Бхагават-Гита как она естьКнига месяца
"Бхагавад-Гита" - поистине уникальное явление в истории мировой культуры. Ценность Гиты состоит в ее исключительной способности воздействовать на духовное развитие человека, которое проявляется в этическом, социальном и психологичеком аспектах. Через решение проблемы «Кто я?» Гита дает правильный ответ на вопрос «Что делать?» и открывает способы достижения особого внутреннего состояния, в котором можно не только постичь непреходящие духовные ценности, но и претворить их в жизнь. В Гите дается разрешение проблем смысла человеческого существования, столкновения личных и общечеловеческих представлений о морали. Учение Гиты затрагивает самые разные стороны бытия, начиная с обыденной, житейской, и до метафизической, духовной.
Тут и думать нечего - надо читать. Однозначно.
The wind was bitter, the night like ink. Ruefully St-Cyr mopped his stinging eyes. Ah Mon Dieu, he ached like hell – eighteen hours on the train from Paris. Eighteen instead of four! With Hermann bitc
For some time now the train had been stopped in a cutting to the west of Belfort, in the Vosges Mountains and still in France. Crammed in on the hard wooden bench of wartime, Kohler ached for a cigare
At last the dust began to settle, and all about the room things began to change colour. Shadows fell on bejewelled finches in locked little cages of gilded wire. When torchlight found them, their encr
Ruefully the line, which stretched alongside the waiting train, advanced one footstep: bundled-up, grey travellers in all but complete darkness, colds, coughs – sneezes – and, under a dim blue wash of
The girl was only eighteen and she had been missing for four days. In photo after photo she stared up at them from among the dozens of photographs of herself and others who, like her, had worn the clo
The raindrops were big and singular, and as they hit the steaming dark-blue bonnet of the car, each made a metallic thud that signalled it would burst to pieces. Hunched over the steering wheel, Mary
The stench was terrible, of piss-soaked wool, wet ashes and death, that sweet, foul, clinging odour of burnt flesh, excrement and human hair. The bistro Albert Brule was on the Quai de la Pecherie, ov
L’Abbaye de Vauclair, thought St-Cyr, and here he was facing it again but in an entirely different way. Coming to a grove of beech, St-Cyr immediately began to gather a few of the nuts only to stop hi
Each stood in a doorway, out of the rain, and when the slit-eyed, blue-blinkered light from Louis’s torch found the blocky faces, Kohler saw that impassive gazes were returned. When the boys heard the
Among the broken saplings in the centre of the glade, sunlight trapped the blowflies. Now they rose above the corpse which was still hidden from view, now they settled on it. And in the stillness of a
At a place where the road pitched down through the gorges, the land sloped steadily upwards to the barren branches of the trees. Les Halles had once been the belly of Paris, full of shouts, full of pr
The coins were Roman and the girl was naked. That there was blood spattered about the room would be an understatement. Hermann was none too quietly rejecting his dinner into the girl’s wash-basin. The
It was quiet now, no more fighting, no more tears. Through the tall French windows of the kitchen, I could see the children outside and I wondered, as I have so often of late, whether I ought to take
As the sound of high and ancient iron wheels constantly hammered at him, Jean-Louis St-Cyr tried to find a moment’s refuge to dwell on the murder investigation. But the coach’s wooden benches were bol
When the snow landed on the girl’s face it did not melt even under lights so strong they made her eyes glisten-lights that disturbed the doves which cooed and fluttered until one wanted to shriek, Shu
As they moved in single file through the night, the rain of bombs continued. Now the crump of an explosion, now a series of brilliant flashes to the east over Lorient and the submarine pens, now the t
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