I've been meaning to read Dante's Inferno - The Divine Comedy for quite a while now, but I can't find it in my local library.

Do you guys think I could get it in english and in good quality VIA the internet?

Also will it be in old English or could I find it in simple, mordern English?

At 2/28/09 10:53 PM, AniMetal wrote: I've been meaning to read Dante's Inferno - The Divine Comedy for quite a while now, but I can't find it in my local library.

How can you not find the library? They're usually big staples in the community.
Look on google or something. You'll find it easily.

Do you guys think I could get it in english and in good quality VIA the internet?

You mean as an ebook or order it from somewhere?
Either way, definately.

Also will it be in old English or could I find it in simple, mordern English?

I imagine it'll be old English. Its an old book and the language would be completely imperative.

At 2/28/09 11:03 PM, Nev wrote: How can you not find the library? They're usually big staples in the community.
Look on google or something. You'll find it easily.

I can find the library, I can't find the book in the library.

Don't know how you confused the two.

I imagine it'll be old English. Its an old book and the language would be completely imperative.

Do you think I could, by any chance, find a translation from old english into modern english?

Just like what they did with Shakespear's plays?

At 2/28/09 11:08 PM, AniMetal wrote: Don't know how you confused the two.

By mis-reading.

Just like what they did with Shakespear's plays?

Wasn't that more of an artistic thing than translation?
I think a huge part of the charm of old writings is the language.

At 2/28/09 10:53 PM, AniMetal wrote: Also will it be in old English or could I find it in simple, mordern English?

My brother has a copy of it. It was written in Italian (or whatever Dante wrote it in) with modern English translations underneath each passage.

The only copies are in old English. Sorry. Its still easier to understand than Shakespeare, though!

Shakespeare is not hard to understand. Some times you will have to stop and think about what you read before moving on but if you work threw it it becomes very easy.

Two contradicting posts about whether I can get it in modern English or not.

Vijandvckfvdifvdf or whatever the fuck your username is, do you mind going and checking that book for me if you own it to make sure it is in modern english please? Also I think it's Latin actually, but i'm not entirely sure.

At 2/28/09 11:30 PM, djconnect wrote: Shakespeare is not hard to understand. Some times you will have to stop and think about what you read before moving on but if you work threw it it becomes very easy.

However true that is, The divine comedy is like 800+ pages long(Or so i've heard), it would get really annoying real fast.

And I was talking about those Julius Ceaser, Merchant of Venice, Romeo and Juliet, etc. Shakespear books that one page is in old English and the page next to it is in modern English so schools can read these plays in like middle school

At 3/1/09 12:38 AM, AniMetal wrote

The divine comedy is like 800+ pages long(Or so i've heard)

Lets see *rummages through mile high stack of books* Its 313 pages long

At 3/1/09 11:25 AM, GodOfTheGodless wrote: At 3/1/09 12:38 AM, AniMetal wrote

The divine comedy is like 800+ pages long(Or so i've heard)

Lets see *rummages through mile high stack of books* Its 313 pages long

Most of Shakespeare's writings get bloated with pages because of translations and definitions added in. The works are normal length though.

i love to read books, i also enjoy writing stories, i have an excerpt from a book i wrote that i need peoples opinion on...

'I was standing in the direct sunlight, making the amulet look like it was glowing. I took a closer look at it, it was round, kinda flat, with a huge gemstone set into it. The stone looked like a cat's eye, surrounded by the strange glyphs. A small breeze blew past me, which was weird, because I was at least twenty below sea level. The amulet seemed to glow brighter and brighter, until I was engulfed by the light, the wind was fiercer then I have ever felt. Then, I was suddenly standing in a small town, I could tell I was in the place in my dreams. The Dragon-looking creatures were everywhere, they were walking around, they were talking to Human beings in a strange language. I screamed, everyone was staring at me, finaly noticing that I appeared out of thin air. A Dragon-creature ran up to me and said something in the foreign language. "Get away from me!"
I screamed, the Creature said something to me, its voice was calm. I didn't know what I was doing, or where I was, I was SO freaked out, that I could see the world spinning, "Leave me... alone..." I said as I fell to the ground...'

the kids name is Tristan, the place he is at is an archaeological digsite...
-krisknox

Needs improvement, didn't really grab me like it should've. Needs more description. Don't be discouraged though, the plot seems interesting, and I don't read fantasy a lot, so that's saying something!

I enjoyed the short story, it was descriptive and everything. Though I am left lost because I have no idea what is going on. If this was placed on the back of a book I would most likely pick it up to read more because I did become interested.

Okay, this wasn't supposed to be so long, but I was inspired to write it. It's not out of my book; I just wrote it in the last hour or so. Hopefully by the end you'll get my point, but if not, I understand.

The artist stroked the paper delicately with his finest brush. He angled it across his canvas, neatly streaking a dab of the moon's blue glow to edge the cheek and brow of a soft olive face. This new contrast sparked an amazing sense that the pictured face was not only a real, three-dimensional object, but also an object that held layers of skin, flesh, blood, and soul underneath.
Then the artist painted the rest of his wife's skin, from her raven-feathered locks and curls all the way down to her bare toes. He drew each gentle curve without the hindrance of cloth or jewellery, for she was clothed only in shadow and the radiance of the moon. Her hands were tucked in her arms across her chest-she always crossed her arms whenever she was embarrassed. The artist knew that should she have been here, she would have been locked in the same poise that he remembered so well. He also knew that he would never see her strike that posture again.
The artist's hands shuddered with every stroke now-and tears began to fall from his eyes. He held his hand away from the paper for a moment, for fear of emotion destroying what emotion had prompted him to achieve. Only when he could calm himself did the artist return to his work.
The ultimate object of his affection lay nearly complete. Her slender form swallowed up the shadows of the night like a thirsty traveller. Her hair shimmered in round curls, falling around her face a breeze pushing them to one side. Behind her the artist had painted the starlit night and moon almost out of sight behind a lone cloud. Underneath it the ocean lay like a wrinkled black carpet of shiny obsidian, foaming where it stretched across the foamy beach. The waters rushed up past the ankles of the woman, sinking them in the silverish sand.
Yet the picture was not complete. The woman was still eyeless, for the artist always reserved the portrayal of eyes until the very end, for they were the most significant aspect of a person's appearance in his mind-the soul and spirit of character itself.
Gently her eyes came to life with the painted reflections of the artist's own self. Each and every tiny speck of paint was exactly where he wanted it to be, and the eyes of his wife were made as real as they could have been in life. Her eyelashes ringed the green irises and completed both them and the entire picture.
As soon as he realized that he was finished, the artist dropped his brush and stared, as if he knew not to do now that he was finished. His eyes moistened and blurred as he thought of her, and also his loss. He sobbed, alone in his studio except for the woman before him.
After a while the artist regained some of his emotions, and thought in a new light. Yes, his love may have been gone forever, but he had given her such a tribute as this, one that would last longer than his own flesh and memory. Even if they knew her not, others would see her and her beauty in the way only he had. She may not have lived as long as he did, but she would live on quite longer than he would.
And the artist knew that he had done something amazing, something that only intelligence and emotion could accomplish. After all, had he simply thrown the paint onto the canvas, it would never have become the same image-the lack of care and design would strip it of its beauty. Yes, there could not have been such a painting without the care of such an artist.

The musician strummed her violin vibrantly to the composer's wish and command. The intensity of her instrument rose and matched those next to her-the cello, the trumpet, the trombone, the harp and many others. All rose with increasing vigour, climbing to a peak of excited anticipation. Yet, at the same time, a tuba and saxophone began their descent into a state of slow solitude. The grand piano soon followed them into the void of depression.
Then the excitement of the orchestra dwindled, matching the somber tunes of the few lowly-playing musicians. The entire symphony nearly came to a standstill; and then it jumped once again into a vivid frenzy like a frightened deer. It was excited, fearful, joyous, and bold; but somehow the mournful underlying of the previous movement still remained, though not in the ear, but in the mind. A chilling flood of emotions ran down the spines of every human being in the auditorium, whether they were forming the music or simply listening to it.
Then came the violinist's solo. For a minute only did she play for the scrutiny and observance of all. However, she was not frightened, for though she had good right to be afraid, she simply let go of her concentration and allowed emotion to control her mixed song.
Her music brought on a flood of memory. For every cheerful note a pleasant dream reminded her of past joys; for every bleak chord a misery was resurrected. What was even more startling, however, was what happened when both emotions were played in the exact same instance. It brought on a euphoria that could not be explained-only desired. The violinist was urged on by every mingled passage to achieve more and more of the same, for she could not understand it and wanted to feel it more.
The drums joined with her in her shifting song, bringing a sense of quickening doom to both the good and the sad. Then the piano added to her sadness, and the trumpets to her unspeakable cheer. Soon it seemed like the entire orchestra was fighting for control of the mood; yet, no conflict was audible. It all flowed together with the entire spectrum of emotion, and both rose to a climax and fell to a quiet dwindling.
As the final notes were strummed, blown, or beaten, the violinist marveled at what had just passed. A hundred different instruments and a hundred different musicians had accomplished and destroyed many paradoxes in the time they had taken to play. There was unity and cohesion among every piece of the whole; they were completely ordained by the composer. There had been so many opposite emotions that had played simultaneously and had not fought, for the mixture of emotion it seemed was an emotion in itself. The entire piece was a probably disaster except for in the right hands, and in the right hands it had succeeded. Without so many directed actions working together, this heart-moving piece might have been nothing of consequence at all.
But then, the violinist thought, some consider music to be nothing but disturbance of air in a coordinated pattern. They see all things through the cynical eyes of scientists, and can only think and reason, not feel and believe. People like them will never know the beauty of music, for beauty does not exist to them.

Continued...

The architect stood at the peak of his work in progress. It was the tallest building in the world, and it was his own child-his creation. Thousands of hours in design had started it, thousands of hands had constructed it, and thousands more had placed every finishing detail to its many windows and hallways and elevators and stairs. Who knew the total amount of work that really gone into it? The hours were innumerable-they stretched far into years. Half of the architect's life had been spent on this beauty; this grand structure that nothing could rival.
Yet as the architect stood at its apex, he glanced out at the world around him, for he could see far and wide from up here. Skies, oceans, plains, and mountains were all visible.
I've made the impossible, but how much more impossible is the world? he asked himself. How could the universe come to be on its own, even after with so much help I made something tiny in comparison to its size and complexity? If this tower could never be built without effort, how could the universe not be made? For every effect there is first a cause. For every creation a creator. How could this be that we have been able to make so much and not be able to recognize what can only come to be by means and not spontaneity? For all that I done I could never make something so complex, and neither could my descendants no matter how far into the future. How have we been so naive, and arrogant? If someone came up to me and told me that I had not built this tower, but that it came into existence on its own, would I not only laugh at that person but think of them as insane? What madness is this life?

The student slammed his locker door in frustration. Everything that they told him did not make sense. They said that nothing was special or specially-made, but that it had somehow made itself. The logic of it he could not understand. They told him what had happened, but they had not said how or why it happened.
What frustrated him the most was that they would not consider the possibilities-they were incapable of thinking outside the box. To them it had to have made itself because it was ridiculous to think of someone making it, right? No one believed in God or gods anymore, right? There was no physical proof of divine existence, so therefore it could not be considered in the slightest regard, or even explored as a possible option.
But, they're missing the other side of it, thought the student. There may not be proof of an all-knowing maker, but there is also no proof that there isn't! They are choosing between two things that are impossible to believe, and refuse to even acknowledge the other. So much for scientific evaluation; is one theory is put before another theory before either can be validated or disproved? Madness. Ignorance. He who only considers one option will do everything he can to prove it right, at the expense of an open mind.
The worst part wasn't that the student could not believe what they fed him. The worst part was that what they taught made nothing special. With them there was no answer or purpose. Nothing in this dry life but what is here. The world was not given to humanity as a gift; it was a lottery draw. The student's body was not house for a soul; it was a machine that was formed over the eons by trial and error. Even his emotions weren't exempt from this degrading; they were simply chemical reactions programmed into his mind to react to certain conditions for the benefit of his survival.
But it was not possible. There was more to life than the bare scientific facts. What evolutionary advantage did art give the human race? What did music do to further humanity's course? How is finding beauty in nature and in people something that can help us evolve? The ability to make as everything else degrades should have been the first pointer that nothing can make itself-only break itself.
Even more impossible in this world of self-made actions is love. Scientists say that love is a chemical response that makes our race propagate and protect itself from extinction. But if evolution has always been in favour of self-advantage, how then could the other love fit in with it? The sacrificial love, the love where one denies his or her own life in the benefit of another. That makes no sense from an evolutionary standpoint, so should we say that people of this description are stupid? Weak specimens of humanity?
It's no wonder that the aspects that we call 'good', are quickly diminishing in an age of science and reason.
How can I convince them? the student asked himself. Don't, his inner voice said. If they cannot even begin to accept that there are things beyond comprehending, then let them comprehend what they can only see. For them art is dirty paper, music is noise, construction somehow happens only with design, and the world came into existence on its very own. Let them stay foolish.

thanks! this was the only part of the story that didn't give anything away. i'm just glad you liked it!

Wow, that was mucho better! The detail was spot on, very excellent, and the philosophical language puts the icing on the cake for me . I'm eager to see this continued!

At 3/2/09 10:00 AM, GodOfTheGodless wrote: Wow, that was mucho better! The detail was spot on, very excellent, and the philosophical language puts the icing on the cake for me . I'm eager to see this continued!

It's not really meant to be continued; more of read and evaluated. I just used a few short stories to prove a point; I don't really want to expand upon them. There are numerous other examples that could add to the purpose, but I'd rather keep writing my novel for now. Thanks for the compliment, though.

Here's my next idea. As I said I'll be posting once a month to get some feedback on some ideas from the experts. Here goes.

On the planet Dioler, there exist three types of humans. The Biatus are bestial humans who live in the far desert. The Yola are super humans who have enhanced strength speed and durability. They reside in the prosperous dome known as Utopia. The Noda are people completely like us who are left with the average farmlands near Utopia and are loosely controlled by the Yola. Because the Yola's and Noda's DNA are similar, the Noda born to Yola families are sent to the Noda and the Yola born to Noda families are taken by Yola to live in Utopia.
Conall and Jean were family friends all their life. When Jean was discovered as a Yola when she was twelve, however, the Yola took her against her will. Being his only friend Conall swore that one day he would also come to Utopia. For three years he trained and worked to live and become strong enough to force his way into Utopia. For three years he never forgot his friend his vow to meet again.
One day a successful Noda named Mr. Ducis comes to Conall's town to find him. He tells Conall that his vow cannot be fulfilled unless he becomes a Yola himself. The only way to do it however is to look for the fountain of beginning, rumored to change any Yola into a Noda and any Noda into a Yola as long as the drink the water inside. The fountain however, is beyond the great desert of the Biatus, and that the Yola will want to stop him, since if he finds it, he could make all Noda Yola.
Given a weird scroll and a guide thanks to the stranger, Conall makes his journey through the Biatus desert. Will the secret of the golden fist help him be able to make it to the fountain of beginning?

wow... that story was amazing! i was reading it this morning, and lost trackod time, next thing i know, i missed the bus. i cannot descibe how great it is,
-krisknox

Will the secret of the golden fist help him be able to make it to the fountain of beginning?

there was nothing in the paragraph about a 'golden fist', try no to reveal key elements in a story, before it comes up.

Just in case anyone is mixed them up: The first two stories "The Monster" and the "Duels and Dreams" are really excerpts from my novel. The third and last post was not related to my book in any way. It was only something that I was inspired to write and share with you.

Hey guys I was noticing that everyone was posting stories and they were being reviewed. I just now got a project where I have to write a screenplay with the theme of listening and I was hoping you could review it, right now it's just in the rough draft phase and it will probably be done by tomorrow.

The man on the moon
A screenplay by Jorden Hooper

(Joe walks out of his quarters and looks at the horizon, smiling. He then walks over to a fellow shipmate who is currently scrubbing the deck.)
-Joe-
"Good morning to ye lad, are ye ready for the find of a lifetime?"
(The man who was scrubbing the floor looks up at Joe with a raised eyebrow)
-Jim-
"So tell me again why you're talking like that?"
-Joe-
"Oh come on you know you-I mean ye- want to talk like this!"
-Jim-
"No, I don't think that I do. Not at any point in my life."
(Joe is then about to say something but Jim cuts him off)
"Or in the next life, or the life after that."
-Joe-
"Fine, I'll stop talking like that."
(He then mumbles under his breath in a disappointed voice)
"Although, 'tis cool."
-Jim-
"What was that Joe?"
-Joe-
"Hmm, what are you talking about, you must have scurvy or something. Well anyway, are you ready for the trip?"
-Jim-
"Yeah, I mean we're gonna get who knows how much treasure, that we won't have to share with the captain! With all that money we can start our own crew of pirates!"
-Joe-
"Yeah, well we should probably get ready because the boat that's taking us will be here soon."
-Jim-
"Yea-wait...you brought someone else into this? What's wrong with you!?"
-Joe-
"What!? We have to get to the island somehow, and the boats on the ship are full of so many holes we'll be drowning before we get an inch away from the ship!"
-Jim-
(nodding head yes)
"You have a point there. Well, when is this magical boat man coming to get us?"
-Joe-
(Looks at wrist)
"About...now"
-Jim and Joe-
(Both look in the same direction down and see a boat)

-Joe-
"Well how about we go now? We can't leave him waiting forever!"
-Jim and Joe-
(Both get on the boat and quietly sit as they near the island that holds the treasure. Jim then looks at the map that Joe has.)
-Jim-
"So where did you find that map Joe?"
-Joe-
"In the captains quarters, where else?"
-Jim-
"Wait...what did you say! Are you stupid!"
-Joe-
"Not very, why?"
-Jim-
"You know what this means! If the captain finds out then we'll be dead! He told us to never go in there or we'll be sorry!"
-Joe-
"Well, he won't know because no one will tell him, right?"
-Jim-
"Yeah, well it looks like we're at the island now!"
(Jim and Joe get off the boat and onto the island. They start to follow the map that Joe brought. They soon get to a door and are about to open it.)
"So, are you sure we sure do this Joe? It looks kind of dangerous."
-Joe-
"Oh quit being so scared. Besides, if we follow the map's directions we should be safe." Now lets see...we've gone through the forest, and are now at the door. It says to knock on it twice."
(Joe then knocks on it twice and watches in amazement as the door magically opens.)
"See, I told you Jim!"
-Jim-
"Okay, okay. Now the map says to tip-toe towards the end of the room .and to wait for the treasure to come to us."
(They then tip-toe onwards to the edge of room and they soon notice a glint of light)
"Hey Joe I think I see the treasure!"
(Hearing this, Joe runs around the corner and then Jim can't hear him running any more. As he nears the light, still tip-toeing, he sees the dead body of his friend covered in arrows. Picking up one he see's that it says, "I told you to tip-toe, you idiot.")

So did you like it, hate it? post all that you think about it.

At 3/3/09 08:49 PM, thelittleemo wrote: Hey guys I was noticing that everyone was posting stories and they were being reviewed. I just now got a project where I have to write a screenplay with the theme of listening and I was hoping you could review it, right now it's just in the rough draft phase and it will probably be done by tomorrow.

Pretty good man. Seems more along the lines of a screen-play or scriptish though. Maybe try to write it out a bit. It is good practice none the less, writing things out, I am not to sure what it helps with... But I like doing it >.<

---------------------
I literally just wrote this... It goes well with the song (Koyaanisqatsi - Philip Glass)

-----------------------------------
"Being underwater is as close as you will ever be to being in space with the ever lasting stars. The breathless feeling you get in an enviroment you could never live in is nearly orgasmic."

Thinking to himself.

"I wanted to stay under there for an eternity. I wanted everything to stay as calm as it is while I sink to the bottom. I wanted all of this bullshit".

Hank bends his knees and pushes as hard as possible off of the lake bottom. He breaches the top of the water going just fast enough to startle the group of low-lives who were searching for him near the lake on the sand.

Yelling, "I wanted all of this bullshit to END!" as he flew out of the lake into the middle of the group. He grabbed one of the gunmens weapons from it's holster and drew it forward to fire upon another thug.

Time nearly stood still. Hank looked to his left, a sword so thin he could see the air being cut was aiming for his knee's. Hank looked to his right, the same type of sword was being thrusted towards his dark face. Hank quickly released the first bullet forward, dead on forward. He currled into a ball and tilted side-ways in between the swords that aimed to kill him.

Time began again as Hank landed on the new corpse of the thug. He looked up in time to see the swordsmen had followed through with their swing, only to cut their fellow member into pieces.

With a quick wolf like push forward, Hank squeezed the trigger and ran with the bullet. He tackled the first swordsman as the bullet was deflected, breaking the sword. Hank put the gun to the thug's head.

"Oh god! No! Wait! Please! I have information you can use! Just let me live!" The swordsman panicked.

He was quickly met with the calming imbrace of death as his fellow swordsman leaped at Hank, only to miss and pierce the pleading thug in the heart.

Hank placed himself behind, looking down at the last thug with the hot barrled gun pressed against his head.

Hank calmly said, "My story has just begun, but yours has just ended."

Hank pulls the trigger, thus finishing this fight.

I have had this huge story in mind that invovles the madness characters, but with a darker plot to it. Not an evil-villan type of dark, but a donnie darko (As an example) type of plot.
Of course.. I don't know the plot, but I do know the ending!

Wow I need to catch up here lots of storys to review. I will read them all to night and review.

At 2/28/09 10:53 PM, AniMetal wrote: Do you guys think I could get it in english and in good quality VIA the internet?

The Inferno by Dante Alighieri, James Romanes Sibbald

The English is poetic and modern enough.

You can also download it to your computer in PDF format here.

Pardon for the double post, but there are also two other translations which may better suit you here and here. I think the one by Longfellow and Musgrave is most comprehensible, but that's up to the individual.

Also, for further book searching, Google Book Search offers quite a few full books, and many snippets.

At 2/25/09 08:57 PM, Soldierofhentai21 wrote:

At 2/25/09 07:28 PM, Chime wrote:

At 2/23/09 10:33 PM, Soldierofhentai21 wrote:

At 2/23/09 07:57 PM, Chime wrote: Remember me? I'm really wrapped up in The drow legacy book.

Either way, I'm only reading this book. This thing is a really good book! I don't own it, though. I might not finish it all! But when I'm finished, I don't know what I will read next...

Uhhh...Maybe the 21 other books about Drizzt? I mean, that's only common sense

I don't really get to go to the bookstore a lot, and the person I borrowed the book from will probably be long gone before I can read another.

At 3/3/09 04:43 PM, krisknox wrote: Will the secret of the golden fist help him be able to make it to the fountain of beginning?

there was nothing in the paragraph about a 'golden fist', try no to reveal key elements in a story, before it comes up.

what's with the"no" was that a typo. Anyway about it not being mentioned, the fist is just a martial arts style in the story. It's like saying "Will this warrior's mystical blade save the day". The stories about the main characters, not about the style. Having it as the namesake just seemed cooler than making the character's name the title.

what do you guys think about all the Obama books being released before the man has even done anything in office?