Antiguas creencias paganas junto a los grandes poemas griegos y la Biblia sirven para dar cuerpo a esta extraordinaria novela que John Steinbeck tardó en escribir más de cinco años.

A un Dios desconocido es un cuento místico que explora el intento del hombre por controlar las fuerzas de la naturaleza y por entender los caminos de Dios y las fuerzas del inconsciente.

The novel Man Alone written by John Mulgan, is regarded as a classic of New Zealand literature.[1] It was first published in 1939.
Set during the Great Depression, the novel focuses on Johnson, an English ex-soldier who comes to New Zealand attempting to find a new life. Arriving first in Auckland, he is caught up in the era's riots that are a result of the prevailing economic conditions, and heads south to the central North Island working as a farm hand. An affair with his boss's wife and the accidental killing of his boss causes him to flee across rough hill country. By the novel's end, he is contemplating leaving the country to fight in the Spanish Civil War.
The economic state of the country and the world are major features of the novel. The novel's antihero is an existential loner, with no close bonds to others, determined to live by his own means. The prominence of the novel and the nature of Johnson have led to the term "man alone" being used as a description of a particular archetype in New Zealand and Australian fiction. Mulgan took the title for his novel from a line in Ernest Hemingway's novel To Have and Have Not.
Man Alone is frequently a set text for students in New Zealand, and is often misrepresented as a celebration of the loner. It is, however, more important for its gritty glimpse of life during economic disaster,[1] and has been compared with the similarly themed John Steinbeck novel The Grapes of Wrath.[2]

The English novel begins behind bars, in extremis. Its first author, John Bunyan, was a Puritan dissenter whose writing starts with sermons and ends with fiction. His famous allegory, the story of Christian, opens with a sentence of luminous simplicity that has the haunting compulsion of the hook in a great melody. "As I walk'd through the wilderness of this world, I lighted on a certain place, where was a Denn; And I laid me down in that place to sleep: And as I slept I dreamed a Dream."
A "Denn" is a prison, and Bunyan wrote most of the book in Bedford county gaol, having been arrested for his beliefs during the "Great Persecution" of 1660-1690. He shares the experience of prison with Cervantes, who had the idea for Don Quixote while incarcerated in La Mancha. Like so many novels that follow in this list, The Pilgrim's Progress blends fact and fiction. As well as being the record of Bunyan's dream, a well-known fictional device, it is also an archetypal tale – a quest, fraught with danger. Christian's pilgrimage takes him through the Slough of Despond, Vanity Fair and the Delectable Mountains in a succession of adventures that keep the reader turning the page. With his good companions, Faithful and Hopeful, he vanquishes many enemies before arriving at the Celestial City with the line that still reverberates through the English literary tradition: "So he passed over, and all the trumpets sounded for him on the other side."

In Hollywood terms, the novel has a perfect "arc". It also contains a cast of unforgettable characters, from Mr Worldly Wiseman to Lord Hategood, Mr Stand-fast and Mr Valiant-for-Truth.
More profoundly, as an allegory of state repression, it has been described by the historian EP Thompson as one of the "foundation texts of the English working-class movement". Part of its uniquely English quality is a robust and engaging sense of humour that has cemented its appeal to generations of readers.

The Pilgrim's Progress is the ultimate English classic, a book that has been continuously in print, from its first publication to the present day, in an extraordinary number of editions. There's no book in English, apart from the Bible, to equal Bunyan's masterpiece for the range of its readership, or its influence on writers as diverse as William Thackeray, Charlotte Bronte, Mark Twain, CS Lewis, John Steinbeck and even Enid Blyton.

Huckleberry Finn speaks for many readers when, recalling his Mississippi education, he says: "There was some books too... One was 'Pilgrim's Progress', about a man that left his family it didn't say why. I read considerable in it now and then. The statements was interesting, but tough."

The story of a man in search of the truth is the plot of many kinds of fiction, fromPortnoy's Complaint to Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy. Like many of the writers in the list that follows, Bunyan had a wonderful ear for the rhythms of colloquial speech and his allegorical characters come to life in dialogue that never fails to advance the narrative. Story is one thing. The simple clarity and beauty of Bunyan's prose is something else. Braided together, style and content unite to make a timeless English classic.

On the first day, of the eleventh month, of the twelfth year of their revival, the lead singer of the band Yipskippies retired. After a hard life of partying, drugs, and girls, he decided he had, had enough. It was time for him to get some honest work in a honest town.

This really did bum the Yipskippies out, they had worked tirelessly for the past fifty-two years of their life just to get this band off the air. Now their lead singer had retired and they were left nearly without a job.

All of the band mates decided there was only one way to solve this problem. They had to get a new singer. But the question soon became, where to find this new singer.

They realized they couldn't find just any normal singer, they had to have a singer with style, a singer with appeal, a singer with a brain. But this made it even harder to find a front line man. For a whole month they searched but they couldn't find the trace of any singer.

It seemed as if every person who could sing in the world decided not to talk to them. They were the Yipskippies, the most famous band in about four different African nations, they had to find someone and they had to do it fast.

They immediately scheduled auditions all over the world. Men came from far and wide to pursue their dream of being in the band. Young and old, big and small, Yipskippies would interview them. First they had auditions in Somalia(known for their numerous singing talents), then it was Zimbabwe(great transgender singers). But they could not find any singers who fit the bill.

Soon all of Africa was done with and they moved onto Europe, then Asia, then Australia, then South America and finally they moved to the good old United States of America.

They knew the quest was almost over, it was either here that they would find a singer or they would never. The mood in the bands bus was gloomy but they still had to make this final journey.

They were in upstate New York, in a little town call Maisifield and there they met him. They had decided to host their auditions outside for a change, a departure from the normal boring warehouses they would normally host them.

It was a humid summer day, it was hard to breath from the humidity in the air but still they persevered. They were almost plastered into plastic chairs by their own sweat. It was an awful day for anything, but especially a audition.

Only a couple of bored or lonely souls had bothered to even attend it but the Yipskippies were desperate. They needed every chance to find a bandmate and friend. Herbst the bands drummer was beginning to nod off. Salisbury, the bands base player was fiddling with his thumbs, bringing them round and round in a intoxicating route.

 It was the most bored the men had been in a while. Something about small suburban towns, something about the vague smell of coffee, something about the somewhat green trees. There was barely any sound except the occasional singing that one of the auditioners would do.

 It was never good, never even approaching good, if good was a mountain then they had barely started packing for the trip. Soon the amount of people at the audition started to dwindle, and dwindle, and dwindle until there was nobody left. Steinbeck, the bands guitarist sighed, another day wasted. Their lead singer could never be replaced.

That was until he heard it. The single most beautiful sentence. And the being that uttered it had the single greatest voice, The God Voice. A voice that surpassed time, surpassed space, surpassed even the basics laws of the world. If you came to the spot the audition had been held in fifty years you could still probably hear the voice.

It sounded like a bird chirping, a women laughing, a baby smiling, and a mother soothing. Steinbeck immediately turned around, Herbst woke up, Salisbury stop fiddling with his thumbs. What they saw when they opened their eyes, turned around, and focused on the stage was a creature.

Small in stature, with long slender wings, and grayish skin. It was a bird, but not just any bird but an ugly bird. The band could not believe it, they looked around but they saw nobody that the God Voice could've belonged to.

"Can't ye fucking cunts hear me?" They heard. They looked at the bird for a second.

"Ah I see you can you fucking cunt lickers. Now do you want me in your band or not." The most beautiful voice in the world, came from a bird, and not just any bird but a pigeon.

A pigeon joins a band, what could go wrong.

These are short stories using random noun generator. One page a day

-a result of a Steinbeck madlib


Next to the staticy screen of living room television, the northwest bathroom screeches willfully at the intruding fruit and drops helplessly. 

There is a resounding stink that fills the room, for there is not a block to rid  of this unrelenting hindrance. 

On one side there is the pristine toilet that oversees the open trash can, but on the other side the clean sink carries the necessities--fruit; and hand soap that struggles to purify the ill-smelling room.

In the sink under the facet that runs isolated and so alone that it gives off a quiet wail. The scent of the overwhelming fruit wafts off the counter and drowns out the soap, and with the addition of the scent from the open trashcan across the room, and with no means to weaken it.

There is a  durian that sits upon the bathroom counter, a durian dances its scent throughout the room, and dances disregarding races, gender, or age.

On top of the counter inside of a bathroom stand a durian; the durian lets no man take its throne.

A collection of words through stories, poetry, and how my perspective changes with time.

Under the persuasion from Li Du, Hans expanded the area of their operations. With that, there would be more storage companies for them to choose from.
It was nearing the end of July. After the heavy rains, Flagstaff once again returned to its warm weather.
With a back full of sweat, Hans found a new storage company. The location was in Kingman, a small city northwest of Flagstaff.
After having been free for a few days, Li Du commanded them to set off after receiving the info. Thus, the Iron Knight once again returned to the highways.
Kingman was about 150 miles from Flagstaff. With the speed of the Iron Knight, they would reach there in two hours.
"It’s a small place, brother. The population is only about 30,000, mostly white people. There aren’t many other races besides quite a number of people from the middle-east who immigrated here."
Along the trip, Hans explained to Li Du about the culture and history of Kingman.
"I know about this," Li Du exclaimed. "Allahu Akbar— if we respect their faith and culture, everything will be peaceful."
Hans shrugged and said, "Right, that’s how it is."
Kingman was in the center of Arizona, where Mohave County was. It was once thought to be the most barren area in West America; the landscape was wild and open, with little architecture.
It was due to these reasons, that some immigrants chose to live in Kingman.
Though it did not seem like a well-off place, the population was low. There was less job competition, so for immigrants that were lacking social networks after coming to America, Kingman was a great choice.
Many immigrants were tenacious. With their strength and knowledge, even a desolate place like Kingman could become a place of potential after their efforts.
To get to Kingman from Flagstaff, they had to travel on Route 66. The highway was about 2,500 miles long, and was famous all over the country, nicknamed the "Mother Road."
Route 66 started in Chicago, and went through Missouri, Kansas, Oklahoma, Texas, Arizona, cutting to Los Angeles and stretching to Santa Monica. Across eight states and three time zones, it was incredible!
As for the nickname, not only did the highway connect the east and west regions of the country, it had once saved the economies of the villages along it.
In the 19th century, Route 66 had just been a bunch of different roads for horse carriages.
In 1926, the American government’s investment had connected the roads together after decades of labor.
During this period, it had become the "Silk Road" of the Western World.
This engineering had created tens of thousands of jobs during a tough time in America, and construction on the road became a lifeline for the workers in nearby towns.
Many legends had spawned from this road. Hans told them to Li Du for the entire two-hour road trip, and time passed quickly. When Hans was about to stop talking, the city districts of Kingman had appeared.
Li Du looked out the window. The place felt like an ancient town to him.
Route 66 had penetrated the town and become an arterial road. Several rustic motels and gas stations were on both sides of the road, along with a multitude of antique buildings; Li Du guessed that they were possibly built in the 19th century.
He pointed them out to Hans, who replied with a laugh, "You’re correct. They are leftovers from the 19th century, national treasures now."
Amongst the old buildings, there was a museum, which was the Historic Route 66 Museum.
Li Du was exclaimed in amazement, "This highway is really popular. There’s even a museum for it."
Hans said lazily, "Of course, didn’t I’d just introduce it to you on the road?"
There were free parking lots in front of the museum, and Godzilla decided to park there. There were motels and restaurants around. Even the storage company whose auction they were going to attend was nearby.
Since they had parked here, Li Du went to purchase a ticket to tour the museum.
Since the last time he had been with Sophie, hearing her talk about the states outside of Arizona had changed Li’s work attitude.
Due to the nature of the storage auction business, treasure hunters had to travel all over America. Li Du wanted to learn more about the nation’s geography and culture while he was treasure hunting.
He was considering that perhaps, in the future, he could have a road trip around the western regions of America, or even the whole of America.
Although the museum was mainly about the highway, there were still quite a number of exhibitions.
Once he entered, he saw a bunch of manuscripts in a showcase.
"This is the manuscript of ‘The Grapes of Wrath,’ by John Steinbeck," Hans introduced. "It was written in 1939, which he was then awarded the Pulitzer Prize for.
"The nickname of Route 66 also originated from it. Steinbeck was the first to call it ‘The Mother Road.’ Everyone started using this nickname after him."
Besides literary manuscripts, there was also a musical manuscript. It was a piece of work from Jazz composer, Bobby Troupe.
While driving down Route 66 to California, this composer wrote one of the most famous songs of his life, "Get Your Kicks On Route 66."
Through another famous singer, Nat King Cole, the song became an instant hit, and brought Troupe to the height of his career.
Besides literature and music, there were also other things relating to the highway in the museum.
CBS Station had once aired a television series called "Route 66," from 1960 to 1964. A television in the museum was replaying this series.
There were also some documentaries on Route 66. These could be recorded by visitors as long as they had a ticket, which was one of the ways for the museum to attract visitors.
Li Du burned some of the documentaries into some discs.
Before attending the auction, there would be lots of free time. Watching these documentaries would be a good way to pass the time.
"Where will we be staying?" Li Du asked as he packed up the discs.
Hans pointed to the south and said, "Neon Motel. If you want to properly experience the West, then you have to stay there."
The motel had outrageous neon lights on display; the whole motel was decorated with them. Although it didn’t look like much in the day, once night fell, it was an unimaginable sight.
However, the building itself was fairly aged. The renovation style seemed to be of the last century: rough, simple and practical, like the homes of cowboys from the West.
After Hans made the payment, they had lunch in the motel.
"The food’s pretty good, buddy. Neon Motel has been in operation for a century. They have been hiring cooks and waiters from the countryside since they opened, which has preserved the original flavor of the West."
As he listened to Hans’s explanations, Li Du flipped open the menu, and started laughing.


They love gold, and they love silver. Even more so, they love gems that dazzle, like stars across the skies. 
Firearms, jewelleries, and precious metals; A collector’s world will not be complete without antiques.  
Storage auctions, old goods trade, re-estate sales and gold-digging. But the truth is, if one wants to make money, then the supreme way is through searching for the legendary treasures. 
Holding the fort, there’s an ocelot, a wolf, and an Andes condor. At the side, there’s a loyal hound, an irascible ape, and an African honey badger. Who said that you can only rely on humans when treasure hunting?! 

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 14, NEARLY P.M.
  My leg feels worse tonight. I think it's the stress. There's a deep pain working its way up my back. Besides going to the bathroom, I haven't gotten out of bed all day. But I've calmed down. Writing everything out helped. It seems more like a story now. It feels better.
  I'm finding that dull, lingering pain is ten times worse when it's accompanied by dull, lingering boredom. If not for my laptop I'm pretty sure my parents would have already found me dead from a hopeless case of endless monotony.
  I can imagine it:
  "Our little Ryan has died of boredom. We should have looked in on him more. Poor thing."
  So the laptop rests nicely on Big Bertha. My mom says the psychiatrist gave her some software that secretly tracks my browser history, emails, IMs, everything. It's nice that my mom told me this, because the software isn't very hard to disable. Adults in general take a lot of comfort in these tools, but a fifteen-year-old who can't get around parental controls on a computer is probably also having trouble tying his shoes. It's just not that hard.
  Still, timing is important. I can't be searching for weird stuff or sending emails to Sarah without having at least a few minutes to cover my tracks. It takes time to erase what I've done, and it's too late if I've just sent an email and I hear my mom walking up the stairs.
  Not that I've sent Sarah any emails. I still don't know what to say.
  It's hard. Maybe too hard.
  To kill the boredom, I've been searching online for information about the dredge. Sarah and I have looked before and found almost nothing of interest. We searched for archived stories, blogs by people living in town, information about the Crossbones, The Skeleton Creek Irregular, and a lot more. In every case we discovered what felt like tiny shards or fragments of information, just enough to keep us going but nothing really earth-shattering.
  I tried all those angles again today with the same meager results. After three hours of dead ends, I looked back through my notes and my eyes lit on the name of the company that had owned the dredge — New York Gold and Silver. I'd searched that term before, but not very aggressively. I went looking for them again, this time with more tenacity.
  New York Gold and Silver has been out of business for over twenty years, but one thing about bankruptcy I've found is that all your records are open for viewing. I found a public file of the company records in a subsection of the City of New York legal archives, and within those files I discovered a file marked NYGS AM Mins. 80–85. I knew NYGS stood for New York Gold and Silver. When I double-clicked on the file, I saw that AM Mins stood for Annual Meeting Minutes and that 80–85 meant 1980–1985.
  To categorize this document as boring would be way too kind. This was 127 pages of pure, undistilled drudgery. I skimmed the first 30 pages of PE ratios, cost-benefit analyses, plant closures, equity-to-debt ratios, sub-prime holdings, and a lot of other painfully tedious details of a once-prosperous company. It wasn't until I was half asleep on page 31 that I realized I could search for terms I was interested in rather than read every single word.
  And that's when I found something on page 81 and something else on page 111 that made me nervous. I printed them out, and I'm going to tape them in here.
  In the spring of 1985, New York Gold and Silver was served with environmental lawsuits from Oregon, Washington, Alaska, Montana, and Idaho. I guess they were too busy fending off enemies to take action on their agreement to demolish #42. By June of 1985, the company was dissolved in a sea of debt and legal disputes. Things like the dredge in Skeleton Creek were forgotten as lawyers moved on to higher-profile cases. There was no money to be made suing a dead company.
  It's almost nine o'clock now. Mom and Dad will be in to say good night and check up on me. They'll want to check my computer.
  I know what I have to do.
  I pasted the text from the meeting notes under my name and printed out the email (which is what's included above).
  I hope Sarah finds my email before her parents do.
  One thing I hate about writing in the digital age is that everything disappears eventually. It's like writing letters that evaporate into thin air as they're read. Which is why I keep copies. Paper feels permanent.
  Time to clean up the mess before my parents come up the stairs.
  WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 15, EARLY A.M.
  Mom gave me more painkillers last night — the kind where they warn you not to operate heavy equipment after taking them because you get really drowsy. I fell asleep reading the end of To a God Unknown. Steinbeck could be creepy when he wanted to be, like when Joseph Wayne lives all alone at the black rock and listens to the sounds of the deep night until it drives him crazy. I need to start reading different books. Maybe I'll try a romance novel or a memoir about someone who enjoyed a really happy life.
  The big news:
  Sarah just sent me an email, which I have read, printed, and deleted.
  I'd never ask Sarah to stop making movies, so she really shouldn't expect me to stop writing. She knows I can't stop. But she makes a good point. If my parents are sneaking around in here after I'm asleep, looking for my journals, I need to make sure they don't find them. I've been putting this one between my mattress and the headboard so I can pull it out and write in it whenever I want to. I think I'd catch them if they tried to take it while I slept. Wouldn't I?
  Oh, man, this reminds me of The Tell-Tale Heart. Only six pages, but every one of them seriously spine-chilling. I can imagine my dad quietly entering my room in the dark. He's moving so slowly it takes him an hour to get to my bed — just like the madman in that story. I hear something and sit up, but it's pitch-black and I'm afraid to turn on the light, so I don't see him standing there. I sit upright for a long time and I know someone is in the room even though I can't see them. I'm terrified. And then bang! — he takes my journal and escapes.
  Perfect. Now I have one more thing to worry about tonight.
  Investigating is often how Sarah gets herself and me into trouble, so I'm worried that she used the word. And her email has that blind confidence she gets sometimes, like she's wearing glasses that only let her see two feet in front of her own face, nothing to the sides or the back or way out front — just those precious two feet telling her to charge ahead.
  I wonder what she's sending me. It's unbearable having to wait.
  THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 16, EARLY MORNING
  Last night, after dinner, my parents moved me out to the porch so I could get some fresh air. It's getting chilly in the early evening already, but I like that about living in the mountains. The clean air is even crisper when it's chilled. I was exhausted when I finally got back to my room. I fell right to sleep (no doubt the fresh air helped). I got the video and the link from Sarah.
  SARAHFINCHER.COM
  PASSWORD:
  PITANDPENDULUM
  THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 16, MORNING
  So Sarah thinks my ghost — or whatever it was — was there the first night she went to the dredge. And the dragging leg — that would point to Old Joe Bush, wouldn't it?
  It's good that Sarah doesn't think I'm insane.
  But that might be because she's ins
ane, too.
  Either way, she's good company.
  I'm supposed to be the paranoid one. But what is she doing? Driving by my house to make sure I'm okay. Checking the doorway ten times a second to make sure nobody catches her. Asking me not to write anything down.
  What's going on?
  That might be the worst thing about being trapped in here: I have no idea what's going on outside this room.
  I wish I could remember more. I don't think I have amnesia … or do I? I remember my name, my age, my address, and my phone number. When my mom comes in my room wearing the chili-pepper apron I gave her when I was in the eighth grade, I recognize her.
  I remember, at the age of ten, holding a cold marshmallow milkshake in one hand while riding my ten-speed down a hill. A dog started chasing me and I squeezed the front brake. After I flipped over the handlebars and landed on my back, I sat up and saw that the dog had lost interest in trying to kill me. He was licking my milkshake off the hot pavement.
  You see there? I remember every detail. I remember even more than that.
  I remember when I limped home with skinned knees and elbows. My shirt was all dirty. Mom wasn't home, so it was a rare moment in which Dad was my lone hope of sympathy. Mom would have babied me, but I recall feeling as if I'd better not be crying when I reached the porch. I knew he wouldn't like it if I was all upset.
  When he saw me, Dad sat me on his lap and touched my stinging knees with a cold dishrag from the kitchen sink.
  "Mom's not going to like finding blood all over her good rag," I pointed out.
  "Don't worry about your mother. I'll cover for you."
That made me smile, even though I was still concerned. "What will you say?"
  "Bloody nose. I'll tell her I got in a fight. I'll say someone punched me."
  "She's not going to believe you."
  "Cutting vegetables?"
  "You only cook pancakes."
  "You worry too much."
  It was a pleasant moment with my dad, like — I don't know — intimate, I guess. It didn't happen very often. He pushed his T-shirt up with a finger and scratched his bare shoulder. I caught sight of a little mark he had.
  "What's that?" I asked.
  "Tattoo. From a long time ago. You've seen it before."
  "Can I see it again?"
  He hesitated. I'd only ever seen the tattoo about three times in my whole life. It was small, about the size of a nickel. He called it his little birdie.
  "It doesn't look like a bird."
  "It's not a bird. I just call it that."
  "What is it then?"
  "It's nothing."
  He pulled his sleeve back down and set me on the porch. The intimate moment had passed. I remember thinking I'd done something wrong.
  So it seems I remember a lot of things — even long strings of things that happened years ago. I just don't recall all the details of the night when I fell. I guess that makes it a blackout, or in my case, a gray-out, since things keep creeping back that I don't necessarily want to remember.
  I'm not surprised by what Sarah's saying in the video, about the sound being there both nights. It was like I've already seen and heard this information through a dirty window, and now the window has been cleaned. Things I already knew have become a little clearer, that's all.
  But I also think there's something else. When Mom goes to work, I'll be free to watch it again. I'll listen more carefully this time.
  THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 16, 11:00 A.M.
  I've watched it now a dozen times. No, more than a dozen. And, yes, I might have discovered something. Not just in the visuals. But the sounds. Especially the sounds — over and over and over again with those sounds. The best way I can describe it is that listening to those sounds again and again is like feeling my memory come unstuck from skipping on an old record. The sound of the leg being dragged — dragged — dragged — and then ping! Something clicked forward in my memory. Something that wasn't there before.
  I remember it was dark and I wanted to go home. I was looking at the rusted-over gears, trying to imagine how they could have moved. The flashlight felt clammy in my hand when I pointed it to a thick wooden beam that stood behind the machinery. Leaning over the biggest of the many gears, I peered down onto the hidden floorboards below. There was a little round mark, about the size of a nickel. I'd seen that mark before.
  The record started skipping again.
  It's a birdie, it's a birdie, it's a birdie.
  After that I saw Old Joe Bush sloshing toward me in his wet boots, dragging his busted leg behind.
  What does it all mean?
  THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 16, 11:20 A.M.

Skeleton Creek is about two teens, Ryan and Sarah, who investigated the mysterious dredge and while they do that, Ryan brakes his leg. Now, Ryan and Sarah have been forbidden to talk to each other. They are investigating what they found at the dredge, while secretly emailing each other.






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