Jack london audiobook

I wonder if there were other stories woven out if that pandemic and if there might be stories to relate our current pandemic to future generations. Add to Cart failed. Please try again later. Add to Wish List failed. Remove from wishlist failed. Adding to library failed. Please try again. Follow podcast failed. Unfollow podcast failed. Stream or download thousands of included titles.

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You're getting a free audiobook. Cancel anytime. Try Audible Premium Plus free. Best Sellers. Performance ,. Story ,. Add to Cart failed. Please try again later. Add to Wish List failed. Remove from wishlist failed. Adding to library failed. His father was black and his mother came from a family of Russian Jews. When he was growing up, Mosley loved to listen to the stories his relatives told on both sides of the family.

After riots erupted in his neighborhood of Watts while he was still in high school, Mosley decided that he wanted to get as far away from Watts as he could. So he went to a small college in Vermont. He bounced around in a variety of jobs for a while, selling pottery and then working as a computer programmer.

He began writing a novel about a character named Easy Rawlins, living in Los Angeles in the late s, and the result was his book Devil in a Blue Dress It became a bestseller, and Mosley has written several more novels featuring Easy Rawlins. The latest is Charcoal Joe Pigs have provided heart valves for people and now kidneys are a possibility and who knows? Maybe knees and hearts and brain tissue.

Donor pigs, of course, would need to be treated with deference. Donor pigs would live in comfortable condos with clean mud baths and be served individual meals on plates and would be transported aboard buses, not in livestock trucks. This goes without saying. I am an animal, I know it. Beneath our thin veneer of spirituality and intellect, we are beasts. I, of course, know people who have close emotional relationships with dogs. Some of them sleep with their dogs.

I also know people who imagine they have an emotional relationship with a cat but the cat knows better. I never formed those friendships because my dad was a farmboy and our dog Cappy was an outdoor dog whose job it was to keep foxes from eating the chickens and raccoons out of the sweet corn. He slept in the garage. Dogs had jobs back then. Lassie rescued small children from quicksand. Rin Tin Tin was part of the war effort. My aunt had a little poodle, basically a pillow who pooped, and Dad knew that she slept with the dog and to him this was a shameful thing, not to be spoken of.

The pig research, and other medical advances, are motivated by the urge toward longevity that my generation feels keenly, a desire to venture into the 90s. My grandfathers died at age 73, which probably seemed long enough to them, life being less of a picnic in the early 20th, but my confreres, whom I saw at a class reunion in September, seem rather immature compared to how old people used to be and are eager to see more of the world and if some pig parts would facilitate that, my friends would be agreeable.

To me, the 90s are foreign territory, like going to Eritrea. I never met an Eritrean, I know nothing about the place. He has turned He left me a voice mail message the other day. He and Gloria are fine.

I love October and I hate to see it pass so quickly. My love and I ate dinner outdoors last Friday and it felt like the Last Time and as an old man I find Lasts rather painful. Vietnamese film production is extremely crude by U. And their films, like the people themselves, are overtly and unabashedly sentimental. Still, the central character in this Vietnamese film is an American played by a French-Vietnamese actor named Robert Hai, 51 , and, though he is not quite convincing, Quang has made a serious attempt to portray Americans as real people with depth and substance, something I have yet to see Americans do with Vietnamese in our films about the war.

During the war, all it had meant to me was foreign soldiers in my city. Still, I am Vietnamese, and I wanted to help rebuild my country. By this time, having kept to a truly grueling schedule for nearly two weeks, I was physically exhausted. The thought of yet another meeting where everyone has time to say only a sentence or two between introductions and toasts to the eternal friendship of former enemies made my eyes glaze over and my brain turn to mush.

Even the cold milk sipped directly from unhusked coconuts did little to revive me, and I have little recollection of what was said at the meeting. Her father went north as a soldier in , and she, her mother and brother never heard from him again, though her mother kept insisting that he would come back.

But on the day the war ended in , there was a knock on the door, and Mi Ti answered it. There stood a man in uniform. My parents have been together ever since. They are very happy. The next day, we visited the American Transit Center, where Amerasian children await final clearance to leave for the U. It was positively eerie: several hundred teenagers and young adults, a disproportionate number of them black Amerasian, stared at us as if we were their fathers.

All of them are hoping for a better life in the U. Most of them will not find it. Out of place as they have been in Vietnam, most will be even more displaced in the U. With no knowledge of English or of American culture, with no support network of family or friends, with doubtful prospects for being accepted either by American society at large or by the smaller society of the Vietnamese-American community, most will find menial work or no work at all, ending up at the very bottom of the heap, perhaps homeless, perhaps drawn into petty crime, drugs, and the thousand other pitfalls that await the truly helpless.

What could we say to these children, who gazed at us with penetrating eyes, as if trying to see their own futures? I have seldom felt so uncomfortable in all my life. I have seldom hated the war more than I did that afternoon.

On our last night in Vietnam, the Ho Chi Minh City Writers Association treated us to a farewell banquet aboard the Cosevina 2 , a floating restaurant cum riverboat. A television sat on a chair at the bow of the boat, tuned to a World Cup soccer match, and though the reception was poor, a cluster of Vietnamese—both men and women—gathered around the set to find out what had happened every time the crowd let out a roar.

Giap had spoken only Vietnamese during our two-hour meeting in Hanoi. He liked your poem in Vietnamese, but he would like to know what it really says. Excuse me, my eyesight must be going. One of the greatest generals of the 20th century actually liked a poem of mine enough to send Le Kim a thousand miles to find me.

It did my heart good to walk the streets of Hue without coming under a murderous crossfire. It did my heart good to see people working the once-desolate earth along the road to Con Thien. It did my heart good to see that thriving village where once had stood a wasteland of barbed wire, sand, and canvas.

It did my heart good to meet men and women from the other side who survived a war and have dedicated their lives to making sense of their experience through the written word. Dodge Poetry Festival. My poems are taught in college history courses on the Vietnam war, but not in classes on contemporary American poetry.

No one thinks it odd to be writing about the war, much less its painful and lingering legacies. No one looks at you as if you are emotionally retarded. They see it, as I do, as a duty and an obligation, a way of turning disaster into hope. All of us learned things that are too important to be ignored or forgotten or left behind. And even worse ways to succeed.

He is author of 14 books of prose and poetry, and editor or coeditor of four anthologies, and has been publishing regularly in VQR since He lives with his wife and daughter in Philadelphia, and teaches English and history at the Haverford School. View cart Subscribe Login. How to Give Why Give? How to Give Store. A Common Language By W. Writers are the engineers of the soul. Issue: Summer Volume 67 3. Leave a tip. Your name.

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