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Medium 9780253203175

Bogdanov’s Inner Message

Alexander Bogdanov Indiana University Press ePub

Loren R. Graham


Alexander Bogdanov’s novels Red Star and Engineer Menni were popular illustrations of his theories of politics and philosophy.1 Red Star portrayed developed socialism on the planet Mars and it opposed socialist humanity and cooperation to capitalist cruelty and individualism. The hero, Leonid, held out the hope that socialism could soon be created in Russia. Published almost ten years before the Russian Revolution of 1917, the book was popular among Russian radicals both before and after that date. Engineer Menni, published five years later, in 1913, was based on the success of the earlier work and portrayed the history of Mars during the period of capitalism that preceded the events narrated in Red Star. Let us look more closely at these novels, first Red Star and then Engineer Menni, in an attempt to understand more fully Bogdanov’s intentions.

The primary ideological goal of Red Star, the encouragement of revolution, is clear. However, the novel contains a secondary message which has not been noticed, yet which is striking and prescient. Indeed, the novel is an example of how the readers of a utopia may consider it a success yet not understand what the author meant when he wrote it.

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Medium 9780253223432

Chapter 4

Jim Cohee Indiana University Press ePub

Chapter 4

It was after Pookie died in the car crash that I became interested in the red light on the radio tower. I could see it from the cinder track at Butler University, and I would stand in the center of the field to gaze at it. The light said, “The world is good. You are safe here.”

Mom showed me that, high in the summer sky, above the blinking light, I could always find the constellation Cygnus, the Swan. The wings were difficult to pick out at first, and so were the weak stars of the neck of the south-flying Swan. In the tail of the constellation was Deneb, a first-magnitude star. “That’s where Pookie is,” Mom said, “surrounded by horses, asleep with her little arms outstretched like a swan on the snows of Deneb.”

And it was about this time that I began to acquire unusual powers. When I would go out rat hunting at night with my rat knife, for example, the next day the neighbors and all garbage men yielded to me. Schoolteachers bowed to me. Ministers asked me for understanding.

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Medium 9781574412710

Table of Contents

Tim Johnston University of North Texas Press PDF
Medium 9780861967254

Chapter 6

Tony Grey John Libbey Publishing ePub

As night thickens and no leadership emerges from the Roman camp, everyone wonders what’s happening at the top. The command structure has broken down. Marcus and the other officers are receiving no orders, no information, nothing. In a state of shock he goes in search of Crassus but can’t find him. He comes across Cassius, looking more tense and gaunt than usual. It seems the man has some feelings after all.

“Sir, where’s the Commander in Chief? I’ve been sent by Legatus Cincinnatus to see what’s going on.”

“Not here. Don’t know where he is. Should look for him.”

They’ve no idea where to look. Cassius says they should use an old hunting technique. If the lion is known to be somewhere not too far away, the tracker walks around the place he was last seen in widening circles. They do this, starting at the Command Post. After a few circuits they find him, alone. He’s lying on the ground huddled in his cloak, shivering. He’s looking so small, so shrunken. Even phlegmatic Cassius is jolted at the sight of the man who such a short time ago had the stature of a god. He asks for orders, for direction. Crassus can’t reply; he just shakes.

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Medium 9781942496656

Chapter 21

Charlotte Jones Solution Tree Press ePub

“Your highness?” a gentle voice said from the doorway.

Celeste stood, and Malena carefully entered the room, curtsying before she met the queen mother’s eyes.

“You may leave,” Celeste said to the soldier standing just inside the doorway.

When he was gone, Celeste’s façade crumbled, and for an instant, Malena saw everything.

“Thank you for letting me come at such a late hour,” she said. Celeste nodded, and for a long moment, the two women just stared at each other.

“It has been a long time,” Celeste said softly.

Malena nodded as her gaze dropped to the floor. “I know.”

“Where are the girls?” Celeste said after an awkward pause.

“They’re in bed. It has been a long day for them, with the late night last night.” She paused. “Sori is old enough to watch them if they need anything.”

The uncomfortable silence lengthened. Finally, Malena looked up.

“I’m—I’m sorry. I should not have come. This was a mistake.”

“No, I’m glad you’re here! I—” Celeste hesitated. “I’ve missed you.”

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Medium 9780253010476

Chapter 33 Twentieth Year

William Williams Indiana University Press ePub

By this time our young Gentleman Owen, Harry and Rory had made such work of the Pirates pit or reservoir to discover more treasure that they have extended the diameter of the hole to the breadth of 10 feet at least, but as yet all their labours prove of no effect. Yesterday morning Rory came down from the hill to me As I was sitting on our bed and said in his broken English, “No Friends can come over Long Key now. Long smoke, Fire make.”

“What, is the Key vanished then in the night?” Said I to him. But he, finding that I did not fairly understand him, went out to Harry directly. I overheard him saying that he saw people; this was pronounced in the Indian tongue. I then call’d Harry in and asked him what Rory would be at. “He says there are people on the Key with a great fire and that they are not our friends.”

“Call the White men, then,” Said I, and taking my glass away I marched. They were all Soon at my heels. When we got on the Clift we percieved about ten or twelve people round a large fire about 100 Yards from the old well but could percieve no Canoas, boat or Vessel. But that they were Indians we knew as none appear’d to have any covering on the head. Many conjectures we had among us on the affair but neither Harry or Rory would say of a certainty that they were our friends as by many actions they observed, altho at so great a distance, seem to confirm them that they were none of their tribe. “Well,” said I, “are you willing to go out and speak them, Lads?”

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Medium 9781574413311


Peter Brown University of North Texas Press ePub

Since It’s You

I might have married Charlemagne, if he weren’t so black. If he weren’t as old as my own dead father would have been. I’d been waiting tables at the Circle Hill seven days a week for two years already—at twenty-three it was my whole life—and I had depended too much on him. He had more authority than anyone I knew, and I relied more on him for some things than anyone else, like the way he wrapped himself in a big white apron after he fired up his grill in the morning and never took it off till quitting time. This way we all knew that when the apron came off, it was time to lock up. We all were careful to respect the manager, a nervous college kid named Raymond, but Charlemagne knew when it was time. When that apron came off, nothing Raymond nor any of the others said mattered: the kitchen and diningroom were clean and it was time to go.

He was a head taller than Raymond, two heads taller than me. He was as slender as a shortstop but not so limber anymore— sometimes on Sunday mornings when he came in, the kitchen was cold and he limped about in his apron till he warmed up. He kept to himself that first hour in a manner I never understood. I watched him as I came and went from the diningroom, how he ignored us as the grill heated up; he stared at the headlines for a long time before he licked his thumb and began moving his fingers through his newspapers. Sometimes a queasy desire arose in me, from somewhere near my stomach—sometimes his hands and head seemed all wrong to me, all a touch too big for his slender frame, and for that I wanted him and despised him too, because I wanted him perfect. His hair was pure white around his ears, almost fake in its beauty, since the rest of his hair was like his skin, blacker than the night behind the stars.

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Medium 9780253002365

Chapter Sixteen

Gregory Schwipps Indiana University Press ePub

Tuesday after work Ollie drove over to Hapgood, a pilgrim in a dented truck seeking Coondog as one might go visit a sage. If it were possible for one man alone to figure out this current situation, he felt certain it’d be done by now. He’d sure as hell given over enough man-hours to thinking about it. When he was a lot younger his mother had asked him to sort chickens by breed and age, and Summer was turning into something like that. When he got a thought chased into a corner he went back for another one and the first one shot between his legs or squirmed out a hole in the boards. He felt like he had loose feathers floating in his head. When he pulled up to the house, Coondog was out in the yard, his legs sprawled underneath the giant bucket truck he used in his tree trimming business. The hood was up. Ollie walked over and nudged the leg with his foot.

Coondog recognized the boot of his only true friend. “What say, stranger? Long time no see, you bastard.”

“You could say I been real busy.”

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Medium 9780253010247

Chapter 13

Jesse Lee Kercheval Indiana University Press ePub

We went back to the apartment. The neighbor, wise woman, was not outside as we passed. By the time Ilya unlocked the top door, I was asleep in my boots. After the fencing lesson and the visit to the nursing home, I was numb and tired clear through, muscles, heart, and brain.

I wished my brother goodnight, keeping my promise not to ask anything out of bounds like, Will you be okay? He’d been okay for forty-two years. Who was I to presume otherwise now? I’d run from the Place Ste-Odile and into the colonel’s arms that morning so long ago, abandoning Ilya, without a second’s hesitation. I hadn’t been with him when he was uprooted and moved to Czechoslovakia by our mother. I hadn’t been at the hospital with Ilya when Mosjoukine left never to return. I had been growing up in Florida, in a bedroom full of Barbies, in a house surrounded by tangerine trees. I hadn’t driven with him to Prague to find our mother already dead and gone for a year. I hadn’t been there when Anne-Sophie was born or at any difficult moment of the fourteen years of her life. I had gotten married and had my own daughter by caesarian section and not even under the truth serum of anesthesia had I remembered, or even dreamed about, my lost brother. I pulled off my boots sitting on the bed, then fell backward onto the feather mountain of pillows. I was asleep before I could take off my socks.

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Medium 9781942496656

Chapter 19

Charlotte Jones Solution Tree Press ePub

Shira drew a deep breath, trying to stop the pounding in her head. Bayo’s harsh rebuke had jolted her from her attack, but the panic in her stomach had not yet died. She had been out of the sunlight too long. How much longer would she last?

As she pulled against the chains again, she felt the despair creeping up her spine, crushing her soul. Everything was hopeless. She had no escape. Kaelo had taken her pen, and she now had no way to communicate with Sunburst. Conrad, Zinnia, and the other officers had arrived at Fort Asman, but now they had no idea what was happening to her. Even if they did manage to get into the Evron, there was no way to know if they would find her. She no longer even looked like herself. Searching the entire palace for her would be a nightmare. How long would it take for them to realize she no longer had her pen?

Shira exhaled slowly, trying to clear her head. Kaelo had been the man in silver. Why had she not realized it from the very beginning? It should have been so clear to her. Looking back, nothing made more sense. Her abduction had been part of a larger plan from the very beginning, starting far before her father had even considered walking down the cobblestone path from the moonshimmer. Even as she thought about it, anger bit into her. Her father had not begged for his life, and she knew it. She knew because she had seen what had happened during the transfer of power. She had watched her father die.

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Medium 9781574412017

what is now proved was once only imagined

Michael Hyde University of North Texas Press PDF


what are you afraid of ?

Lost in a tide of whiskey sours and feeling all of her forty-four years, she remembered: she’d left the water on.

A dog barked nearby, so many of them around, sometimes breaking their chains and quietly terrorizing the neighborhood, ripping open trash set out for morning pick-up, spilling garbage.

Nobody needed to see what she was throwing away. It was like being touched when you didn’t want to be touched. But what was worse? The dogs chained and barking all night long so she couldn’t sleep or the dogs running free and silent and ripping open

Hefty bags?

Along the length of hose, the holes she’d punched with the icepick spit out small fountains. The petunias and scarlet sage— that normally looked up at her open-mouthed and expectant like the children she tended weekdays—were heavy-headed, bowing down. From the wisteria, burdened white blossoms had fallen and lay in an incomplete circle around its twisted trunk. With all the water in the air, this dew and the humidity, the scents of so many flowers were caught and held captive, mixing one on the other, putrid and nauseating, so she couldn’t be sure which it was—the smell or the burning in her stomach—that made her whip quickly at her waist and vomit, just missing the marigolds.

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Medium 9780253018175


B.J. Hollars Break Away Book Club Edition ePub

Before there was nothing, there was everything: a flash like magnesium, followed by the darkness. By 1945, the people of Hiroshima had grown accustomed to the flashbulbs that preserved them in photographs, though they remained unfamiliar with the curious light they glimpsed in the sky one early August morning.

What, they wondered, could possibly cause such a

Across the ocean, there were men who could measure destruction to the kiloton, men who had done it just three weeks prior, while hidden behind dark glasses. In the hours leading up to the test, scientists and soldiers gathered in New Mexico’s desert and placed bets on their creation’s destruction.

Will we incinerate the entire planet, they wondered, or simply some small part of it?

Sixty-six years later and seven hundred miles from Hiroshima, a high school buddy of mine—let’s call him John—glances up at a squawking speaker in his classroom in Sendai.

The voice on the speaker tries to warn him of what’s soon to come, but the warning comes too late.

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Medium 9781574412710

Things Go Missing

Tim Johnston University of North Texas Press PDF

Things Go Missing

Part I: Malfeasance

For a while, there, I was a burglar. I mean I walked uninvited

into people’s homes and took their things and kept them for myself—though usually not for very long. My locker would fill up and girls would notice, the way girls do, and if they saw something they liked I’d either give it to them or take some cash just for appearances—two bucks for a near-empty bottle of N°5, five for something really desirable like a red alligator clutch. If anybody asked, it was all stuff my mother was getting rid of. When business got too brisk, or I began to recognize too many things in the halls, I’d start ditching my haul before I got back to school, or else I’d take it home and stash it in my mother’s boxes in the attic, knowing that Dad, if he ever went up there, would not be able to tell the difference.

Say “burglar” and people think: Male, full-grown, night-time, black clothes, flashlight. They don’t think: Girl, ponytail, pancake chest, Gap jeans—ringing the bell in the middle of the day, asking, Is Betty-Lynn home—? No kid was ever named Betty-Lynn.

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Medium 9781574415384

I Now Pronounce You

Jessica Hollander University of North Texas Press ePub

I Now Pronounce You

In bed, the wife heard the sports announcer. Heard the cheers and chants while washing her face in the bathroom—she didn’t care. She didn’t care her new husband woke before her, the sneak, and went downstairs to watch early-morning sports television. A good decision to marry him—rushed, frantic even, but the wife was two years post-college and sick-of-it, and the husband was an American flag: starry-eyed and pin-striped, a regal flourisher to those beneath him.

Drunk at the Hooters bar, the husband had watched her. He’d spoken loudly about the feminist movement and embracing one’s sexuality. “Nobody has to hide beneath the covers anymore,” he’d said, and she’d believed him.

Good to be a wife. Just back from her honeymoon, in the center of the clean-carpeted, big-roomed house—it was his—she adjusted. She had previously rented a gritty-floored apartment above a beauty salon that emitted all sorts of smells and chemicals; she believed she’d become more beautiful walking constantly through them. Sometimes she locked herself in the new husband’s bathroom and hair-sprayed the walls and foamed mousse into the sink. On the toilet, she closed her eyes and remembered fretful, feral nights silky-legged with Hooters friends, and when she emerged steamed in the doorway, riotous and beautiful, she and the new husband gambled. Striptease Poker. Seven-Card Pose. Texas Hold-This.

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Medium 9781574412406

6. Runaway

Aimee La Brie University of North Texas Press PDF



threw up cotton candy after riding the Tilt-A-Whirl and Michael bought me another T-shirt to wear, one that read, “I’m with

Stupid” in neon orange letters. His report cards, junior high folders, his physics books, and his yellow pencil box. Two rolls of undeveloped film still in their black canisters and an old silver

Kodak camera with a broken flash, most of his clothes, his

Nebraska Cornhuskers football-shaped pillow. Every dog-eared paperback book he owned, including the one he stole from the library in Springfield, Illinois. A quartz rock collection my grandmother gave him that he always hated. His microscope, his magic kit, his train set, his baseball glove that he fake-signed with Reggie Jackson’s signature, a paint-by-numbers Clydesdale horse picture I made for him. A bottle of our dad’s Old Spice, his bicycle, the woolen striped Indian blanket that was folded on the end of his bed for as long as I can remember. His photo album— the square pictures from Grandma’s with the white frames around them, the ends curled up from age. An Easter picture of him holding me on the front steps, Michael smiling widely, my face scrunched in a toothless grin, our mother’s tall shadow across the bottom of the photo. A picture of our German Shepherd, Oscar, on his chain by the barn, tongue hanging out and ears back in anticipation of being petted. Our mother’s black-and-white high school photograph, a serious-looking picture of her with tight brown curls and just a touch of lipstick. All of his records including Johnny Cash, Pink Floyd, and Elvis Presley. His record player with the broken needle, his scratched up collapsible desk, Oscar’s red dog collar. Our grandma’s blue rosary and family Bible with our names written in her neat, cursive hand-writing, the pages thin and yellowing. A broken umbrella, his green plastic snow boots, his brown dress shoes, his leather belt, his Oakland A’s baseball hat with the rim bent by his hands.

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