A PRAYER TREASURY

A PRAYER TREASURY
A collection of best-loved prayers

A Lion Book, Oxford, 1998
1. vydanie
prebal Carl Holsoe, John Henry Dearle
ISBN 0-7459-3933-3

poézia
128 s., angličtina
hmotnosť: 322 g

tvrdá väzba s prebalom
stav: veľmi dobrý,  na predsádke neautorské venovanie

1,00 €

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A Prayer Treasury is a classic collection of best-known prayers from around the world and across the centuries — including prayers by famous and little-known Christians and from all the major traditions.

Here are words for private prayer and for public occasions, for all the major seasonal celebrations and special family events. There is also a selection of the best-loved prayers for children, together with graces and blessings.

Dappled things

Glory be to God for dappled things -

for skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;

for rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;

fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;

landscape plotted and pierced-fold, fallow, and plough

and all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange; 

whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?) 

with swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim; 

he fathers-forth whose beauty is past change: 

praise him.

Gerard Manley Hopkins, nineteenth century

Acceptance and change

God, give us grace to accept with serenity 

the things that cannot be changed, 

courage to change the things that should be changed, 

and the wisdom to distinguish the one from the other.

Reinhold Niebuhr, twentieth century

The bundle of life

O God, you have bound us together in this bundle of life; give us grace to understand how our lives depend on the courage, the industry, the honesty and integrity of our fellow men; that we may be mindful of their needs, grateful for their faithfulness, and faithful in our responsibilities to them; through Jesus Christ our Lord.

Reinhold Niebuhr, twentieth century

AGATHA CHRISTIE CRIME COLLECTION: A CARIBBEAN MYSTERY / TAKEN AT THE FLOOD / THE SEVEN DIALS MYSTERY

AGATHA CHRISTIE CRIME COLLECTION: A CARIBBEAN MYSTERY / TAKEN AT THE FLOOD / THE SEVEN DIALS MYSTERY

Hamlyn, London, 1971
SBN 6007 66 195

beletria, detektívky
512 s., angličtina
hmotnosť: 55 g

tvrdá väzba
stav: dobrý, bez prebaku

0,50 € DAROVANÉ

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13. Exit Victoria Johnson

THE evening was drawing to a close. The steel band was at last relaxing its efforts. Tim stood by the dining-room looking over the terrace. He extinguished a few lights on tables that had been vacated. A voice spoke behind him. ‘Tim, can I speak to you a moment?’ Tim Kendal started.

‘Hallo, Evelyn, is there anything I can do for you?’

Evelyn looked round.

‘Come to this table here, and let’s sit down a minute.’

She led the way to a table at the extreme end of the terrace. There were no other people near them.

‘Tim, you must forgive me talking to you, but I’m worried about Molly.’

His face changed at once.

‘What about Molly?’ he said stiffly.

T don’t think she’s awfully well. She seems upset.’

‘Things do seem to upset her rather easily just lately.’

‘She ought to see a doctor, I think.’

‘Yes, I know, but she doesn’t want to. She’d hate it.’

‘Why?’

‘Eh? What d’you mean?’

´I said why? Why should she hate seeing a doctor?’

‘Well,’ said Tim rather vaguely, ‘people do sometimes, you know. It’s—well, it sort of makes them feel frightened about themselves.’ ‘You’re worried about her yourself, aren’t you, Tim?’

‘Yes. Yes, I am rather.’

‘Isn’t there anyone of her family who could come out here to be with her?’

‘No. That’d make things worse, far worse.’

‘What is the trouble—with her family, I mean?’

‘Oh, just one of those things. I suppose she’s just highly strung and—she didn’t get on with them—particularly her mother. She never has. They’re—they’re rather an odd family in some ways and she cut loose from them. Good thing she did, I think.’

Evelyn said hesitantly—‘She seems to have had blackouts, from what she told me, and to be frightened of people. Almost like persecution mania.’

‘Don’t say that,’ said Tim angrily. ‘Persecution mania! People always say that about people. Just because she—well—maybe she’s a bit nervy. Coming out here to the West Indies. All the dark faces. You know, people are rather queer, sometimes, about the West Indies and coloured people.’

‘Surely not girls like Molly?’

‘Oh, how does one know the things people are frightened of? There are people who can’t be in the room with cats. And other people who faint if a caterpillar drops on them.’

‘I hate suggesting it—but don’t you think perhaps she ought to see a—well, a psychiatrist?’

‘No!’ said Tim explosively. T won’t have people like that monkeying about with her. I don’t believe in them. They make people worse. If her mother had left psychiatrists alone . . .’

‘So there was trouble of that kind in her family—was there? I mean a history of—’ she chose the word carefully—‘instability.’

T don’t want to talk about it - I took her away from it all and

she was all right, quite all right. She has just got into a nervous state.. . . But these things aren’t hereditary. Everybody knows that nowadays. It’s an exploded idea. Molly’s perfectly sane. It’s just that—oh! I believe it was that wretched old Palgrave dying that started it all off.’

T see,’ said Evelyn thoughtfully. ‘But there was nothing really to worry anyone in Major Palgrave’s death, was there?’

‘No of course there wasn’t. But it’s a kind of shock when somebody dies suddenly.’

He looked so desperate and defeated that Evelyn’s heart smote her. She put her hand on his arm.

‘Well, I hope you know what you’re doing, Tim, but if I could help in any way—I mean if I could go with Molly to New York—I could fly with her there or Miami or somewhere where she could get really first-class medical advice.’

‘It’s very good of you, Evelyn, but Molly’s all right. She’s getting over it, anyway.’

Evelyn shook her head in doubt. She turned away slowly and looked along the line of the terrace. Most people had gone by now to their bungalows. Evelyn was walking towards her table to see if she’d left anything behind there, when she heard Tim give an exclamation. She looked up sharply. He was staring towards the steps at the end of the terrace and she followed his gaze. Then she too caught her breath.

MUNTHE, AXEL - KNIHA O SAN MICHELE

MUNTHE, AXEL

KNIHA O SAN MICHELE
(The Story of San Michele)

Tatran, Bratislava, 1969
edícia Prameň (147)
preklad Jozef Telgársky
doslov Július Paštéka
prebal Dagmar Dolinská
4. vydanie (v Tatrane 2.)

beletria, román, literatúra švédska
360 s., slovenčina
hmotnosť: 420 g

tvrdá väzba s prebalom

PREDANÉ stav: dobrý *juran*belx*
PREDANÉ stav: dobrý, prebal natrhnutý, na frontispice neautorské venovanie *Kamag*

V októbri 1967 uplynulo stodesať rokov od narodenia švédskeho lekára Axela Muntheho, ktorý sa po celom svete preslávil svojou Knihou o San Michele.

V čom je čaro tejto knihy, s akými problémami sa v nej autor vyrovnáva, že bola preložená do štyridsiatich rečí, medzi nimi aj do arabčiny, že teda toľko národov prejavilo záujem o jej hodnoty?

Kniha o San Michele nie je román. Nie sú to ani pamäti lekára. Je oveľa viac. Je to sugestívny, mohutný a dramatický obraz života, často v jeho najzákladnejšej forme. Je to komentár lekára, umelca a človeka k udalostiam a faktom okolo neho. Je to séria zhustených románov či príhod, plných skvelých postrehov a znamenitých psychologických kresieb, umelecký podaných opisov prírody a jej krás, plných pokojného humanizmu, podkresleného často zmyslom pre humor. Láska k prírode, k človeku, ku zvieratám je akýmsi spodným tónom celej knihy a rousseauovský návrat k prírode je hybnou silou všetkých autorových počinov.

Munthe vedie čitateľa cez študijné roky a svoje prvé lekárske kroky aj spoločenské úspechy v Paríži, cez sny o pokojnom a prostom príbytku medzi jednoduchými ľuďmi na Capri, cez spomienky na rodný kraj a Laponsko, cez strašné epidémie cholery v Neapole a zemetrasenia v Mesine, cez roky, keď pôsobil ako lekár v Ríme, až k splneniu svojich túžob: k postaveniu vily San Michele, svojho vysnívaného príbytku, plného starých umeleckých pamiatok.

Sugestívnosť Muntheho rozprávačského umenia očarí každého čitateľa, lebo chápaním života sa prihovára každému človekovi.

— Šesťsto rokov! Naozaj? Nevyzeráš na to! Nikdy by som si to nebol myslel, keď som ťa videl spúšťať sa po stolovej nohe a utekať cez izbu k dverám, len čo si ma zbadal na posteli.

— Nohy mám ešte dobré, ďakujem, len oči mám už trochu nanič, cez deň už skoro vôbec nevidím. Aj v ušiach mi čudne hučí, odkedy veľkí ľudia, podobní tebe, začali vyhadzovať do vzduchu skaly v tunajších horách. Niektorí škriatkovia vravia, že chcete urobiť dieru pre veľkého, žltého hada, ktorý má na chrbte dve čierne čiary a beží krížom cez polia a lesy i rieky, chrliac z papule dym a oheň. Všetci sa ho bojíme. Všetky lesné a poľné zvieratá, všetky vtáky na oblohe, všetky ryby v potokoch a jazerách, ba i Trollovia spod hôr utekajú na sever, zdesení jeho prítomnosťou. Čo len s nami úbohými škriatkami bude? Čo bude s deťmi, keď ich už nebudeme uspávať rozprávkami a keď nebudeme bdieť nad ich snami? Kto bude dávať pozor na kone v stajni? Kto bude bdieť, aby sa nepošmykli na hladkom ľade a nezlomili si nohu? Kto bude budiť kravy a pomáhať im pri opatere novonarodených teliatok? Vravím ti, časy sú zlé, vo vašom svete sa deje niečo zlého, nikde niet pokoja. To neprestajné otriasanie a hukot už mi idú na nervy. Nemôžem už pri tebe dlhšie ostať. Sovy sú už ospanlivé, všetky plazy v lese sa pripravujú na odpočinok, veveričky už ohlodávajú šušky, kohút čoskoro zakikiríka a na druhej strane jazera o chvíľu sa ozvú hrozné výbuchy. Hovorím ti, už nemôžem tu ostať. Toto je moja posledná noc, musím ťa opustiť. Ešte pred svitaním musím byť v Kebnekajse.

— Kebnekajse! Kebnekajse je stovky míľ odtiaľto, ako chceš ta zájsť na svojich krátkych nožičkách?

— Možno ma vezme žeriav, možno divá hus, veď sa práve zhromažďujú k odletu do krajiny, kde nie je zima. V najhoršom prípade sa kúsok zveziem na chrbte medveďa alebo vlka, to sú naši dobrí priatelia. Musím ísť.

— Nechoď, ostaň ešte chvíľočku so mnou, ukážem ti, čo je v tej zlatej škatuľke, čo ťa tak veľmi zaujala.

— Čo máš v nej ? Nejaké zviera? Zdalo sa mi, že počujem, ako mu v škatuľke tiká srdce.

— To tikalo srdce času, čo si počul.

— Čo je to čas? — spýtal sa škriatok.

— Nemôžem ti to vysvetliť a nikto ti veru nevysvetlí, čo je čas. Vraví sa, že sa skladá z troch rozličných vecí, minulosti, prítomnosti a budúcnosti.

— Nosíš ho vždy so sebou v tej zlatej škatuľke?

— Hej, nikdy neodpočíva, nikdy nespí, nikdy neprestáva hovoriť môjmu uchu to isté slovo.

— Rozumieš, čo hovorí ?

— Žiaľ, veľmi dobre! Každú sekundu, každú minútu, každú hodinu dňa i noci mi hovorí, že som čoraz starší a že sa blížim k smrti. Povedz mi ešte, človiečik, bojíš sa smrti ?

— Čoho?

— Či sa bojíš dňa, keď tvoje srdce prestane biť, keď sa všetky osky a kolieska tvojho stroja rozpadnú, keď sa zastavia tvoje myšlienky, keď tvoj život zhasne ako plameň tejto slabej lojovej sviečky na stole . . .

— Kto ti navravel tieto hlúposti? Nepočúvaj hlas, ktorý je v zlatej škatuľke a jeho táraniny o minulosti, prítomnosti a budúcnosti! Nerozumieš, že všetko to tvorí jedno? Nechápeš, že sa ti niekto v tej zlatej škatuľke vysmieva? Keby som bol tebou, zahodil by som ju do potoka a utopil by som zlého ducha, ktorý sa v nej skrýva. Never ani slova z toho, čo ti hovorí, všetko je lož. Ostaneš vždy dieťaťom, nikdy nebudeš starý, nikdy nezomrieš. Len sa na chvíľku uložíš k spánku! Slnko čoskoro vyhupne nad vrcholce jedlí, čoskoro ti bude do oblokov pozerať nový deň, čoskoro budeš do toho vidieť lepšie ako pri svetle tejto lojovej sviečky.

— Musím ísť. Nuž zbohom, ty rojko. Stretnutie s tebou ma potešilo.

— Aj mňa, malinký, zbohom.

Skĺzol zo stoličky pri mojej posteli a šiel k dverám, klopkajúc dreváčikmi. Keď hľadal vo vrecku kľúčik, zrazu sa pustil do takého hrozného smiechu, že sa musel oboma rukami chytiť za bruško.

— Smrť! — chechtal sa. — No, také niečo som ešte nepočul! Aké sú len krátkozraké tieto hlúpe, veľké opice v porovnaní s nami škriatkami! Smrť! Robin Dobrodej, nikdy som nepočul takú hlúposť!

ORWELL, GEORGE - ANIMAL FARM

ORWELL, GEORGE

ANIMAL FARM
A Fairy Story

Penguin Books, 1989
edícia Penguin Fiction
edícia Penguin Twentieth-Century Classics
predslov Malcolm Bradbury
ISBN 0-14-0128226-8

beletria, román,
122 s., angličtina
hmotnosť: 108 g

mäkká väzba
stav: dobrý

1,50 € PREDANÉ

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CHAPTER IX

Boxer’s split hoof was a long time in healing. They had started the rebuilding of the windmill the day after the victory celebrations were ended. Boxer refused to take even a day off work, and made it a point of honour not to let it be seen that he was in pain. In the evenings he would admit privately to Clover that the hoof troubled him a great deal. Clover treated the hoof with poultices of herbs which she prepared by chewing them, and both she and Benjamin urged Boxer to work less hard. ‘A horse’s lungs do not last for ever,’ she said to him. But Boxer would not listen. He had, he said, only one real ambition left—to see the windmill well under way before he reached the age for retirement.

At the beginning, when the laws of Animal Farm were first formulated, the retiring age had been fixed for horses and pigs at twelve, for cows at fourteen, for dogs at nine, for sheep at seven and for hens and geese at five. Liberal old-age pensions had been agreed upon. As yet no animal had actually retired on pension, but of late the subject had been discussed more and more. Now that the small field beyond the orchard had been set aside for barley, it was rumoured that a corner of the large pasture was to be fenced off and turned into a grazing-ground for superannuated animals. For a horse, it was said, the pension would be five pounds of com a day and, in winter, fifteen pounds of hay, with a carrot or possibly an apple on public holidays. Boxer’s twelfth birthday was due in the late summer of the following year.

Meanwhile life was hard. The winter was as cold as the last one had been, and food was even shorter. Once again all radons were reduced except those of the pigs and the dogs. A too-rigid equality in rations, Squealer explained, would have been contrary to the principles of Animalism, hi any case he had no difficulty in proving to the other animals that they were not in reality short of food, whatever the appearances might be. For the time being, certainly, it had been found necessary to make a readjustment of rations (Squealer always spoke of it as a ‘readjustment’, never as a ‘reduction’), but in comparison with the days of Jones the improvement was enormous. Reading out the figures in a shrill rapid voice, he proved to them in detail that they had more oats, more hay, more turnips than they had had in Jones’s day, that they worked shorter hours, that their drinking water was of better quality, that they lived longer, that a larger proportion of their young ones survived infancy, and that they had more straw in their stalls and suffered less from fleas. The animals believed every word of it. Truth to tell, Jones and all he stood for had almost faded out of their memories. They knew that life nowadays was harsh and bare, that they were often hungry and often cold, and that they were usually working when they were not asleep. But doubtless it had been worse in the old days. They were glad to believe so. Besides, in those days they had been slaves and now they were free, and that made all the difference, as Squealer did not fail to point out.

There were many more mouths to feed now. In the autumn the four sows had all littered about simultaneously, producing thirty-one young pigs between them. The young pigs were piebald, and as Napoleon was the only boar on the farm it was possible to guess at their parentage. It was announced that later, when bricks and timber had been purchased, a schoolroom would be built in the farmhouse garden. For the time being the young pigs were given their instruction by Napoleon himself in the

WEISS, BRIAN L. - MNOHO ŽIVOTOV, MNOHO MAJSTROV

WEISS, BRIAN L.

MNOHO ŽIVOTOV, MNOHO MAJSTROV
(Many Lives, Many Masters)

Ikar, Bratislava, 1993
preklad Ľubica Slobodníková
obálka Ivan Kostroň, Viera Fabianová
ISBN 80-7118-032-7

parapsychológia
174 s., slovenčina
hmotnosť: 266 g

tvrdá väzba
stav: dolné 2 cm listov zvlnené asi od vlhkosti

2,00 €

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Americký psychiater Brian L. Weiss príťažlivou formou zapísal priebeh hypnoterapeutických sedení pacientky Catherine. Ako sa ukázalo, jej ťažkosti sa zmenšovali tým, že sa vracala do svojich minulých životov a v nich si uvedomovala traumatizujúce zážitky, ktoré sa prenášali cez celé veky až do súčasnosti.

Dr. Weiss sa vďaka ,objavu“ minulých životov takisto radikálne zmenil. Napísal knihu, ktorá sa nielen dobre číta, ale tomu, kto je ochotný načúvať a vnímať, prináša aj posolstvo Majstrov - duchovných bytostí z času a priestoru medzi jednotlivými životmi.

Kapitola šiesta

Sedenia s Catherine vždy trvali niekoľko hodín, a preto som ich zaradil na koniec dňa. Keď vošla o týždeň do mojej pracovne, ešte stále pôsobila veľmi pokojne. Telefonicky sa rozprávala s otcom. Nehovorila mu žiadne podrobnosti, ale mu svojím spôsobom odpustila. Nikdy som ju nevidel takú vyrovnanú. Žasol som nad tým, ako rýchlo robila pokroky. Len zriedkavo sa pacient s takýmito chronickými, hlboko zakorenenými stavmi úzkosti a strachu tak neuveriteľne rýchlo zotavoval. Ťažko však možno povedať, že Catherine bola obyčajný pacient, a aj priebeh terapie, ktorú podstupovala, bol určite jedinečný.

„Vidím porcelánovú bábiku na rímse kozuba.“ Rýchlo upadla do hlbokého tranzu. „Na oboch stranách kozuba sa nachádzajú knihy. Je to izba v nejakom dome. Vedľa bábiky sú svietniky. A obraz... akejsi tváre, tváre muža. Je to on...“ Pozorne skúmala izbu. Opýtal som sa jej, čo vidí.

„Na dlážke je akási pokrývka. Je huňatá ako ... je to kožušina, áno... dlážku pokrýva nejaká kožušina. Vpravo sú dvoje sklené dvere... vedú von na verandu. Vpredu pred domom sú štyri schody a stĺporadie -dolu vedú štyri schodištia. Vedú k chodníku. Okolo sú vysoké stromy. Vonku sú nejaké kone. Sú zapriahnuté do ... akýchsi kočov.“

„Viete, kde to je ?“ vyzvedal som. Catherine sa zhlboka nadýchla. „Nevidím názov,“ šepkala, „ale rok, rok tu niekde musí byť. Je osemnáste storočie, ale nevidím ... sú tu stromy a žlté kvety, veľmi krásne žlté kvety.“ Tie kvety rozptýlili jej pozornosť. „Nádherne voňajú; voňajú sladko, tie kvety... zvláštne kvety, sú veľké... žlté kvety a v strede sú čierne.“

Zostala medzi kvetmi a odmlčala sa. Spomenul som si na pole so slnečnicami na juhu Francúzska. Opýtal som sa jej na podnebie.

„Je veľmi mierne, ale nefúka. Ani horúce, ani chladné.“ Nepodarilo sa nám identifikovať túto lokalitu. Zobral som ju späť do domu, preč od fascinujúcich kvetov, a opýtal sa jej, koho portrét visí nad kozubom.

„Nemôžem... stále počujem Aaron... volá sa Aaron.“ Spýtal som sa, či jemu patrí ten dom. „Nie, patrí jeho synovi. Ja tam pracujem.“ Opäť raz bola slúžkou. Nikdy, ani len trošku, sa nepriblížila spoločenskému postaveniu Kleopatry alebo Napoleona. Tí, ktorí pochybujú o reinkarnácii, tak ako ešte pred dvoma mesiacmi i moje vedecky školené ja, často poukazujú na oveľa väčší počet inkarnácií na slávnych ľudí, než by sa očakávalo. Teraz som sa ocitol v tom najnezvyčajnejšom postavení, keď sa reinkarnácia vedecky potvrdzovala priamo v mojej pracovni na oddelení psychiatrie. A bolo mi odhalené oveľa viac ako reinkarnácia.

„Nohu mám...“ pokračovala Catherine, „veľmi ťažkú. Bolí ma. Mám pocit, akoby som ju ani nemala ... Mám poranenú nohu. Kopol ma kôň.“ Povedal som jej, aby sa pozrela na seba.

„Mám hnedé vlasy, hnedé kučeravé vlasy. Na vlasoch mám akýsi čepiec, biely čepiec... modré šaty a cez ne mám prehodenú... zásteru. Som mladá, ale nie dieťa. Ale noha ma bolí. Stalo sa to pred chvíľou. Strašne ma bolí.“ Bolo na nej vidieť, že bolesť je veľká. „Podkova... podkova. Kopol ma podkovou. Je to veľmi, veľmi divý kôň.“ Hlas jej slabol s ustupujúcou bolesťou. „Cítim vôňu sena, krmiva v stodole. Okolo stajní pracujú aj iní ľudia.“ Opýtal som sa, aké mala povinnosti.

AGATHA CHRISTIE CRIME COLLECTION: THE MURDER ON THE LINKS / A POCKET FULL OF RYE / DESTINATION UNKNOWN

AGATHA CHRISTIE CRIME COLLECTION: THE MURDER ON THE LINKS / A POCKET FULL OF RYE / DESTINATION UNKNOWN

Hamlyn, London, 1969
SBN 600766 000

beletria, detektívky
512 s., angličtina
hmotnosť: 581 g

tvrdá väzba s prebalom
stav: dobrý

0,50 € DAROVANÉ

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 The Murder on the Links

The summons was urgent, if rather unspecific. The writer wanted the services of a detective (of Hercule Poirot, no less) because he was in daily fear of his life on account of a secret he held. Below the signature, P. T. Renauld, was a hastily scrawled and barely legible line of writing: "For God's sake, come!" It all seemed highly dramatic; melodramatic, almost. But, of course, Poirot would go, even though it would mean an inconveniently hurried departure for France. Poirot would probably have answered the call even if the man had not been a millionaire; even if he had not said “name your own fee”. As it happened, there was no need for Poirot to concern himself with a diplomatic approach to this delicate aspect of the affair. Because he found, on arrival, that M. Renauld had ceased to have personal need of Poirot's services. He was already quite, quite dead. He had been found a few hours earlier lying, face downwards, in a newly dug grave.

A Pocket Full of Rye

Mr. Fortescue, old Mr. Fortescue that is, was far from universally loved. He had expertly kept within the law to achieve something more than a moderate success for Consolidated Investments. In his prime he must have been physically impressive. Now, he was large, bald, and dead. Dead in his own sanctum at Consolidated Investments Trust, after drinking a cup of rather special and fussily-brewed tea. That it was a case of poisoning there could be no doubt, but poisoning by whom? Surely the polished and super-efficient private secretary who officiated at the tea-making ritual was the most unlikely of suspects. But then, there were a number of unlikely things about the Fortescue case.
Why, in heaven's name, should the dead man have had a handful of rye in his jacket pocket? Before Miss Marple could answer that and other questions death was to flutter around the Fortescue household again, and again.

Destination Unknown

It was a strange proposition. Would she take on the identity of a woman who was not quite dead, but who very soon would be? Jessop did not minimize the dangers involved; in fact the slim chance of her coming out of the adventure alive was part of the bait which he offered.

The woman that Hilary was being asked to impersonate lay in a Casablanca hospital, and was dying fast; and Jessop was desperately anxious to get on the trail of her missing husband by any means which might come to hand. A nuclear scientist with Thomas Betterton’s knowledge and of such potential value to them was too important a quarry for one woman's life to seem of very much significance — if she was so bent on suicide then she might as well die usefully!

Crookedness in the racing world she knew about—now, it seemed, she was to encounter crookedness in the financial world. Though for all that, it seemed that her father-in-law whom she had not yet met, was, as far as the law was concerned, a pillar of rectitude. All these people who went about boasting of ‘smart work’ were the same— technically they always managed to be within the law. Yet it seemed to her that her Lance, whom she loved, and who had admittedly strayed outside the ringed fence in earlier days, had an honesty that these successful practitioners of the crooked lacked.

T don’t mean,’ said Lance, ‘that he’s a swindler—not anything like that. But he knows how to put over a fast one.’

‘Sometimes,’ said Pat, T feel I hate people who put over fast ones.’ She added: ‘You’re fond of him.’ It was a statement, not a question.

Lance considered it for a moment, and then said in a surprised kind of voice:

‘Do you know, darling, I believe I am.’

Pat laughed. He turned his head to look at her. His eyes narrowed. What a darling she was! He loved her. The whole thing was worth it for her sake.

‘In a way, you know,’ he said, ‘it’s Hell going back. City life. Home on the 5.18. It’s not my kind of life. I’m far more at home among the down and outs. But one’s got to settle down sometime, I suppose. And with you to hold my hand the process may even be quite a pleasant one. And since the old boy has come round, one ought to take advantage of it. I must say I was surprised when I got his letter. . .. Percival, of all people, blotting his copybook. Percival, the good little boy. Mind you, Percy was always sly. Yes, he was always sly.’

‘I don’t think,’ said Patricia Fortescue, ‘that I’m going to like your brother Percival.’

‘Don’t let me put you against him. Percy and I never got on—that’s all there is to it. I blued my pocket money, he saved his. I had disreputable but entertaining friends, Percy made what’s called “worth while contacts.” Poles apart we were, he and I. I always thought him a poor fish, and he—sometimes, you know, I think he almost hated me. I don’t know why exactly. . ..’

T think I can see why.’

‘Can you, darling? You’re so brainy. You know I’ve always wondered—it’s a fantastic thing to say—but ’

‘Well? Say it.’

‘I’ve wondered if it wasn’t Percival who was behind that cheque business—you know, when the old man kicked me out—and was he mad that he’d given me a share in the firm and so he couldn’t disinherit me! Because the queer thing was that I never forged that cheque— though of course nobody would believe that after that time I swiped funds out of the till and put it on a horse. I was dead sure I could put it back, and anyway it was my own cash in a manner of speaking. But that cheque business—no. I don’t know why I’ve got the ridiculous idea that Percival did that—but I have, somehow.’

‘But it wouldn’t have done him any good? It was paid into your account.’

‘I know. So it doesn’t make sense, does it?’

Pat turned sharply towards him.

‘You mean—he did it to get you chucked out of the firm?’

‘I wondered. Oh well—it’s a rotten thing to say. Forget it. I wonder what old Percy will say when he sees the Prodigal returned. Those pale, boiled gooseberry eyes of his will pop right out of his head!’

‘Does he know you are coming?’

T shouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t know a damned thing! The old man’s got rather a funny sense of humour, you know.’

‘But what has your brother done to upset your father so much?’ ‘That’s what I’d like to know. Something must have made the old man livid. Writing off to me the way he did.’

‘When was it you got his first letter?’

‘Must be four—no five months ago. A cagey letter, but a distinct holding out of the olive branch. “Your elder brother has proved himself unsatisfactory in many ways.” “You seem to have sown your wild oats and settled down.” “I can promise you that it will be well worth your while financially.” “Shall welcome you and your wife.” You know, darling, I think my marrying you had a lot to do with it. The old boy was impressed that I’d married into a class above me.’ Pat laughed.

‘What? Into the aristocratic riff-raff?’

He grinned. ‘That’s right. But riff-raff didn’t register and aristocracy did. You should see Percival’s wife.' She’s the kind who says “Pass the preserves, please” and talks about a postage stamp.’

GAARDER, JOSTEIN - SOPHIE'S WORLD

GAARDER, JOSTEIN

SOPHIE'S WORLD
A Novel about the History of Philosophy
(Sofies verden)

Phoenix, Lndon, 1997
preklad Paulette Moller
obálka Sarah Perkins
14. vydanie
ISBN 1-85799-291-1

román
436 s., angličtina
hmotnosť: 352 g

mäkká väzba
stav: veľmi dobrý

3,00 €

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Looking in her mailbox one day, a fourteen-year-old Norwegian schoolgirl called Sophie Amundsen finds two surprising pieces of paper. On them are written the questions: ‘Who are you?’ and ‘Where docs the world come from?’

The writer is an enigmatic philosopher called Albert Knox, and his two teasing questions are the beginning of an extraordinary tour through the history of Western Philosophy from the pre-Socratics to Sartre. In a series of brilliantly entertaining letters, and then in person (with his dog, Hermes), Albert Knox opens Sophie’s enquiring mind to the fundamental questions that philosophers have been asking since the dawn of civilisation.

But as soon as Sophie begins to find her feet in this dazzling, exciting new world, she and Albert find themselves caught up in a plot which is itself a most perplexing philosophical conundrum ...

HELLENISM

... a spark from the fire ...

Although the philosophy teacher had begun sending his letters directly to the old hedge, Sophie nevertheless looked in the mailbox on Monday morning, more out of habit than anything else.

It was empty, not surprisingly. She began to walk down Clover Close.

Suddenly she noticed a photograph lying on the sidewalk. It was a picture of a white jeep and a blue flag with the letters UN on it. Wasn’t that the United Nations flag?

Sophie turned the picture over and saw that it was a regular postcard. To ‘Hilde Moller Knag, c/o Sophie Amundsen ...’ It had a Norwegian stamp and was postmarked ‘UN Battalion’ Friday June 15, 1990.

June 15! That was Sophie’s birthday!

The card read:

Dear Hilde, I assume you are still celebrating your 15th birthday. Or is this the morning after? Anyway, it makes no difference to your present. In a sense, that will last a lifetime. But I’d like to wish you a happy birthday one more time. Perhaps you understand now why I send the cards to Sophie. I am sure she will pass them on to you.

P.S. Mom said you had lost your wallet. I hereby promise to reimburse you the 150 crowns. You will probably be able to get another school I.D. before they close for the summer vacation. Love from Dad.

Sophie stood glued to the spot. When was the previous card postm also postmarked June—even though it was a whole month off. She simply hadn’t looked properly.

She glanced at her watch and then ran back to the house. She would just have to be late for school today!

Sophie let herself in and leaped upstairs to her room. She found the first postcard to Hilde under the red silk scarf. Yes! It was also postmarked June 15! Sophie’s birthday and the day before the summer vacation.

Her mind was racing as she ran over to the supermarket to meet Joanna.

Who was Hilde? How could her father as good as take it for granted that Sophie would find her? In any case, it was senseless of him to send Sophie the cards instead of sending them directly to his daughter. It could not possibly be because he didn’t know his own daughter’s address. Was it a practical joke? Was he trying to surprise his daughter on her birthday by getting a perfect stranger to play detective and mailman? Was that why she was being given a month’s headstart? And was using her as the go-between a way of giving his daughter a new girlfriend as a birthday present? Could she be the present that would ‘last a lifetime’?

If this joker really was in Lebanon, how had he gotten hold of Sophie’s address? Also, Sophie and Hilde had at least two things in common. If Hilde’s birthday was June 15, they were both born on the same day. And they both had fathers who were on the other side of the globe.

Sophie felt she was being drawn into an unnatural world. Maybe it was not so dumb after all to believe in fate. Still—she shouldn’t be jumping to conclusions; it could all have a perfectly natural explanation. But how had Alberto Knox found Hilde’s wallet when Hilde lived in Lillesand? Lillesand was hundreds of miles away. And why had Sophie found this postcard on her sidewalk? Did it fall out of the mailman’s bag just as he got to Sophie’s mailbox? If so, why should he drop this particular card?

‘Are you completely insane?’ Joanna burst out when Sophie finally made it to the supermarket.

‘Sorry!’

Joanna frowned at her severely, like a schoolteacher.

´You’d better have a good explanation.’

‘It has to do with the UN,’ said Sophie, ‘I was detained by hostile troops in Lebanon.’

‘Sure ... You’re just in love!’

They ran to school as fast as their legs could carry them.

AGATHA CHRISTIE CRIME COLLECTION: PARTNERS IN CRIME / AT BERTRAM´S HOTEL / THE HOUND OF DEATH

AGATHA CHRISTIE CRIME COLLECTION: PARTNERS IN CRIME / AT BERTRAM´S HOTEL / THE HOUND OF DEATH

Hamlyn, London, 1972
SBN 6007 66 233

beletria, detektívky
510 s., angličtina
hmotnosť: 575 g

tvrdá väzba s prebalom
stav: dobrý, na niektorých miestach jemné vpisy ceruzou

0,50 € DAROVANÉ

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Partners in Crime

‘Oh, I wish something would happen,' yawned Tuppence.... Six years of marriage have not dispelled Mr. and Mrs. Beresford’s youthful zest for excitement and adventure. They are delighted, therefore, when their chief, Mr. Carter, asks Tommy to assume the identity of a certain Mr. Theodore Blunt who has been arrested for complicity in espionage. Mr. Blunt had been manager of the apparently moribund International Detective Agency which Tommy now has to run, with the irrepressible Tuppence as his assistant. They lightheartedly decide to treat each case in the manner of a famous detective of fiction — Sherlock Holmes, Father Brown and so on — including even the great Poirot! Their investigations into cases of forgery, smuggling, missing persons, robbery and murder, give them more than sufficient excitement. They tackle them all with equal aplomb, but have many hair-raising experiences before achieving some surprising results....


At Bertram’s Hotel

Situated in a secluded corner of London’s West End, the quiet and dignified Bertram’s Hotel has always retained its aura of refined respectability.
To enter its doors is like stepping back into an Edwardian age of gracious living, for although it now has all the modern amenities, they have been most discreetly and unobtrusively introduced. To the elderly Miss Jane Marple the hotel at first seems just the same as it was on her last visit, when a schoolgirl, some fifty— no, sixty — years ago.
Even her fellow guests look almost the same. And yet... with her own uncanny perceptiveness she soon becomes aware that things are not the same. There is something not quite right about the place ... something unreal... something intangibly wrong. Can it be the hotel itself? The staff? The resident guests?... During her brief visit, many strange things happen and Miss Marple is presented with some intriguing and quite baffling problems before the answer to those questions is dramatically revealed....


The Hound of Death

What is the meaning of the strange scorch marks left on the ruined walls of the Belgian convent?
How and why was it apparently blasted to destruction by a terrifying storm some years ago? Why is the place now shunned by the local people after dark? And what are the dreaded occult powers said to be possessed by the mysterious nun, Sister Marie Angelique, in the remote Cornish village where she now lives?... These questions form the background to the first of the enthralling mysteries in this series of twelve short stories. Embracing, as they do, the uncanny ... the macabre ... the sinister ... the supernatural... each story is a miniature masterpiece.

He greeted her cheerily and explained what he wanted her to do. ‘Certain people, you see, have a gift for seeing things in a crystal. I fancy you might have such a gift, my sister.’

She looked distressed.

‘No, no, I cannot do that. To try to read the future—that is sinful.’ Rose was taken aback. It was the nun’s point of view for which he had not allowed. He changes his ground cleverly.

‘One should not look into the future. You are quite right. But to look into the past—that is different.’

‘The past?’

‘Yes—there are many strange things in the past. Flashes come back to one—they are seen for a moment—then gone again. Do not seek to see anything in the crystal, since that is not allowed you. Just take it in your hands—so. Look into it—look deep. Yes—deeper—deeper still. You remember, do you not? You remember. You hear me speaking to you. You can answer my questions. Can you not hear me?’

Sister Marie Angelique had taken the crystal as bidden, handling it with a curious reverence. Then, as she gazed into it, her eyes became blank and unseeing, her head dropped. She seemed to sleep.

Gently the doctor took the crystal from her and put it on the table. He raised the corner of her eyelid. Then he came and sat by me. ‘We must wait till she wakes. It won’t be long, I fancy.’

He was right. At the end of five minutes, Sister Marie Angelique stirred. Her eyes opened dreamily.

‘Where am I?’

‘You are here—at home. You have had a little sleep. You have dreamt, have you not?’

She nodded.

‘Yes, I have dreamt.’

‘You have dreamt of the Crystal?’

‘Yes.’

‘Tell us about it.’

‘You will think me mad, M. le docteur. For you see, in my dream, the Crystal was a holy emblem. I even figured to myself a second Christ, a Teacher of the Crystal who died for his faith, his followers hunted down—persecuted. . . . But the faith endured.’

‘The faith endured?’

‘Yes—for fifteen thousand full moons—I mean, for fifteen thousand years.’

‘How long was a full moon?’

‘Thirteen ordinary moons. Yes, it was in the fifteen-thousandth full moon—of course, I was a Priestess of the Fifth Sign in the House of the Crystal. It was in the first days of the coming of the Sixth Sign ..

Her brows drew together, a look of fear passed over her head.

‘Too soon,’ she murmured. ‘Too soon. A mistake. . . . Ah, yes! I remember! The Sixth Sign!’

She half sprang to her feet, then dropped back, passing her hand over her face and murmuring:

‘But what am I saying? I am raving. These things never happened.’

‘Now don’t distress yourself.’

But she was looking at him in anguished perplexity.

‘M. le docteur, I do not understand. Why should I have these dreams—these fancies? I was only sixteen when I entered the religious life. I have never travelled. Yet I dream of cities, of strange people, of strange customs. Why?’ She pressed both hands to her head.

‘Have you ever been hypnotized, my sister? Or been in a state of trance?’

‘I have never been hypnotized, M. le docteur. For the other, when at prayer in the chapel, my spirit has often been caught up from my body, and I have been as one dead for many hours. It was undoubtedly a blessed state, the Reverend Mother said—a state of grace. Ah, yes!’ She caught her breath. 'I remember; we, too, called it a state of grace.'

‘I would like to try an experiment, my sister.’ Rose spoke in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘It may dispel those painful half-recollections. I will ask you to gaze once more in the crystal. I will then say a certain word to you. You will answer with another. We will continue in this way until you become tired. Concentrate your thoughts on the crystal, not upon the words.’

As I once more unwrapped the crystal and gave it into Sister Marie Angelique’s hands, I noticed the reverent way her hands touched it. Reposing on the black velvet, it lay between her slim palms. Her wonderful deep eyes gazed into it. There was a short silence, and then the doctor said: 'Hound.'

Immediately Sister Marie Angelique answered: 'Death.'

AGATHA CHRISTIE CRIME COLLECTION: THE CLOCKS / THIRD GIRL / MURDER IN THE MEWS

AGATHA CHRISTIE CRIME COLLECTION: THE CLOCKS / THIRD GIRL / MURDER IN THE MEWS

Hamlyn, London, 1971
SBN 6007 66 209

beletria, detektívky
544 s., angličtina
hmotnosť: 591 g

tvrdá väzba s prebalom
stav: dobrý, na niektorých miestach jemné vpisy ceruzou

0,50 € PREDANÉ

*kamag*

The Clocks

The typing agency had sent Sheila Webb with instructions to let herself into the house, which would not be locked, if Miss Pebmarsh had not returned home by the three o’clock appointment time. Miss Pebmarsh was not back by three o'clock so Sheila went in. There was something odd about the room in which she had been told to wait; there seemed to be a profusion of clocks; and a glance was enough to show that some of them were wildly in error — by the same amount of time. Even more strange, the room was not, after all, quite unoccupied. Sprawled on the floor beyond the sofa was the figure of a man. He turned out to be quite as dead as the dark moist patch on the front of his suit suggested he might be. . . .


Third Girl

Hercule Poirot was relatively immune to surprise at the strange behaviour of his fellows. Nevertheless, he confessed to mild astonishment when a young lady called in the hope of consulting him . . . about a murder she might have committed.

In every other murder case in which Poirot had been involved the murderer had been the person least in doubt concerning the identity of the perpetrator. But more outrageous than the hour of his visitor's intrusion was her behaviour. After a brief and hesitant attempt to explain her reasons she changed her mind about discussing the matter and blundered from the room. “You're too old,” she told Poirot.

Inevitably Poirot felt challenged to get to the bottom of this strange business. His quest led him into a new and sometimes baffling world in which not only the women dressed colourfully and wore their hair long.


Murder in the Mews

Although many people must have heard the shot that killed Mrs. Allen, there were far too many explosions that night for a single shot from a small pistol to attract much attention. So it was not until November the sixth that the suicide was discovered. Or was it suicide? No suicide note was to be found — and the fatal wound was at odds with the position in which the pistol was found; and, if the door had really been locked from the inside, where was the key of the room? Strangely, although a possible motive for suicide emerges there seems to be none for Mrs. Allen's murder. Fortunately, Hercule Poirot is at Japp’s elbow to ensure that the jumbled facts become sorted out to establish the pattern of events as they really occurred on the fatal night. Admirers of Poirot will find here three other examples of the master’s technique in the short cases which complete this volume:

The Incredible Theft. The disappearance of important State papers, whose loss could imperil the country's security, presents a problem made more delicate by the strange circumstances of the case. The theft occurs at the home of a Cabinet Minister who could be the next P.M.; and a lady who is widely known as an almost-certain professional free-lance spy is his house-guest at the time.

Dead Man's Mirror. A closed room mystery of a different sort, and with the kind of unexpected solution that has made Hercule Poirot and his creator famous.

Triangle at Rhodes.

Poirot at his most streamlined: a murder is committed, but in the presence of seven others — one of whom must be the murderer. Since oné of them happens to be Poirot himself the eventual separation of innocent and guilty is just as certain ... as their identities turn out to be surprising.

POIROT paused at the doorway of the Wedderburn Gallery to inspect a picture which depicted three aggressive-looking cows with vastly elongated bodies overshadowed by a colossal and complicated design of windmills. The two seemed to have nothing to do with each other or the very curious purple colouring.

‘Interesting, isn’t it?’ said a soft purring voice.

A middle-aged man who at first sight seemed to have shown a smile which exhibited an almost excessive number of beautiful white teeth, was at his elbow.

‘Such freshness.’

He had large white plump hands which he waved as though he was using them in an arabesque.

‘Clever exhibition. Closed last week. Claude Raphael show opened the day before yesterday. It’s going to do well. Very well indeed.’

‘Ah,’ said Poirot and was led through grey velvet curtains into a long room.

Poirot made a few cautious if doubtful remarks. The plump man took him in hand in a practised manner. Here was someone, he obviously felt, who must not be frightened away. He was a very experienced man in the art of salesmanship. You felt at once that you were welcome to be in his gallery all day if you liked without making a purchase. Sheerly, solely looking at these delightful pictures— though when you entered the gallery you might not have thought that they were delightful. But by the time you went out you were convinced that delightful was exactly the word to describe them. After receiving some useful artistic instruction, and making a few of the amateur’s stock remarks such as T rather like that one,’ Mr. Boscombe responded encouragingly by some such phrase as:

‘Now that’s very interesting that you should say that. It shows, if I may say so, great perspicacity. Of course you know it isn’t the ordinary reaction. Most~people prefer something—well, shall I say slightly obvious like that’—he pointed to a blue and green striped effect arranged in one corner of the canvas—‘but this, yes, you’ve spotted the quality of the thing. I’d say myself—of course it’s only my personal opinion—that that’s one of Raphael’s masterpieces.’ Poirot and he looked together with both their heads on one side at an orange lop-sided diamond with two human eyes depending from it by what looked like a spidery thread. Pleasant relations established and time obviously being infinite, Poirot remarked:

‘I think a Miss Frances Cary works for you, does she not?’

‘Ah yes. Frances. Clever girl that. Very artistic and very competent too. Just come back from Portugal where she’s been arranging an art show for us. Very successful. Quite a good artist herself, but not I should say really creative, if you understand me. She is better on the business side. I think she recognises that herself.’

‘I understand that she is a good patron of the arts?’

‘Oh yes. She’s interested \nLesJeunes. Encourages talent, persuaded me to give a show for a little group of young artists last spring. It was quite successful—the Press noticed it—all in a small way, you understand. Yes, she has her protégés.’

‘I am, you understand, somewhat old-fashioned. Some of these young men—vraimenlV Poirot’s hands went up.

‘Ah,’ said Mr. Boscombe indulgently, ‘you mustn’t go by their appearance. It’s just a fashion, you know. Beards and jeans or brocades and hair. Just a passing phase.’

‘David someone,’ said Poirot. T forget his last name. Miss Cary seemed to think highly of him.’

‘Sure you don’t mean Peter Cardiff? He’s her present protégé. Mind you, I’m not quite so sure about him as she is. He’s really not so much avant garde as he is—well, positively reactionary. Quite— quite—Burne-Jones sometimes! Still, one never knows. You do get these reactions. She acts as his model occasionally.’

‘David Baker—that was the name I was trying to remember,’ said Poirot.

‘He is not bad,’ said Mr. Boscombe, without enthusiasm. ‘Not much originality, in my opinion. He was one of the group of artists I mentioned, but he didn’t make any particular impression. A good painter, mind, but not striking. Derivative!’

Poirot went home. Miss Lemon presented him with letters to sign, and departed with them duly signed. George served him with an omelette fines herbes garnished, as you might say, with a discreetly sympathetic manner. After lunch as Poirot was settling himself in his square-backed armchair with his coffee at his elbow, the telephone rang.

MCARTHUR, TOM - LONGMAN LEXICON OF CONTEMPORARY ENGLISH

MCARTHUR, TOM

LONGMAN LEXICON OF CONTEMPORARY ENGLISH

Longman, 1990
12. vydanie
ISBN 0-582-55636-8

slovníky, angličtina
910 s., angličtina
hmotnosť: 1139 g

tvrdá väzba s prebalom
stav: poškodená väzba

0,90 € PREDANÉ

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LONGMAN DICTIONARY OF ENGLISH IDIOMS

LONGMAN DICTIONARY OF ENGLISH IDIOMS

Longman, 1989
12. vydanie
ISBN 0-582-55524-8

slovníky, angličtina
388 s., slovenčina
hmotnosť: 564 g

tvrdá väzba s prebalom
stav: prebal lepený, väzba rozpadnutá

0,50 € PREDANÉ

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A. C. BHAKTIVÉDANTA SVÁMI PRABHUPÁDA - BHAGAVADGÍTÁ TAKÁ, AKÁ JE

A. C. BHAKTIVÉDANTA SVÁMI PRABHUPÁDA

BHAGAVADGÍTÁ TAKÁ, AKÁ JE
(Bhagavad-gita As It Is)

The Bhativedanta Book Trust, 2012
ISBN 978-91-7149-508-2

náboženstvo, náboženstvá východné, psychológia
878 s., fareb. obr., slovenčina
hmotnosť: 1018 g

tvrdá väzba
stav: výborný, nepoužívaná

4,90 € predané

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FRICKÝ, ALEXANDER - BARDEJOV

FRICKÝ, ALEXANDER

BARDEJOV
kultúrne pamiatky
(mestská pamiatková rezervácia)

Východoslovenské vydavateľstvo, Košice, 1976
obálka Michal Lacko
1. vydanie, 20.000 výtlačkov

monografie, história, publikácie obrázkové,
86 s., - 76 s. obr. prílohy, slovenčina
hmotnosť: 579 g

tvrdá väzba 

1,90 € stav: veľmi dobrý, bez prebalu!

PREDANÉ stav: dobrý *geo*

HAAS, RUDOLF - HĽADAČI DIAMANTOV

HAAS, RUDOLF

HĽADAČI DIAMANTOV

Obzor, Bratislava, 1969
obálka Anna Ušáková
1. vydanie, 20.000 výtlačkov
65-036-69

dobrodružné, literatúra slovenská
162 s., slovenčina
hmotnosť: 277 g

tvrdá väzba
stav: dobrý

0,70 € *kbs*-*takro*bels*

Neobyčajne pútavý a vzrušujúci román z juhomorského prostredia o dobrodružstvách hľadačov diamantov na ostrove ľudožrútov. V čom väzí tajomstvo briliantovej hviezdy, ktorá prináša každému majiteľovi iba nešťastie, kliatbu a smrť? S nesmiernym napätím budeme sledovať pútavé príhody hľadačov diamantov, ktorí plávajú z Austrálie do južných morí omámení leskom drahokamov. Ovanie nás svojím čarom krása trópov, trblet hviezd nad morom a márnivé, zadúšajúce vône, ako i nádhera bujnej prírody na ostrove Guadalcanal. Nebezpečenstvo za nebezpečenstvom musia prekonávať hľadači diamantov, až sa nám srdce schvieva úzkosťou ako puk juhomorskej ruže v striebristej rose rána. Za kríkom číha jedovatý had, za kmeňom pobrežnej palmy striehne nepriateľ bielej pleti, do krvi sa zákerne vplazí nákaza malárie, vyvolávajúca horúčkovité vidiny, a v doline čaká horda ľudožrútov. Ostrov, na ktorom leží diamantová roklina, je plný nebezpečenstiev, a predsa — láka a volá, priťahuje hľadačov diamantov ako tajomný magnet.