Everything in Its Place: The Life and Works of Virgilio Pinera: is a seminal book that fills a major gap in Cuban and Latin American literary criticism. In addition to being the most comprehensive study to date of the life and work of Virgilio Pinera, this is the first book in English on this major twentieth-century Cuban author. In this study Thomas F. Anderson draws extensively on unpublished manuscripts and diverse critical writings, bringing new insights into how Pinera's works responded to key literary influences as well as events in his life and in Cuban political and cultural history.
El diccionari UB anglès-català és el resultat d’una activitat conjunta de diferents agents que, de manera complementària, han sumat coneixements, continguts i tecnologia per fer una obra de referència rigorosa, posada al dia, útil a un ampli sector de la ciutadania i que contribueixi a eixamplar els horitzons culturals i lingüístics no solament de la comunitat universitària, sinó de la societat catalana...Pel seu contingut, constitueix una obra idònia tant per als usuaris comuns de la llengua com per a especialistes d’un ampli ventall de sectors professionals, així com per al professorat i estudiants universitaris i de cursos avançats de secundària. La mobilitat estudiantil a nivell internacional el converteix en un company de viatge imprescindible per als estudiants catalans que viatgen a l’estranger i en una eina bàsica per al coneixement de la llengua i la cultura catalanes per als qui vénen a completar els seus estudis al nostre país.
Mist (Niebla), published in 1914, is one of Miguel de Unamuno's key works; a truly Modernist work of Europe-wide significance which aims to shatter the conventions of fiction, using the novel as a vehicle for exploration of philosophical themes. The plot revolves around the character of Augusto, a wealthy, intellectual and introverted young man and his love affair with Eugenia, which eventually ends in heartbreak. Augusto decides to kill himself, but decides that he needs to consult Unamuno himself, who had written an article on suicide which Augusto had read. When Augusto speaks with Unamuno, the truth is revealed that Augusto is actually a fictional character whom Unamuno has created. Augusto is not real, Unamuno explains, and for that reason cannot kill himself. Augusto asserts that he exists, even though he acknowledges internally that he doesn't, and threatens Unamuno by telling him that he is not the ultimate author. Augusto reminds Unamuno that he might be just one of God's dreams. Augusto dies and the book ends with the author himself debating to himself about bringing back the character of Augusto. He establishes, however, that this would not be feasible. Following on from his translation of Abel Sanchez , John Macklin's edition provides a much needed new English translation, alongside the Spanish text, together with a substantial introduction.
In recent years adaptation studies has established itself as a discipline in its own right, separate from translation studies. The bulk of its activity to date has been restricted to literature and film departments, focussing on questions of textual transfer and adaptation of text to film. It is however, much more interdisciplinary, and is not simply a case of transferring content from one medium to another. This collection furthers the research into exactly what the act of adaptation involves and whether it differs from other acts of textual rewriting. In addition, the 'cultural turn' in translation studies has prompted many scholars to consider adaptation as a form of inter-semiotic translation. But what does this mean, and how can we best theorize it? What are the semiotic systems that underlie translation and adaptation? Containing theoretical chapters and personal accounts of actual adaptions and translations, this is an original contribution to translation and adaptation studies which will appeal to researchers and graduate students.
Esta es la historia de la trama secreta del apoyo Soviético durante la guerra de Malvinas.'Todo comenzó con reuniones secretas entre agentes de la SIDE y la KGB.La OTAN y los Estados Unidos, conjuntamente bloquearon el envío de armas para Argentina. Esta historia revela el camino de esas armas y tecnologías, y cómo las grandes potencias intervinieron directamente en dicho conflicto.
Imagnate encontrarte en una oscuridad miedosa, llena de preguntas, dudas, y dolor. Imagnate que tu vida cambie en un instante tan drsticamente que no te reconozcas. Los cambios en la vida son difciles, pero ms an cuando uno no escoge esos cambios. El accidente que ocurri en un diciembre caluroso le cambi la vida a Amparo para siempre. Recibe este regalo de amor y compasin, esta aventura y reencuentro con seres amados. Acompaa a Amparo y a su familia en esta historia de apoyo y descubrimiento, del valor de la familia y los amigos eternos. Es la historia una nueva vida, Otra Oportunidad.
ALTHOUGH it was springtide by the calendar, and already some little way advanced, the snow time was by no means over in that wild Border country. The exact date was April 19. I fix it by the fact that my birthday falls on the 18th, and that I spent that one, the twenty-third, in an old-fashioned hotel at Wooler, and celebrated it by treating myself at dinner to the best bottle of wine the house afforded. It may have been the bottle of wine—but more likely it was sheer ignorance and presumption—that prompted me next morning to attempt what proved to be an impossible feat of pedestrianism. I set out immediately after breakfast intending before nightfall to make a complete circuit of the country which lies between Wooler and the Scottish border, going round by Kirknewton, Coldburn, and the Cheviot, and getting back to my starting-point by Hedgehope Hill and Kelpie Strand. That would have been a big walk on a long and fair summer day; in the uncertainty of a northern April it was a rash venture, which landed me in a highly unpleasant situation before the close of the afternoon. The morning was bright and promising, and for many enjoyable hours all went well. But about three o’clock came a disappearance of the sun and a suspicious darkening of the sky and lowering of temperature; before long snow began to fall, and in a fashion with which I, a Southerner, was not at all familiar. It was thick, it was blinding, it was persistent; it speedily obscured tracks, and heaped itself up in hollows; I began to have visions of being lost in it. And between five and six o’clock I found myself in this position—as far as I could make out from my pocket-map, I was at some point of the Angle between the Cheviot, Cairn Hill, and Hedgehope Hill and at the western extremity of Harthope Burn, but for all practical purposes I might as well have been in the heart of the Andes. I could just make out the presence of the three great hills, but I could see nothing of any farmstead or dwelling; what was worse, no house, wayside inn, or village was marked on my map—that is, within any reasonable distance. As for a path, I had already lost the one I was on, and the snow by that time had become a smooth thick white carpet in front of me; I might be safe in stepping farther on that carpet, and I might sink into a hole or bog and be unable to get out. And the nearest indicated place—Middleton—was miles and miles away, and darkness was coming, and coming quickly. The exact spot in which I made these rough reckonings was at the lee side of a coppice of young fir, whereat I had paused to rest a while and to consider what was best to be done. Clearly, there was only one thing to do!—to struggle on and trust to luck. I prepared for that by taking a pull at my flask, in which, fortunately, there was still half its original contents of whisky and water left, and finishing the remains of my lunch. But the prospect that faced me when I presently left my shelter and rounded the corner of the coppice was by no means pleasant. The snow wasfalling faster and thicker, and darkness was surely coming. It looked as if I was either to struggle through the snow for more miles than I knew of, or be condemned to creep under any shelter I could find and pass a miserable night. But even then my bad luck was on the turn. Going onward and downward, from off the moorland towards the valley, I suddenly realised that I had struck some sort of road or made track; it was hard and wide, as I ascertained by striking my stick through the snow at various places. And just as suddenly, a little way farther to the east, I saw, bright and beckoning, the lights of a house.
