The Umbrella Man and Other Stories
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What could be wrong with a sweet-tempered landlady who offers the cheapest, cleanest, coziest quarters? Ask any of her tenants--if you can dig one up. Before Roald Dahl became a master of stories for children, he was a master of the adult short story. His several popular anthologies were noted for the ingenuity and surprising humanity with which he could combine seemingly everyday characters, good intentions, and dark deeds into immensely satisfying tales. These stories, specifically collected for teen readers, grab you from the start, hold you fast--and then throw all your expectations out the window with surprise twist endings. By turns macabre, hilarious, and touching, these stories are filled with unexpected delights and the always-expected Dahl brilliance. Roald Dahl (1916-1990), one of the most popular writers for children of our time, chronicled his life in Boy and Going Solo. He was the author of some of our best-loved children's books, including James and the Giant Peach and Matilda.
at the precise moment it was needed. Would it not be possible, therefore, on this principle, to build a memory section of almost unlimited size? Now what about that? Then suddenly, he was struck by a powerful but simple little truth, and it was this: that English grammar is governed by rules that are almost mathematical in their strictness! Given the words, and given the sense of what is to be said, then there is only one correct order in which those words can be arranged. No, he thought, that
they went, and I remember jumping up out of my slit trench and joining with them. I remember thinking of nothing at all and watching the boots of the man in front of me, noticing that he was a little bow-legged and that his blue trousers were much too long. I remember seeing Fin arrive first, followed closely by a sergeant called Wishful, and I remember seeing the two of them pick up Katina and start running with her back towards the trenches. I saw her leg, which was just a lot of blood and
isn’t it?” The woman got up off her knees and went over to him and kissed him on the cheek. “You’re such a nice man,” she said. “I love you more and more every day I know you.” Later, in the middle of the afternoon, when Albert was outside in the sunshine working among the hives, he heard her calling to him from the house. “Albert!” she shouted. “Albert, come here!” She was running through the buttercups towards him. He started forward to meet her, wondering what was wrong. “Oh, Albert!
prescribing minute doses of royal jelly for such things as cerebral neuritis, arthritis, diabetes, autointoxication from tobacco, impotence in men, asthma, croup, and gout . . . There are stacks of signed testimonials . . . A celebrated stockbroker in Mexico City contracted a particularly stubborn case of psoriasis. He became physically unattractive. His clients began to forsake him. His business began to suffer. In desperation he turned to royal jelly—one drop with every meal—and presto! he was
Italian influence on the Tudor mind—and a flight of steps at least a hundred feet wide led up to the house. As I drove into the forecourt I noticed with rather a shock that the fountain basin in the middle supported a large statue by Epstein. A lovely thing, mind you, but surely not in sympathy with its surroundings. Then, looking back as I climbed the stairway to the front door, I saw that on all the little lawns and terraces round about there were other modern statues and many kinds of curious