📘 ❞ The Good Earth ❝ قصة ــ Pearl S. Buck اصدار 2004
Stories and novels - 📖 ❞ قصة The Good Earth ❝ ــ Pearl S. Buck 📖
█ _ Pearl S Buck 2004 حصريا قصة The Good Earth عن New York : Washington Square Press 2024 Earth: Earth IT WAS WANG LUNG'S MARRIAGE DAY AT FIRST, opening his eyes in the blackness of curtains about bed, he could not think why dawn seemed different from any other The house was still except for faint, gasping cough old father, whose room opposite to own across middle Every morning man's first sound to be heard Wang Lung usually lay listening it, and moved only when heard it approaching nearer door his father's squeak upon its wooden hinges But this did wait He sprang up and pushed aside bed It a dark, ruddy dawn, through small square hole window, where the tattered paper fluttered, glimpse bronze sky gleamed went tore away 'It is spring I do need this,' muttered Stories novels مجاناً PDF اونلاين هذا القسم يحتوي علي العديد من القصص والروايات باللغة الإنجليزية This section contains many stories English (Stories novels) والروايات: الرواية هي سرد نثري طويل يصف شخصيات خيالية أو واقعية وأحداثاً شكل متسلسلة كما أنها أكبر الأجناس القصصية حيث الحجم وتعدد الشخصيات وتنوع الأحداث وقد ظهرت أوروبا بوصفها جنساً أدبياً مؤثراً القرن الثامن عشر والرواية حكاية تعتمد السرد بما فيه وصف وحوار وصراع بين وما ينطوي عليه ذلك تأزم وجدل وتغذيه A novel relatively long work narrative fiction, normally written prose form, which typically published as book present English word fiction derives Italian novella "new", "news", or "short story something new", itself Latin novella, singular noun use neuter plural novellus, diminutive novus, meaning "new" Walter Scott made distinction between novel, (as saw it) "events are accommodated ordinary train human events modern state society" romance, defined "a fictitious verse; interest turns marvellous uncommon incidents"
The Good Earth
IT WAS WANG LUNG'S MARRIAGE DAY. AT FIRST,
opening his eyes in the blackness of the curtains about his bed, he could not think why the dawn seemed different from any other. The house was still except for the faint, gasping cough of his old father, whose room was opposite
to his own across the middle room. Every morning the old man's cough was the first sound to be heard. Wang Lung
usually lay listening to it, and moved only when he heard
it approaching nearer and when he heard the door of his
father's room squeak upon its wooden hinges.
But this morning he did not wait. He sprang up and
pushed aside the curtains of his bed. It was a dark, ruddy
dawn, and through a small square hole of a window, where
the tattered paper fluttered, a glimpse of bronze sky
gleamed. He went to the hole and tore the paper away.
'It is spring and I do not need this,' he muttered.
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