Spanisch Lernen - Einfach Lesen - Einfach Hören 3: Paralleltext Audio-Sprachkurs

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Overview

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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly

11/10/2014
In a prehistoric era, a girl learns the secrets of the cave paintings that give her people their sustenance and identity. In 18th-century England, a priest campaigning against witchcraft and evil targets a young woman who inherits her mother’s role of a “gracewife,” drawing the village into the plot against her. At the beginning of the 20th century, a Lovecraft-inspired poet goes mad in a nightmarish East Coast asylum while a well-meaning student of “modern” psychology tries to help. And in the future, the steward of a deep-space colonization mission learns that his undertaking is rooted in a lie. This quartet of stories can be read in any order, readers are told, and they obliquely reference each other; a through-line exists in the mysterious and persistent imagery of the spiral, a central focus and fascination. Printz-winner Sedgwick (Midwinterblood) doesn’t shy from the tragedy inherent in human interaction; these are not cheerful stories, and their protagonists don’t fare well, although their deeds resonate in small ways through history. Readers who like untangling puzzles will enjoy parsing the threads knitting together this corkscrew of tales. Ages 12–up. (Jan.)

From the Publisher

“Four short stories, thematically related by images of the spiral form that snakes its way through each to obsess a protagonist, flash across time in this thought-provoking collection.” —Bulletin of the Center for Children's Books

“. . . satisfyingly brain-teasing.” —The Horn Book

“* Sedgwick is one of the most sophisticated, thought-provoking voices in YA novels, and like his Printz winning Midwinterblood, this presents a story told in pieces over a span of centuries.” —Booklist, STARRED REVIEW

“* Like his Printz Award-winning Midwinterblood, the prolific Sedgwick's latest work consists of individual tales spanning centuries of time connected only by a single thread - in this case a shape; the spiral . . . At once prosaic and wondrously metaphysical, Sedgwick's novel will draw teens in and invite them to share in the awe-inspiring (and sometimes terrifying) order and mystery that surround us all.” —School Library Journal, STARRED REVIEW

“* Similar to Sedgwick's Printz Award-winning Midwinterblood, four stories relate in elusive ways . . . this complex masterpiece is for sophisticated readers of any age. Haunting.” —Kirkus Reviews, STARRED REVIEW

“Readers who like untangling puzzles will enjoy parsing the threads knitting together this corkscrew of tales.” —Publishers Weekly

“A tale for the ages, expertly spun and completely satisfying.” —Eoin Colfer, New York Times Book Review on Midwinterblood

“Its strange spell will capture you.” —Booklist, starred review on Midwinterblood

“The Time traveler's Wife meets Lost in this chilling exploration of love and memory.” —Kirkus, starred review on Midwinterblood

“A story that's simultaneously romantic, tragic, horrifying, and transcendental.” —Publishers Weekly, starred review on Midwinterblood

Children's Literature - Toni Jourdan

Sedgewick weaves the theme of the spiral or helix through four stories. “Whispers in the Dark” tells story of a young girl not long after the dinosaur’s rule, wishing to be chosen to ascend to the cave where the magic is applied, assuring the hunters luck. She daydreams of a spiral shape and the power of lines drawn on cave walls. Could be a way to communicate words in these dangerous times. In “The Witch in the Water,” Father Escrove travels to Welden, a town who to succeed the vicar and carry on his work punishing unrepentant sinners. Escrove arrives in time to witness Joan Tunstall’s burial and the town folk’s spiral dance that follows. Anna Tunstall and her brother, carry on the family herb’s business and are wrongly accused of killing a baby; the reverend must make things right. In “The Easiest Room in Hell,” Doctor James and his daughter, Verity, arrive at the Orient Point Insane Asylum. The doctor residing there is Charles Dexter, a man deemed insane because of a fear of the spiral form and forced to endure through a cruel, questionable treatment. “The Song of Destiny” is played out in a horribly overpopulated future world, while a spaceship has been sent out towards a possible livable planet. Twelve sentinels periodically wake to check the passengers, one Bowman wakes to finds that six of the occupants have mysteriously died as they spiral out into space. Four amazing, creative stories that are spiraled together in a must-read. Readers have the freedom to read as they will: chronologically as in the book or as puzzles to be untangled in any order. Reviewer: Toni Jourdan; Ages 12 up.

VOYA, February 2015 (Vol. 37, No. 6) - Elisabeth W. Rauch

This cross-genre collection consists of four parts that, according to the note at the beginning, can be read in any order. Each quarter is loosely tied together with the section’s main character’s fascination with spirals. There are also reoccurring spiral images in the quarters that readers can look for to connect the quarters to each other. In the last quarter, there is even a little time travel of past characters, which fits the science fiction section. The other sections are historical and all set in drastically different time periods, including the Stone Age and the Great Witch Craze. The varying genres present a problem because few, if any, teen readers will get into one book that varies so greatly page to page when there is so little, just a shape, to tie all the plots together. The characters vary section to section, making it difficult to care much about any of them. Their uniting factor is their fascination with spirals and their isolation from their communities. Many readers will likely be confused or unsure what to make of this book. Reviewer: Elisabeth W. Rauch; Ages 12 to 18.

School Library Journal

★ 12/01/2014
Gr 7 Up—Like his Printz Award-winning Midwinterblood (Roaring Brook, 2013), the prolific Sedgwick's latest work consists of individual tales spanning centuries of time connected only by a single thread—in this case a shape; the spiral. From a mark scribbled in the dust by a girl of prehistoric times to the strands of the rope used to hang a medieval girl accused of witchcraft; from a poet plagued by madness who finds the spiral with its never-ending pattern horrifying to the one person left awake to watch over a ship full of sleepers in a state of suspended animation as they spiral through the universe looking for a new earth, each story carries a message of loss and discovery. Tying all four stories together is this one mysterious symbol, which can be found throughout nature in the shells of snails, the patterns of birds in flight, the seeds in a sunflower, and the strands of the double helix of DNA and comes to signify in these tales, a dance of death (and life). At once prosaic and wondrously metaphysical, Sedgwick's novel will draw teens in and invite them to share in the awe-inspiring (and sometimes terrifying) order and mystery that surround us all.—Jane Henriksen Baird, Anchorage Public Library, AK

Kirkus Reviews

★ 2014-11-04
Similar to Sedgwick's Printz Award-winning Midwinterblood (2013), four stories relate in elusive ways.Sedgwick calls these stories "quarters" and encourages readers to experience them in any order. If read in the printed order, they begin with the dawn of time in a story that uses spare verse to describe a cave-dwelling girl who awakens to the world through the spiral shapes she sees as she gathers magic for her people. The second story skips to pre-Enlightenment England and the heartbreaking story of Anna, who is accused of witchcraft after taking up her mother's "cunning woman" mantle. The fictitious journal entries of a Dr. James follow as this early-20th-century psychiatrist forms an unusual relationship with an asylum patient and leaves readers wondering who the true threat to society is. The quartet concludes with a science-fiction thriller in which Sentinel Keir Bowman, awake only 12 hours every 10 years, journeys on a spaceship scouting for new life. What openly draws these stories together is a spiral and spinning symbolism that presents itself through vivid details, from the seemingly mundane to literary references. Individually they conform to conventions; together they defy expectations as they raise questions about humanity and its connections to the universe and one another. Although Sedgwick gives a nod to teens, this complex masterpiece is for sophisticated readers of any age. Haunting. (Fiction. 14 & up)

Product Details

BN ID:	2940170143757
Publisher:	GD Publishing
Publication date:	11/04/2017
Edition description:	Unabridged
Language:	German

Related Subjects

• Education
• Education - General & Miscellaneous
• Literacy

Read an Excerpt

The Ghosts of Heaven

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By Marcus Sedgwick

Roaring Brook Press

Copyright © 2014 Marcus Sedgwick
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-62672-126-5

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CHAPTER 1

QUARTER ONE

WHISPERS IN THE DARK

    I

    She is the one who goes on,
    when others remain behind.
    The one who walks into darkness,
    when others cling to the light.
    She is the one who will step alone into the cave,
    with fire in her hand,
    and with fire in her head.

    She walks with the people,
    climbs up beside the waterfall.
    Up, as the water thunders down.
    Up, through the cool green leaves,
    the summer's light lilting
    through the leaves and the air.

    They have come so far,
    and ache with the pain
    of their feet and their backs,
    but they cannot stop,
    because the beasts do not stop.

    From where they climb,
    they cannot see the beasts with their eyes,
    but they know they are there.
    In their mind, they see the deer:
    their hooves, their hair, their hearts.
    The antlers on the harts,
    among the hinds who have the young.
    They take the long path into the valley,
    moving slowly, day by day,
    while the people climb the waterfall
    to meet them
    with arrows and spears.


    II

    Just once, she slips,
    her cold foot wet on green moss rock,
    and close to the spray,
    the water wets her neck.
    Her face close to the drop,
    her gaze falls on the frond of a fern.
    A young plant, pushing its way out from rocks,
    the tip curled tight.
    Curled in,
    in close-coiled secrecy
    round and round, tighter and tighter,
    smaller and smaller,
    forever, it seems.
    She stares, forever, it seems,
    then a hand holds hers,
    and pulls her to her feet.

    The waterfall thunders;
    and they are deaf.
    Muted by its power,
    they climb in silence
    to the year's final camp,
    in the trees, under the cliff,
    under the high caves,
    the high hanging dark
    where magic will be made.

    Where magic must be made.


    III

    Her thoughts are deep in the caves,
    though her body is with the people,
    at the leaf-fall camp.

    Through the trees; the great lake.
    The lake that spills itself down the waterfall.
    The great lake: that will be crossed
    to meet the beasts at dawn.

    They are silent, for the most part.
    They speak with their hands
    as much as with their tongues.
    A gesture; do this.
    Do that, go there; the pointing hand.
    Come. Sit. Faces talk as much as mouths.
    Besides. They know what to do.
    All of them. The old and the young,
    each works hard.
    Man and woman, boy and girl.
    Only the very young do nothing;
    and there are no very old.

    She, who has been bleeding for two summers,
    will soon give more young to the people.
    It has not happened yet,
    though she has been with some of the men,
    and some of the boys have tried,
    it has not happened yet.
    She knows it will,
    just as the deer they hunt have come to mate,
    out there on the plains beyond the lake,
    so the people too make new.

    The one who will go to the caves walks,
    and speaks
    to the one who will lead the hunt.
    The one who will lead the hunt approaches her.
    He looks at her and tells her food,
    and food it is she goes to find,
    while others make fire, and others
    fetch wood and others sharpen spears,
    and others put huts together from the skeletons of old ones
    and others find the boats they left before.

    A few of the people set out from camp, foraging.
    She leaves them to go their way,
    while she goes hers. Leaf-fall is here,
    yet the evening is warm.
    She leaves her furs behind
    and walks naked with the moist green air on her skin.
    Through the trees of the wood, which stretches along the whole lake shore,
    beneath the cliffs, beneath the caves,
    beneath the high, hanging caves.

    She has a basket, folded from reeds,
    and she fills it with what she can find.
    There are nuts, which will be good on the fire.
    Berries. She finds a root she knows,
    and then she lifts
    the spiraling fronds of ferns, and finds snails.
    Large snails. Good eating.
    She places them in her basket,
    one by one.
    One hovers in the air on her fingertips,
    as she traces its shell with her eyes,
    round and round, tighter and tighter,
    smaller and smaller.
    Forever.

    Or so it seems.

    The snail tries to slip up her fingers, to escape her grasp,
    and she puts it in the basket.
    Time to eat.
    At the camp, the fire is fierce,
    And they have returned.

    Some have left their furs,
    others stay in theirs.
    She feels the cold as the sun dips from the trees,
    and slips her fur over her back.

    They eat.
    There is dried meat.
    Fish from the great lake.
    There are berries and the nuts she found,
    which toast on the rocks by the fire.

    When the eating is done,
    the telling begins, and the one who does the telling
    tells of the hunt that will come.
    And then he tells
    the old tells of the beasts,
    and the tell of the fight between the Sun and the Moon.
    He tells the tell of the journey to the caves,
    and the one who will make the journey stares into the flames,
    and he sees darkness.

    But she doesn't listen to the stories.
    She holds the shell of one of her snails,
    its body in her belly, its back in her hands.
    And by firelight she stares at it.

    There is something about the shell,
    the shape of the shell.
    Like the shape of the uncurling,
    unfurling ferns.
    It is speaking to her,
    she's sure, but she doesn't know what it says,
    because it speaks in a language she doesn't know.

    She picks up a stick,
    a small dry stick, and puts its end in the dust at her feet.
    She moves the end of the stick, and a mark is made in the dust.
    A short, curved line.
    Her eyes are fixed on the shell;
    on its colors, on its curving line,
    the slight white line in the center of the curving body, wrapping in,
    wrapping in.

    Tighter and tighter, round and round, smaller and smaller.
    Or, looked at another way;
    out and out, larger and larger.
    A shape like that could go on forever,
    or so it seems,
    and still it speaks to her,
    and still she doesn't know what it says.
    But she knows she has seen it,
    when her eyes were shut.

    She shifts her foot and the line in the dust is gone.


    IV

    As the firelight dies, they make ready.

    There will be no sleep.
    Spears are resharpened, hardened in the fire ash.
    Spear throwers checked; here, a new one is made.
    Pitch and cord bind stone to shafts,
    a splinter of flint with fresh-cut edge:
    an arrow.

    Gut is pulled across a new bow's back,
    it takes strong shoulders to bend it,
    but then, the people are strong.

    And the strongest will cross the water,
    the night-dark water, with half-moon
    light to light their way, across the great lake
    to the plains. Where, at dawn, the deer will be
    waiting, unaware that they are waiting to die.

    And then there he is: the one who will go to the caves.
    He is old. Almost the oldest of them all.
    So it will be his last time in the caves,
    and he must take another,
    who will become
    what he has been.

    It is his choice. The one who goes to the cave.
    It is his choice to choose the new, and she,
    She wants it to be her.

    She thinks she knows what he does.
    She knows why he does it,
    that is something they all know;
    the magic made as the hunt begins.
    From the high cave mouth,
    the plains are across the great lake,
    From the high cave mouth,
    the beasts can be seen.
    And as the hunt begins,
    the one who goes to the cave
    must enter the dark, and make the magic on the walls.
    The magic that makes the arrow fly farther,
    the spear thrust deeper.
    and the beasts die, quicker.

    And she wants it to be her,
    she knows it should be her, so she waits
    while she should be working, and
    watching him, watching him,
    hoping he will turn to her.
    Come to her and say,
    You! Girl!
    Come!
    Come with me to the high, dark cave,
    and I will show you how to make the magic.

    She waits, the stick in her hand,
    the small dry stick, and now she makes another mark in the dust.
    A hump, a long curve, a flick at the front for antlers.
    A beast, a deer: a stag.
    In three lines.
    She has seen what he does,
    how he draws the shapes in the sand,
    when no one is looking, how he does it
    again and again, till the line is good and the beast is real.

    There is a sound behind her and the one who will lead the hunt is there.
    He sees what she's done, and kicks at the sand.
    He lifts his fist and she hides her head,
    but he does not strike.
    He does not need to, for she knows it is wrong.
    The marks are not for the sand,
    the marks are for the dark,
    and only he who goes to the cave should make magic.

    The one who will lead the hunt is angry,
    but he has more to do than punish girls
    who are not yet giving children.
    He leaves, and in his place comes the one who does the telling.
    The one who does the telling points at the dust,
    where her lines lay.
    He nods.
    She smiles.

    He sits beside her.
    He tells her a tell,
    a strong old tell,
    about the making of magic and how it is done,
    and must be done well, up there, high up there in the hanging dark.
    How the magic is made to make them fall when the arrow strikes.
    For now it's the time for hunting.
    At dawn, on the plain.

    She listens.
    She listens and she understands.
    She understands the tell, but she knows
    why the one who does the telling has that name,
    and that his name means weaver of words;
    weaver of words,
    sentinel of speech
,     retreating in awe at the world,
    speaking with the divine.
    Speaking with the blinding saving light-divine-magic in the dark.

    That is what his name means.
    He puts the stick back in her hands,
    pushes the end onto the dust by the firelight.
    Make, he says.
    So, with one eye on he who leads the hunt,
    she makes.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from The Ghosts of Heaven by Marcus Sedgwick. Copyright © 2014 Marcus Sedgwick. Excerpted by permission of Roaring Brook Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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