried to struggle, but they held me fast as the man deftly sliced. It was very painful but over in seconds. He bandaged me up, and my mother carried me out and took care of me on a bed.

A few minutes later, Kallu went into the upstairs room and the same thing happened to him, but not Guddu. Perhaps he’d already had it done.

That night the neighborhood held a party, with feasting and singing, but Kallu and I could only sit on our rooftop, listening. We weren’t allowed to go outside for several days, during which time we were forced to fast and wore only a shirt with no trousers while we recovered.

• • •

Most helpful customer reviews

251 of 257 people found the following review helpful.
A Wonderful real-life tale of Hope and the human spirit
By Raghu Nathan
This book tells an amazing story. There is simply no other way to describe it. It is the real-life story of Saroo, a five-year-old child in a village in central India, who gets lost and finds himself transported all the way east to Calcutta, some 1800 kms away. Young Saroo, all of five, penniless and illiterate, does not even know the name of his village and knows little else about where he was from. He gets off at the bustling, crowded Howrah train station and survives for six weeks in the intimidating bad and mean streets of Calcutta by his instincts and luck. He ends up at a benevolent orphanage called ISSA, where the kindly Ms.Saroj Sood - tries to find his family and re-unite him. But all Saroo can tell was that he was from Ginestlay, which is what he remembered as his village's name. He also mistakenly says that he travelled just overnight by train when in reality he had travelled almost 24 hours to get to Calcutta. After a couple of moths' futile effort, Mrs.Sood pronounces him 'lost' and organizes him to be adopted by Sue and John Brierley, a young couple from Tasmania, Australia.

Saroo is lovingly brought up by the Brierleys and he grows up into a happy and well-integrated Aussie over the next 20 years. However Saroo always wonders about his origins, with clear memories of his birth mother Kamala, his kid sister Shekila and elder brothers Kallu and Guddu, whom he looked up to as a child two decades before. He starts working on trying to find where he was from by using the feeble memories of his childhood. All he had to go by was that there was a train station whose name was something like 'Berampur' , that it had a water tower, an overpass across the tracks and that the town had a fountain near a cinema. His village 'Ginestlay' was somewhere nearby and that they were all reachable overnight by train from Calcutta. Gradually, over five years, with incredible patience and perseverance , Saroo, at age 30, using Google Earth's satellite images and Facebook, miraculously locates the train station with the identifying features of his childhood. He notes that a nearby town is called Khandwa and that there is a Facebook group belonging to people from Khandwa. He contacts them and gets the key info that there is a nearby village called Ganesh Talai - the 'Ginestlay' of 5-year-old Saroo! Saroo soon goes to India and reconnects with his birth family to the great delight of his elderly mother Kamala and his siblings Shekila and Kallu, who are now married with children. Sadly, Guddu, his eldest brother whom he adored as a child, was killed in an accident just on the same day that Saroo got lost 25 years before. Otherwise, it is a happy resolution for Saroo.

Not only Saroo, but his Aussie parents, Sue and John as well, come off as wonderful, loving and caring parents and individuals. Sue herself was a WWII refugee from Hungary and her story is also inspring as told it in the book. Saroo's birth mother Kamala is another remarkable woman, who never gave up hope that her son Sheru (which is his correct name!) would return one day. Hence she never moved from the shack where she lived so that she will be there when Saroo comes back! The other heroes in the book are the internet, Google Earth and Facebook! It is a great tribute to these wonderful technologies which make it possible for the adult Saroo to sit ten thousand miles away in Hobart, Australia and exactly locate the water tower and overpass of his childhood memory and find out the correct name of his village. Let no one denounce technology again!

I found the book moving, inspirational and one of hope and the indomitable spirit of the humankind. It is a story of triumph against great odds. Going through the early chapters where Saroo survives for six weeks as a five-year-old in Calcutta, I had palpitations as I felt anxious that nothing terrible should befall young Saroo! The book also has a special appeal for me since I grew up in India and lived for 13 years in wonderful Australia.

25 of 26 people found the following review helpful.
Better than the movie!
By KTMae
Much better than the movie (of course!). More details, which made for a good read, even though I knew what was going to happen. There are some places where the story drags a bit, but overall, a good story. I think the language was a bit dry, a bit flat in places, but nothing that made me want to stop reading.

See the movie, but read this too!

12 of 12 people found the following review helpful.
Extraordinary recounting and compelling story-telling skill
By Richard Parker
As Americans we can scarcely imagine what a horrific experience young Saroo endured. Had it not been for his already desperate existence up to being lost, I doubt anyone would have the guile he did to survive the circumstances he found himself in at the age of five. A remarkable recounting and captivating story.

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Rabu, 03 Juli 2013

[S593.Ebook] Ebook Download Making a Good Script Great, 3rd Ed., by Linda Seger

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Making a Good Script Great, 3rd Ed., by Linda Seger

Making a Good Script Great, 3rd Ed., by Linda Seger



Making a Good Script Great, 3rd Ed., by Linda Seger

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Making a Good Script Great, 3rd Ed., by Linda Seger

Making a good script great is more than just a matter of putting a good idea on paper. It requires the working and reworking of that idea. This book takes you through the whole screenwriting process - from initial concept through final rewrite - providing specific methods that will help you craft tighter, stronger, and more saleable scripts. While retaining the invaluable insights that placed its first two editions among the all - time most popular screenwriting books, this expanded, revised, and updated third edition adds rich and important new material on dialogue, cinematic images, and point of view, as well as an interview with screenwriter Paul Haggis. If you are writing your first script, this book will help develop your skills for telling a compelling and dramatic story. If you are a veteran screenwriter, it will help you articulate the skills you know intuitively. And if you are currently stuck on a rewrite, this book will help you analysis and solve your script's problems and get it back on track.

  • Sales Rank: #212080 in Books
  • Published on: 2010-02-15
  • Original language: English
  • Number of items: 1
  • Dimensions: 8.25" h x 5.25" w x .75" l, .75 pounds
  • Binding: Paperback
  • 242 pages

About the Author
Linda Seger runs a leading film script consultancy, and is author of ten books. She is an international authority on screenwriting. She has a number of earned degrees and a doctorate in Drama and Theology. A practicing Quaker, she lives in Colorado Springs.

Most helpful customer reviews

1 of 1 people found the following review helpful.
A solid introduction to screenwriting fundamentals
By E. M. Hobo
It's a good book, but I do believe that it teaches you how to write a good script, not necessarily a great script. It contains the fundamentals from a methodical point of view, but in terms of insight and fundamentals it comes nowhere near to Linda Seger's very own book "Creating Unforgettable Characters". In terms of screenwriting fundamentals, you can buy this book. You could also buy Screenplay by Syd Field. These two books are very much alike.

0 of 0 people found the following review helpful.
No holds barred guidelines for future filmmakers.
By MovieGuy
I was required to take this for my college courses at UTA Arlington and it wasn't a let-down; the author manages to use references to other movies (well-known or not) without distracting from the creative flow she's trying to invoke upon her readers and it adds to one's own awareness of what they use to carve out their own story.

To be frank, anyone can write, just like anyone can act, drive a car or any other function but with writing, there's no telling what you're good at or interesting in writing about until you learn some simple yet effective shortcuts from this helpful book.

0 of 0 people found the following review helpful.
A must read for professionals.
By Adam Spade
On the high end
This is exactly what every professional needs in the arsenal. It really is a thorough dismantel of the script. Linda discusses common mistakes and remedies them. Reading and applying the knowledge in this book should improve any screenwriter. Give Linda your money now.

On the low
- I wouldn't recommend this for a beginner. There's a lot of nitpicking. It will probably have most of you worrying so much that you will never finish your script. Write your script first, then rewrite it a few times, then read Linda's book, then rewrite it 6 more times. :)

- A lot of it feels like common sense to me and I get tired of the example movies, especially if I haven't seen the movie. Zzzzz..... I get the urge to skip over several paragraphs in each chapter to make it move faster and I find myself telling to the author "Yeah, I get it."

- I think that a lot of what is in this book can be driven out of oneself with the proper attitude... something along the lines of "Appreciate your readers time."

Pair this with a basic book on formatting and your screenwriting library should be near complete. Beyond that, read and write screenplays until you can write a great screenplay yourself. Then call Linda up so she can tell you what to fix in yours!

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