This exceptional graphic novel recounts the spiritual odyssey of philosopher Bertrand Russell. In his agonized search for absolute truth, Russell crosses paths with legendary thinkers like Gottlob Frege, David Hilbert, and Kurt Gödel, and finds a passionate student in the great Ludwig Wittgenstein. But his most ambitious goal-to establish unshakable logical foundations of mathematics-continues to loom before him. Through love and hate, peace and war, Russell persists in the dogged mission that threatens to claim both his career and his personal happiness, finally driving him to the brink of insanity. This story is at the same time a historical novel and an accessible explication of some of the biggest ideas of mathematics and modern philosophy. With rich characterizations and expressive, atmospheric artwork, the book spins the pursuit of these ideas into a highly satisfying tale. Probing and ingeniously layered, the book throws light on Russell's inner struggles while setting them in the context of the timeless questions he spent his life trying to answer. At its heart, Logicomix is a story about the conflict between an ideal rationality and the unchanging, flawed fabric of reality.

Holocaust.

The old man feared him and obeyed. Not a word he spoke, but went by the shore of the sounding sea and prayed apart to King Apollo whom lovely Leto had borne. ‘Hear me,’ he cried, ‘O god of the silver bow, that protectest Chryse and holy Cilla and rulest Tenedos with thy might, hear me oh thou of Sminthe. If I have ever decked your temple with garlands, or burned your thigh-bones in fat of bulls or goats, grant my prayer, and let your arrows avenge these my tears upon the Danaans.’ Thus did he pray, and Apollo heard his prayer. He came down furious from the summits of Olympus, with his bow and his quiver upon his shoulder, and the arrows rattled on his back with the rage that trembled within him. He sat himself down away from the ships with a face as dark as night, and his silver bow rang death as he shot his arrow in the midst of them. First he smote their mules and their hounds, but presently he aimed his shafts at the people themselves, and all day long the pyres of the dead were burning. For nine whole days he shot his arrows among the people, but upon the tenth day Achilles called them in assembly—moved thereto by Juno, who saw the Achaeans in their death-throes and had compassion upon them. Then, when they were got together, he rose and spoke among them.

When he entered the house, the conquest of his heart was complete. It was one of those spacious farmhouses, with highridged but lowly sloping roofs, built in the style handed down from the first Dutch settlers; the low projecting eaves forming a piazza along the front, capable of being closed up in bad weather. Under this were hung flails, harness, various utensils of husbandry, and nets for fishing in the neighboring river. Benches were built along the sides for summer use; and a great spinning-wheel at one end, and a churn at the other, showed the various uses to which this important porch might be devoted. From this piazza the wondering Ichabod entered the hall, which formed the centre of the mansion, and the place of usual residence. Here rows of resplendent pewter, ranged on a long dresser, dazzled his eyes. In one corner stood a huge bag of wool, ready to be spun; in another, a quantity of linsey-woolsey just from the loom; ears of Indian corn, and strings of dried apples and peaches, hung in gay festoons along the walls, mingled with the gaud of red peppers; and a door left ajar gave him a peep into the best parlor, where the claw-footed chairs and dark mahogany tables shone like mirrors; andirons, with their accompanying shovel and tongs, glistened from their covert of asparagus tops; mock oranges and conch shells decorated the mantelpiece; strings of various-colored birds eggs were suspended above it; a great ostrich egg was hung from the centre of the room, and a corner cupboard, knowingly left open, displayed immense treasures of old silver and well-mended china.

I stuffed a shirt or two into my old carpet-bag, tucked it under my arm, and started for Cape Horn and the Pacific. Quitting the good city of old Manhatto, I duly arrived in New Bedford. It was a Saturday night in December. Much was I disappointed upon learning that the little packet for Nantucket had already sailed, and that no way of reaching that place would offer, till the following Monday. As most young candidates for the pains and penalties of whaling stop at this same New Bedford, thence to embark on their voyage, it may as well be related that I, for one, had no idea of so doing. For my mind was made up to sail in no other than a Nantucket craft, because there was a fine, boisterous something about everything connected with that famous old island, which amazingly pleased me. Besides though New Bedford has of late been gradually monopolising the business of whaling, and though in this matter poor old Nantucket is now much behind her, yet Nantucket was her great original—the Tyre of this Carthage;—the place where the first dead American whale was stranded. Where else but from Nantucket did those aboriginal whalemen, the Red-Men, first sally out in canoes to give chase to the Leviathan? And where but from Nantucket, too, did that first adventurous little sloop put forth, partly laden with imported cobblestones—so goes the story—to throw at the whales, in order to discover when they were nigh enough to risk a harpoon from the bowsprit? Now having a night, a day, and still another night following before me in New Bedford, ere I could embark for my destined port, it became a matter of concernment where I was to eat and sleep meanwhile. It was a very dubious-looking, nay, a very dark and dismal night, bitingly cold and cheerless. I knew no one in the place. With anxious grapnels I had sounded my pocket, and only brought up a few pieces of silver,—So, wherever you go, Ishmael, said I to myself, as I stood in the middle of a dreary street shouldering my bag, and comparing the gloom towards the north with the darkness towards the south—wherever in your wisdom you may conclude to lodge for the night, my dear Ishmael, be sure to inquire the price, and don’t be too particular.

I don’t mean to say that I became then conscious of any impending change in my mentality and in my attitude towards the tasks of my writing life. And perhaps there was never any change, except in that mysterious, extraneous thing which has nothing to do with the theories of art; a subtle change in the nature of the inspiration; a phenomenon for which I can not in any way be held responsible. What, however, did cause me some concern was that after finishing the last story of the ‘Typhoon’ volume it seemed somehow that there was nothing more in the world to write about. This so strangely negative but disturbing mood lasted some little time; and then, as with many of my longer stories, the first hint for ‘Nostromo’ came to me in the shape of a vagrant anecdote completely destitute of valuable details. As a matter of fact in 1875 or ‘6, when very young, in the West Indies or rather in the Gulf of Mexico, for my contacts with land were short, few, and fleeting, I heard the story of some man who was supposed to have stolen single-handed a whole lighter-full of silver, somewhere on the Tierra Firme seaboard during the troubles of a revolution.

451 degrés Fahrenheit représentent la température à laquelle un livre s'enflamme et se consume. Dans cette société future où la lecture, source de questionnement et de réflexion, est considérée comme un acte antisocial, un corps spécial de pompiers est chargé de brûler tous les livres dont la détention est interdite pour le bien collectif. Guy Montag, le pompier pyromane, se met pourtant à rêver d'un monde différent, qui ne bannirait pas la littérature et l'imaginaire au profit d'un bonheur immédiatement consommable. Il devient dès lors un dangereux criminel, impitoyablement pourchassé par une société qui désavoue son passé. Bradbury y critique les méfaits de l’émergence d’une culture de masse. Comme le décrit le pompier Beatty dans le roman, l’émergence d’une telle société n’a été rendue possible que par l’émergence d’une culture de masse, facilitée par la déliquescence du système scolaire : « Le cinéma et la radio, les magazines, les livres sont nivelés par le bas en une vaste soupe ». Les gens se sont désintéressés de la culture et ont préféré faire du sport ou regarder la télévision.

L’adaptation moderne d’un classique de la littérature américaine À Halle-sur-Saale en Allemagne, Huck Finn mène une vie sauvage avec ses copains. Mais la nuit, il rentre régulièrement chez sa mère adoptive, une veuve qui s’occupe bien de lui et essaie malgré tout de le « civiliser. » Mais Finn, épris de liberté, a d’autres objectifs : il est clair qu'il ne va pas rester encore très longtemps ici... Tout le monde connait Les Aventures de Huckleberry Finn, chef d'œuvre de la littérature américaine. Olivia Vieweg, l'une des stars montantes de la bande dessinée allemande, nous propose une adaptation contemporaine du grand classique de Mark Twain, en le transposant dans l’Allemagne d’aujourd’hui. Un roman graphique frais, sauvage et surprenant.

This is a powerful and timely story about one boy's epic journey across Africa to Europe, a graphic novel for all children with glorious colour artwork throughout. From Eoin Colfer, previously Irish Children's Laureate, and the team behind his bestselling Artemis Fowl graphic novels. Ebo: alone. His sister left months ago. Now his brother has disappeared too, and Ebo knows it can only be to make the hazardous journey to Europe. Ebo's epic journey takes him across the Sahara Desert to the dangerous streets of Tripoli, and finally out to the merciless sea. But with every step he holds on to his hope for a new life, and a reunion with his sister. *Winner of the Judges' Special Award at the Children's Books Ireland Book of the Year Awards* 'Beautifully realised and punchily told.' Alex O'Connell, The Times Children's Book of the Week 'A powerful, compelling work, evocatively illustrated ... It would take a hard heart not to be moved by this book.' Financial Times

¡SHIKI Y COMPAÑÍA SE ADENTRAN EN DIGITALIS PARA SALVAR A HERMIT! Para salvar a Hermit, una de las Cuatro Estrellas Brillantes del rey demonio, Shiki y los demás entran en un estado de inmersión y se digitalizan para entrar en Digitalis, el planeta supervirtual en el que las entidades no pueden interferir. ¡Pero el planeta se ha transformado en un lugar muy peligroso por donde anda un asesino cruel y desenfrenado! En medio de tantas adversidades, ¿lograrán Shiki y sus amigos que Hermit, una niña destruida por la maldad más cruel, recupere su alma?