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 Anticariat Librarie - Mii de carti vechi si noi din cele mai diverse categorii
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Anticariat Librarie => Lista carti => Cautare: Dem
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Talaz - Cezar Flamura Anticariat carti carte veche
Format: 24/17 cm carte veche de poezii
CEZAR FLAMURĂ (1913 2006) S-a născut la Cîmpulung Moldovenesc, în 6 februarie 1913. Se numea Vasile Blănaru, dar urma să-și semneze restrânsa operă poetică cu pseudonimul Cezar Flamură.
A studiat, ca și viitorul lider comunist Emil Bodnăraș, la liceul Dragoș Vodă din Cîmpulung Moldovenesc, dar, înființând, în 1933, o Frăție de cruce a liceenilor, a fost exmatriculat și, în consecință, obligat să-și continue studiile departe de casă, la Lipcani, în Basarabia. A urmat, apoi, Academia de Artă Dramatică și Cinematografică din Iași, iar în paralel și Facultatea de Istorie.
În 1939, a publicat o foarte singură carte de poezie, Talaz, care avea să fie arsă prin curțile interioare ale închisorilor patriei.
Cât a durat războiul, Vasile Blănaru, fost asistent de regie la Teatrul Național din București, din 1937, sub direcțiunea lui Liviu Rebreanu, a fost reporter de frontul de răsărit, ca și Virgil Gheorghiu, corespondențele lui din prima linie fiind publicate în Curentul, în Universul și în Timpul. Când mai avea vreme, scria și poezie, și publicistică de dreapta, colaborând la Pământul Strămoșesc, la Libertatea și la Buna Vestire.
A fost arestat în 1949, eliberat în 1954, apoi rearestat, împreună cu cei doi frați ai săi, Gheorghe și Grigore I. Blănaru și de alți câțiva câmpulungeni (din inventata bandă a lui Blănaru), în cumplita noapte de 13/14 martie 1958 a încarcerării întregii intelectualități românești, schingiuit și umilit prin închisorile din Botoșani și Suceava, condamnat, în cele din urmă, la moarte și dus pentru a aștepta executarea sentinței la Jilava.
A zăcut 804 zile și nopți în lanțurile morții, cum avea să-și intituleze cartea apărută în 1996, apoi condamnarea la moarte i-a fost schimbată în muncă forțată pe viață, la intervenția lui Manole Bodnăraș, fratele fostului lui coleg de la Dragoș Vodă, Emil Bodnăraș.
A mai publicat, abia după Revoluția Română, Generalul Antonescu în cămașă verde legionară (2 volume, în 1996 și 1998), Mercenarii infernului (1999), Apocalipsa ucigașă / Înfricoșătorul asasinat din noaptea de 29/30 noiembrie 1938 (2002), adică mărturisiri trăite lăuntric vreme de o viață, dar puse în pagini târziu pentru a se alătura unei cărți anterioare, Blăstămul lui Iorga adevărul în moartea savantului.
A murit, la începutul primăverii anului 2006, la București. În Bucovina, în memorialele durerii, în presa literară de dreapta din țară, poeziile lui Cezar Flamură nu mai pot fi aflate. Cartea lui de poeme se pare că a devenit cenușă pentru totdeauna.
Din poezia lui Cezar Viorel Flamură, cum semna, de fapt, poetul câmpulungean Vasile Blănaru, nu-ți poți permite luxul de a alege, până ce urmașii săi sau cei care i-au fost apropiați nu-l vor reînvia și printr-o carte de poezie, dacă omul cu o întreagă viață de martiriu și-o fi adunat poemele tinereții, așa cum le păstrase memorii, într-un caiet oarecare.
Din singurul text poetic pe care l-am putut găsi, Popas, Cezar Flamură, un fel de frate liric al lui George Sidorovici, ni se înfățișează aidoma unei primăveri bucovinene, care se dărâmă, incredibil de încet, dinspre cer, înspre poalele munților. Iar cerul acela, veșnicul cer al străbunilor, încărcat de sfințenie și obligând la reculegere, solidarizează până la încleștarea pumnului înspre cei care, substituindu-se lui Dumnezeu, ne spulberă prin vremuri cu cinică ipocrizie, singura șansă de salvare a făpturilor umane fiind nu misticismul, așa cum s-ar părea la o lectură superficială a textului liric, ci metafizicul, starea aceea de unire cu cerul, din ce în ce mai depreciată în favoarea făloșeniei numită civilizație.
Cezar Flamură, trăitor disperat de poezie, a purtat mult prea multă vreme cununa de spini și nimeni nu are dreptul să-l mai împovăreze cu suferință și în preajmă de odihnă, acolo unde spiritul e numai libertate, libertatea dintre iarbă și cer.
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Poveste fara sfarsit - Michael Ende Anticariat carti copii, elevi, scolari, aventura, povesti, basme
Format: 23,5/16 cm AM PE STOC O ALTA EDITIE, INSA ACEASTA NU ESTE PE STOC, INSA O CAUT LA COMANDA - pentru detalii va rog puneti cartea in cos. Scrieti la observatii ceva de genul: stiu ca nu e pe stoc dar doresc sa o cautati pentru mine si finalizati comanda. FOARTE EFICIENT ESTE DACA SUNATI LA TELEFON clik pe butonul Contact si gasiti nr de telefon.
va voi trimite un mesaj cu un fisier atasat cu conditiile pentru a cauta aceasta carte sau mai multe altele care poate nici nu sunt postate pe site si le doriti !
cartonat
Povestea fara sfirsit a fost tradusa in 36 de limbi si a cunoscut mai multe ecranizari. Mizind pe arhetipuri, dar proiectate in contemporan, cartea si filmul se inscriu in aceeasi reteta a succesului ca si seriile Razboiul stelelor, Harry Potter, Stapinul inelelor.
Fantasia este cel mai fascinant tarim de basm din povestile pentru copii: are luminite ratacitoare cit o minge, mincatori de pietre care sint in stare sa-si rontaie pina si propria bicicleta de foame si balauri-noroc imensi, dar usori si simpatici ca un norisor de vara. Cind lumea povestilor e in pericol, atacata fiind de refuzul oamenilor de a mai crede in basme, este nevoie de un erou. Un erou fara puteri magice si fara pretentii de viteaz: un baietel de zece ani din lumea oamenilor, care descopera ca a devenit personaj al povestii pe care o citeste, reusind sa salveze, prin imaginatia si inocenta sa, aceasta lume .
Exista oameni care nu sunt niciodata in stare sa ajunga in Fantázia, spuse domnul Koreander, si mai exista oameni care sunt in stare, dar raman acolo pentru totdeauna. Si mai exista cativa care se duc in Fantázia si se intorc inapoi. Asa ca tine, Bastian. Iar acestia vindeca ambele lumi.
Cand Bastian descopera intr-un anticariat o misterioasa carte legata in matase aramie, nici prin gand nu-i trece ca o sa-i fie incredintata o misiune importanta. E nevoit sa patrunda cumva in carte si sa salveze Fantázia, un taram al imaginatiei in care orice este posibil, si in care te poti si pierde. Viata Craiesei Copile sta in mainile sale si e hotarat sa riste totul pentru a o salva.
Adevarata incercare pe care Bastian e nevoit sa o depaseasca nu este patrunderea in Fantázia si salvarea ei, ci descoperirea caii prin care se poate intoarce in lumea reala. Iar parasirea unui taram fara hotare se dovedeste cu atat mai grea.
Scriind o poveste in poveste ce se autogenereaza la infinit, Michael Ende le demonstreaza cititorilor sai ca nimic nu se sfarseste cu adevarat, ci doar se preschimba, si ca, in final, cheia ce deschide poarta tuturor posibilitatilor sta in puterea de a afla cine esti cu adevarat.
Povestea fara sfarsit inlocuieste o jumatate de biblioteca. Deutsches Allgemeines Sonntagsblatt
Un puternic colaj alcatuit din imagini mitice. Die Zeit
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Autografe - Al. Raicu Anticariat carti biografii, memorii, jurnale
Format: 20/13 cm NU ESTE PE STOC, INSA O CAUT LA COMANDA - pentru detalii va rog puneti cartea in cos. Scrieti la observatii ceva de genul: stiu ca nu e pe stoc dar doresc sa o cautati pentru mine si finalizati comanda. FOARTE EFICIENT ESTE DACA SUNATI LA TELEFON clik pe butonul Contact si gasiti nr de telefon.
va voi trimite un mesaj cu un fisier atasat cu conditiile pentru a cauta aceasta carte sau mai multe altele care poate nici nu sunt postate pe site si le doriti !
file de istorie literara
cu fotografii si semnaturi ale personalitatilor
Mihai Beniuc
Nina Cassian
Mihail Celarianu
Serban Cioculescu
Nicolae Crevedia
Lucia Demetrius
Paul Everac
Pericle Martinescu
Al. Mitru
Mihai Mosandrei
Stephan Roll
Al. Rosetti
Profira Sadoveanu
Henriette Yvonne Stahl
Nichita Stanescu
D. I. Suchianu
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Povestile despre Zoia si Sura - L. Kosmodemianskaia Anticariat carti autori sovietici
Format: 20/13 cm numele autoarei este Liuba Kosmodemianskaia, dar pe coperta apare doar L. Kosmodemianskaia
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Wulfsyarn - Phillip Mann Anticariat carti SF - Fantastic
Format: 20/14 cm chiar daca descrierea e in engleza cartea este in romana
Rather poignant, that "New Zealand Author" label, don't you think? Sounds more like a government health warning than a recommendation ...
Wulfsyarn is the first of Mann's books I read, and I still find it one of his most perplexing. The basic notion is simple enough: Wulf, a cybernetic autoscribe, is recording the story of John Wilberfoss, disgraced captain of the ship Nightingale, which disappeared on its maiden voyage. When it was found again there was no-one on board but its captain, and he was - to all intents and purposes - mad.
Lily, the robot nurse, and Wulf, the secretary to the abbot of the Pacifico Monastery, are trying to coax Wilberfoss back to health and sanity in order to find out what happened to him and all the others, human and extraterrestrial, who were on board the immense hospital ship at the time.
The problem (as usual in these cases) is that one becomes more and more interested in Wulf and his perceptions of the (for want of a better word) "human" world, and less and less interested in Wilberfoss's various dilemmas and crises of faith as the story continues.
Or at least that's how I felt the first time I read it. Rereading it with more knowledge of Mann's specific interests and concerns: the ecology of alien lifeforms, the dark effects of human lack of self-knowledge, I began to see the form of the book more clearly. It is, in essence, an updated version of Coleridge's Rime of the Ancient Mariner, complete with the crew of dead comrades, the death of the albatross (in this case the alien parasitic creature called Quelle [German for "source"], together with its host, the silly young shepherd Sandy), the "Nightmare death-in-life", and then the eventual return home. Wilberfoss's "crime" seems more and more attenuated and difficult to define as the narrative proceeds - but (like the Mariner's) it stems from some kind of arrogance and sense of self-sufficiency which inspires him to flout the laws of nature.
The actual blame for the destruction of the ship lies far more with the Quelle than with Wilberfoss - but it's really the consequence of a series of coincidences and mischances (the Quelle's decision to infect the ship's bio-crystalline computers with its own self-hatred and self-doubt; the sudden windstorm which confuses the ship's sensors on the alien planet just long enough to accomplish the destruction of every other living thing on board; and (finally) the noble self-sacrifice of the windborne alien, the Chi-da, which Wilberfoss has met and made friends with on the planet when the damaged ship is unable to reach escape velocity). About this last event Wulf makes a telling point:
I am struck by the fact that Wilberfoss, at all points in his life, had visions. The visions were an objective expression of his passions. Perhaps they have real existence in another world. Perhaps the human mind has access to this other world. I do not. Among Wilberfoss's visions I included his beloved Chi-da. I have come to the opinion that if I had been down there on that grey world with Wilberfoss, then I would not have seen any creature which covered the sky like a banner of rippling red silk. [286-87]
Did any of it happen at all? Where is the boundary between "real" and "visionary" events in Wilberfoss's story? It is, after all, literally "a tale told by an idiot" - or at any rate by the self-destructive, psychologically-damaged sole survivor of a cataclysmic disaster. It's natural both for him to blame himself, and to look for clues to what went wrong in his own nature (especially in this case, when the ship's bio-crystalline mind was organically linked to and modelled on that of its commander).
Wulf goes on to say of this benevolent Other, the Chi-da, at the end of his "mosaic", his reconstruction of Wilberfoss's story: "he did not kill it. You cannot kill such things. He allowed it fulfilment, at the last." [287]
I hope the Listener doesn't mind my reproducing this Jane Ussher photograph from the feature-article on Phillip Mann they published back in the Nineties. If so, I apologise. Some interesting things came up in Noel O'Hare's interview, which is why I cut it out and kept it at the time.
"If I'm not careful, I could let the characters becomes too forceful," he says. Mann has a reputation for doing really good aliens. The most unlikely creatures populate his pages: the Hooded parasol, a floating canopy that kills its prey by smell; Diphilus, a jelly ball of illogic logic that devastates computers: the Hammer, a weta-like alien with a deep sense of humour; Wulf, a mechanical autoscribe and analyst of human psychology .. the alien parade goes on. [39]
It's interesting that O'Hare includes Wulf among this "parade" of aliens. I'm not sure that's the point Mann means to make with him. He is, after all, a robot - albeit a "semi-sentient" biocrystalline brain has been implanted in him along the way. Is that the same thing as these other organic, albeit wildly exotic, species?
Mann lives his work, and is possessed by the tale he is telling. "When I sit down to write, I very quickly go into a bit of a trance. I slide into that world very easily, and what I'm doing is totally real to me." [39]
Perhaps that's one reason why it's very hard to distinguish visionary experience and "real" events in the SF landscapes he creates - particularly in Wulfsyarn. This deliberate confusion of levels, somewhat bewildering (I suspect) to fans of (so-called) hardcore science fiction, seems inspired as much by ideology as the demands of the story (if one can draw so facile a distinction between the two, that is):
"I don't have a platform, a political point of view. I'm inconsistent. I'll contradict myself, but sweeping through everything is a worry about what happens if you destroy things, what happens if we destroy this wonderful bloody world." [40]
Mann's "novels of ideas" (to use O'Hare's phrase) are, nevertheless, novels - and ought to be judged and assessed as such:
" ... The rules that govern the writing of a science-fiction novel are exactly the same as for any other literature. Absolutely.
"I don't think science fiction's easier. It's often harder, because you have to maintain the reader's confidence in your ability to stay up there like a balloon. You're floating there and you don't have normal everyday life to support you." [40]
Which brings me to my next point.
I guess that New Zealand readers still know Samuel Butler primarily as the author of Erewhon (1872) and Erewhon Revisited (1901), and those as much for their New Zealand setting as for their - somewhat laboured - dystopian satire. He was also a considerable Classical scholar, and turned his hand to a translation of Homer (as well as writing a number of books and essays elaborating his theory that the author of the Odyssey - at least - was, in fact, a woman).
Here's a passage from his version of the Iliad (Bk XVIII: ll.368 and following):
Meanwhile Thetis came to the house of Vulcan, imperishable, star-bespangled, fairest of the abodes in heaven, a house of bronze wrought by the lame god's own hands. She found him busy with his bellows, sweating and hard at work, for he was making twenty tripods that were to stand by the wall of his house, and he set wheels of gold under them all that they might go of their own selves to the assemblies of the gods, and come back again - marvels indeed to see. They were finished all but the ears of cunning workmanship which yet remained to be fixed to them: these he was now fixing, and he was hammering at the rivets.
- Homer. The Iliad & The Odyssey. Trans. Samuel Butler. 1898. Great Books of the Western World, 4. Ed. Robert Maynard Hutchins. 1952. Chicago: William Benton, Publisher / Encyclopædia Britannica, Inc., 1989.
This passage, from the long description of the forging by the lame god Hephaestus of a new set of armour for Achilles, seems exceptionally interesting to me (especially given Mann's description of Wulf, the autoscribe: "I am told in shape I resemble a helmet of the type used by the Greek warriors at the battle of Troy. If that helps you visualise me, all well and good. But you must also realize that I am four and a half feet high from my base to the top of my crest." [12], though I doubt any direct reference was intended).
While it may not be the very earliest allusion in literature to something resembling the modern conception of a robot (that honour should probably go to the stone rowers destroyed in a fit of pique by the immortality-seeking hero of The Epic of Gilgamesh), it's fascinating to see how far back the idea does in fact go.
These twenty wheeled tripods, whose sole function is (apparently) "to go of their own selves to the assemblies of the gods, and come back again," in fact resemble modern Mars rovers and factory automatons far more than the original "robots" of the Èapek brothers' 1920's play (R.U.R. - Rossum's Universal Robots - to be exact).
One could go on to trace the idea of semi- (or wholly) sentient artificial life-form through the medieval Golem legend, through Mary Shelley's Frankenstein (1818), the life-like animated doll Olimpia in E. T. A Hoffmann's "The Sandman" (1816), through the surgically altered beastmen in H. G. Wells's Island of Doctor Moreau (1896), through Maria's evil android alter-ego in Fritz Lang's Metropolis (1927), all the way up to Data (in Star Trek) and Arnold Schwarzenegger's Terminator. But what makes them so perennially fascinating to us? Why do we keep on returning to this topos: the "android theme" (for want of a better term)?
I suppose that Descartes and Cartesian rationalism has to take at least part of the responsibility (or the blame). For Descartes (as I understand him, at any rate), what you do is the only valid source of information on what you are. Thus, there can be no useful discussion of essence separate from function. His famous apothegm "I think, therefore I am," is therefore intended to define humanity in terms of its capacity for rational thought.
The Wikipedia article on Descartes has (characteristically) a great deal more to say on the subject. I quote:
Descartes ... suggested that the body works like a machine, that it has the material properties of extension and motion, and that it follows the laws of physics. The mind (or soul), on the other hand, was described as a nonmaterial entity that lacks extension and motion, and does not follow the laws of physics. Descartes argued that only humans have minds, and that the mind interacts with the body at the pineal gland. This form of dualism or duality proposes that the mind controls the body, but that the body can also influence the otherwise rational mind, such as when people act out of passion.
This body-machine gives us (in a sense) our robot: Cartesianism made apparent (I was about to say, made flesh - made metal, rather). But where, then, is the soul in such an entity? Even a machine must (after all) have some kind of mind to guide it if it is to exhibit independent choice. Can it also, then, be subject to human passions? Hence Wulf's somewhat awkwardly-phrased disavowals of pure "objectivity", in the opening pages of his story:
... I want to warn you that though parts of this book will seem objective, even one might say God-given, they are not. My serviced and elaborated brain, almost I want to say my mind, like a colour filter placed over a camera lens, has given the entire work a peculiar cast of thought. As I have discovered, it is one of the paradoxes of biography that in straining to reveal my man, I have unavoidably revealed myself. So be it. [9]
The robot, then, is a kind of metaphor for interrogating reality. If something intangible can survive the process of manufacture, can manifest itself in a non-human intelligence, might that not offer us some clues about the nature of things as they are, not simply as we perceive them? For Descartes (like the cylons in Battlestar Galactica this meant, above all, one possible way of gathering clues about the identity (or existence?) of God.
Descartes suggested that the pineal gland is "the seat of the soul" ... although [he] realized that both humans and animals have pineal glands, he believed that only humans have minds. This led him to the belief that animals cannot feel pain, and Descartes' practice of vivisection (the dissection of live animals) became widely used throughout Europe until the Enlightenment. Cartesian dualism set the agenda for philosophical discussion of the mind-body problem for many years after Descartes' death.
Wulf puts it somewhat differently:
Wilberfoss's only comment when he read my manuscript was that he was surprised at how human I sounded. I think he meant it as a compliment. Let me turn it on its head .... it is not difficult to sound like a human. But being a human is not easy. I know., I have watched the struggle. I have heard humans affirming lies and denying truths. I have seen people choose hell over heaven and rejoice in the fact. [15]
"How human I sounded." Wilberfoss's compliment brings me to another locus classicus for the cybernetic intelligence: the Turing machine.
Alan Turing is well-known, of course, as the mathematician who was hounded to death by the British establishment after the Second World War because it was thought that, despite his undoubted brilliance, his homosexuality made him an automatic security risk. The "Turing machine" began as a hypothetical device capable of infinite numbers of calculations in finite time which he postulated to get him around a problem in mathematical logic. This initial concept grew, partly as a result of his work on the code-breaking machines at Bletchley Park during the war, into something like a blueprint for the modern binary computer.
One extension of this idea was the (so-called) Turing Test (pretty familiar territory to all readers of classical, golden-age science fiction, but maybe not so well-known to everyone else). In essence, the Turing test says that if you can't tell the difference between a real person and an intelligent machine after conducting a fairly extensive conversation with both of them through a text-only medium such as a computer screen and keyboard, then there is no difference. The perfect simulation is the thing itself (you can see why this notion has so delighted SF writers and readers down the years).
Certainly this is the territory within which Wulf is operating in the opening chapters of Mann's novel. As he himself puts it:
I know a great deal about human love from observation. I know for example that love and vanity can have a close relationship in the human psyche though superficially they are frequently seen as opposed. [14]
Is there any real difference in practice between Wulf's observations and "real" people's practice, though? Like Max Beerbohm's happy hypocrite, has he not become the thing he set out to counterfeit? Certainly he and his fellow automaton Lily have shown greater love to Wilberfoss than any of his fellow humans appear to have been capable of, given their automatic assumption that, as its captain, he was solely responsible for the loss of the Nightingale and its crew.
These are deep waters. Wulfsyarn is a fascinating meditation on the nature of the "human" and the "alien" (whether cybernetic or organic), and - above all - the maddening perversity of the former:
People sometimes miss the point. "Aliens are always ways of talking about us. Okay, they might be a bit strange, but really, if you look at them closely, they're us in their passions, in their complex situations." [O'Hare interview, 39]
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Razboiul etern - Joe Haldeman Anticariat carti SF - Fantastic
Format: 20/14,5 cm premii in 1974: Hugo, Ditmar, Nebula
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Cand Dumnezeu era iepure - Sarah Winman Anticariat carti literatura universala
Format: 19/12 cm Lumea lui Elly este modelata de cei care o locuiesc: parintii iubitori, dar teribil de neatenti; cea mai buna prietena, care miroase permanent a chipsuri si care stie cuvinte sofisticate; un vecin batran care-i face avansuri; iepurele pe care l-a botezat dumnezeu. Intr-o copilarie condimentata cu momente deopotriva obisnuite si extraordinare, singura constanta in viata lui Elly este fratele ei. Douazeci de ani mai tarziu, Elly si Joe sunt adulti, dar ii uneste aceeasi legatura puternica din copilarie. Pana cand, intr-o dimineata senina, un eveniment cutremurator ameninta sa le distruga pentru totdeauna relatia.
Inceputa la sfarsitul anilor 1960 si penduland intre Essex, coasta salbatica a Cornwallului si strazile din New York, povestea lui Elly este o poveste despre copilarie, despre prietenie, despre partea intunecata a dragostei si a sexului, despre forta legaturilor de familie. Mai mult decat orice, este o poveste despre dragoste, in toate formele ei.
Sarah Winman (n. 1964) este actrita si scriitoare britanica. A crescut in Essex si a urmat cursurile Academiei de Arte Dramatice Webber Douglas, apoi a urmat o cariera in teatru, film si televiziune. In 2011, romanul ei de debut Cand Dumnezeu era iepure a devenit bestseller international, iar autoarea a castigat mai multe premii, printre care se numara Galaxy National Book Award, sectiunea New Writer of the Year. Locuieste in Londra.
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Mester la toate - Mihai Tanciu Anticariat carti tehnica, diverse
Format: 20/13 cm Fara descriere
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Soldatii - Adrian Schiop Anticariat carti literatura romana
Format: 20/13 cm are ca subtitlu Poveste din Ferentari
Ca sa-si faca viata mai usoara, un jurnalist cu naravuri homosexuale se lasa de presa si de femei si se inscrie la un doctorat despre manele. Ca sa-si documenteze subiectul, se muta in cel mai sarac cartier din Bucuresti, Ferentari, un loc incremenit in anarhia anilor 90, unde smecheria face legea, iar manelele se aud de peste tot. Acolo, se trezeste intr-o lume a contrastelor, cu smecheri si boschetari, cu smardoi si drogati pe scurt, intr-o comunitate inchisa, dura, in care fraierii ca el nu prea au ce cauta. Tot aici il intilneste si pe Alberto, un fost puscarias, care provine dintr-o cunoscuta familie de interlopi. Desi are reputatie de bataus si scandalagiu, stie sa-si arate latura sensibila atunci cind are un interes.
In plus, in detentie, Alberto a descoperit ca pot sa ii placa si barbatii, deoarece dupa gratii cea mai sigura moneda de schimb pentru protectie este sexul. Acesta este insa un subiect tabu in Ferentari. Romanul lui Adrian Schiop este o poveste de cartier pe ritmuri de manele, cu gasti, drogati si ramificatii mafiote.
Scriitorul-personaj al lui Adrian Schiop are vrajeala lui, vinde vulnerabilitate la pachet cu planuri de evadare din saracie. Asa se insinueaza in lumea Ferentarilor si asta e si combinatia prin care scoate la lumina mecanismul cinic al restului lumii. Ferentariul brut ii pune in offside pe toti aia care practica safariul sociologic hipstaresc. Martorul creat de Adrian Schiop se infige bine in lumea semighetoizata bucuresteana; in ciuda aparentelor, tipul devine periculos, vinde speranta, le suceste mintea oamenilor, cum ii reproseaza un tip la o bomba din cartier. «Borcanul constiintei» are pus la murat si un realism onest, din ala vechi si bun: naratorul lui Schiop e obsedat pina la autoflagelare de expunerea faptelor, de demascarea lui «asa e, si nu altfel». Sint motivele pentru care cred ca Soldatii e o carte perfecta, o carte care poate scoate din motaiala estetizanta cititorul roman contemporan. (Costi Rogozanu)
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