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The Space Trilogy (also known as The Cosmic Trilogy or The Ransom Trilogy) is a series of science fiction novels by British writer C. S. Lewis. The trilogy consists of Out of the Silent Planet (1938), Perelandra (1943), and That Hideous Strength (1945).
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John P. Rumrich made the same assessment of Fish, describing Fish's book as "a methodologically radical update of Lewis's reading of Paradise Lost as a literary monument to mainstream Christianity"; [13] Michael Bryson highlights the importance of this in his remark that "even more than Lewis's work, however, the book that has cast the longest ...
The vivid red, semi-double Rosa gallica was "the ancestor of all the roses of medieval Europe". [1] Various folk cultures and traditions assign symbolic meaning to the rose, though these are seldom understood in-depth. Examples of deeper meanings lie within the language of flowers, and how a rose may have a different meaning in arrangements ...
c. 16th century BCE – Mesopotamian cosmology has a flat, circular Earth enclosed in a cosmic ocean. [1]c. 15th–11th century BCE – The Rigveda of Hinduism has some cosmological hymns, particularly in the late book 10, notably the Nasadiya Sukta which describes the origin of the universe, originating from the monistic Hiranyagarbha or "Golden Egg".
NEW YORK (AP) — "I think it pisses God off if you walk by the color purple in a field somewhere and don’t notice it,” Shug tells Celie in Alice Walker's “The Color Purple.” In nature ...
Endymion received scathing criticism after its release, [1] and Keats himself noted its diffuse and unappealing style. Keats did not regret writing it, as he likened the process to leaping into the ocean to become more acquainted with his surroundings; in a poem to J. A. Hessey, he expressed that "I was never afraid of failure; for I would sooner fail than not be among the greatest."
Of different flowers in odour and in hue, Could make me any summer’s story tell, Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew: Nor did I wonder at the lily’s white, Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose; They were but sweet, but figures of delight, Drawn after you, you pattern of all those. Yet seem’d it winter still, and, you away,
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