What is the past particle of reading

eat You acquire the right to use a skyscraper that has as many floors as the lines of text to be read; a reader is placed on each floor with a book in his hand; give each reader a line; now the top reader begins to tumble down from the top of the building,

falls by
volume up


Read(2) You can get a book from the school library. In the lower classes there is a distribution. Only now and then do you dare to make a wish. Often one sees enviously longed-for books slip into other hands. You finally got yours. For a week one was completely abandoned to the hustle and bustle of the text, which enveloped one mildly and secretly, dense and incessant, like snowflakes. You stepped into it with limitless confidence. Silence of the book that beckoned on and on!
Its content wasn't all that important.

Because reading fell into the time when you thought up stories in bed yourself.

The child tracks down their half-blown paths. It covers its ears while reading; his book lies on the table, which is far too high, and one hand is always on the page.

To him, the hero's adventures can still be read in the swirl of letters like the figure and message in the flakes of flakes. His breath is in the air of the events, and all the characters breath it on. It is much more closely mixed with the figures than the adult.

It is unspeakably affected by what has happened and the words exchanged, and when it gets up it is covered in snow over and over from what has been read.

Read(3) According to this for image you should know how to position yourself whitishly, so you will get the sweetness of these lovely little books of inwardly thick fat, and noticeable marckhaped Schmär viler teach spicket, fill and rush: Because they are light-faced in the approach and tribute, but in the encounter, afterwards and perform, will prove to be fierce and vigorous. That's why you talk about it diligently by carefully reading carefully, and constantly reflecting on it, and sucking on it substantively, essentially Mark, not like the first one Hundsklemmer, the tannins for minckelend Schmär. If you don't slap the words in you like the dog the sup, but chew and chew them like the cow, distill them by nine balls, you will find the bon, that is, what I find unsimple simboles through this Pitagorian, and secret I was looking for solutions: with a certain hope, by doing this, you would be able to pull out a lot of trucks out of the bathroom and rubbed them home.

Read(3) SCHOOL LIBRARY During a break, this was done: the books were collected and then redistributed to the applicants. I wasn't always quick enough. Often I saw volumes that I had longed for falling to someone who did not appreciate them. How different was their world from that of the reading books, where in individual stories I had to lie in the quarters for days, even weeks, like in barracks that had a number above the gate, even before the inscription. It was even worse in the casemates of the patriotic poems, where every line was a cell. As if from the south, the mild reading air wafted from the books that were handed out during recess. The air in which St. Stephen's Cathedral waved over to the Turks who were besieging Vienna, blue smoke billowing from the pipes of the Tobacco College, the flakes dancing on the Beresina and the pale glow of Pompeii's last days. Only she was mostly a bit stale when she was out Oskar Höcker and W. O. von Horn, out Julius Wolff and Georg Ebers hit us. Most mustily, however, in those volumes "From the Fatherland Past", which had accumulated so massively in Sexta that the probability of getting around them and on a volume of Wörishöffer or Dahn to fall was small. A halberd-bearer was pressed into its red linen lid. In the text, pretty flags of brushwood were encountered, along with honorable craftspeople, blond daughters of castellans or armourers, vassals who swore an oath of allegiance to their master; but also the false Truchseß, who developed schemes and traveling journeymen who were in the wages of the French king, were not lacking. The less we, the sons of merchants and the children of privy councilors, could think of anything among all the servants and masters, the better this solid, high-minded world entered our apartment. I found the coat of arms above the gate of the knight's castle in my father's leather armchair, who was enthroned in front of the desk, tankards like those that made the rounds at Tilly's table, stood on the console of our tiled stoves or the vertico in the vestibule and stools like those in the team rooms, Cheekily placed across the corner, blocking the way, stood on our Aubussons just as well, except that no Prittwitz dragoons sat astride them. In one case, however, the merging of the two worlds was all too successful. That was under the sign of a book whose title did not match the content. The only thing that remained stuck to me was that part to which an oil pressure referred, which I opened with horror that was never diminished. I fled and looked for this picture at the same time; I felt the same as later with the picture in Robinson, which shows Friday at the point where he first finds the trace of someone else's kicks and not far from the skull and skeleton. But how much duller was the horror that emanated from the woman in the white nightgown, who, with open eyes, strolled through a gallery as if asleep and shone with a candelabra. The woman was a kleptomaniac. And this word, in which a blaring and evil echo distorted the two already ghostly syllables "Ahnin" as Hokusai turns a dead face into a ghost with a few brushstrokes - this word petrified me with horror. The book - it was called "On Your Own Strength" - had long been back in the classroom cupboard of the Sexta when the hallway that led from the Berlin room to the back room was still the long gallery through which the castle lady wandered at night. But these books might be cozy or gruesome, boring or exciting - nothing could increase or decrease their magic. Because he did not have to rely on its content, rather it consisted in repeatedly reassuring me of the quarter of an hour, for the sake of which the whole misery of the dreary school life seemed bearable to me. I already agreed to it when I put the book in my finished portfolio in the evening, which only got lighter from this burden. The darkness it shared there with my notebooks, textbooks, pencil cases, matched the mysterious process that it was waiting for the next morning. For the moment had finally come when, in the same room that had just been the scene of my humiliation, I was clothed with that abundance of power that falls to Faust when Mephistopheles appears with him. What was the teacher who had left the podium to collect books and then give them back at the class cupboard, if not a lowly devil who had to renounce the power to harm in order to show his art in the service of my desires. And how failed each of his shy attempts to guide my choice with a hint. How did he stay behind, as a poor devil, completely bruised by his labor when I was long on a magic carpet on my way to the tent of the last Mohican or to the camp of Konradin von Staufen.

Read(4)Who has not already looked up GOLDSMINKE in the lexicon, first read the article about GOLDONI, then the one about GOLDREGEN, there referred to LABURNUM, touched on the establishment of LABORATORIES, became interested in the manufacture of a chlorine-calcium tube, learned to blow glass, with a tear in the cheek suffered, resembling a clown sticking to the plaster, pondered what was still missing about the clown, found blanc and rouge and thus recovered the thought that he wanted to look up GOLD MAKE-UP - which he finally did.

Read(5)No one can read two thousand books. In the four centuries I've lived now, I've done no more than half a dozen. In addition, it is not a question of reading, but of rereading. The printing press, which is now abolished, was one of the worst evils of mankind because it boiled down to duplicating superfluous texts until one became dizzy.

Read(6)But reading - we would like to say - is a very specific process! Read a printed page and you can see it; there is something special going on and something highly characteristic. - Well, what if I read the print? I see printed words and I pronounce words. But of course that's not all; for I could see printed words and pronounce words, and yet it would not be reading. Not even if the words I speak are those which, according to an existing alphabet, should be read from the printed ones. - And if you say that reading is a certain experience, it does not matter whether you read according to a rule of the alphabet that is generally recognized by people or not. - What is so characteristic of the experience of reading? - I would like to say: "The words that I utter come in a special way." That is to say, they do not come as they would if, for example, I think of them. - They come by themselves. - But even that is not enough; because word sounds can occur to me while looking at the printed words, and yet I have not read them. - I could also say that the spoken words do not come to mind as though I remembered them, e. B., something about them. I want z. For example, don't say: the printed word "nothing" always reminds me of the sound "nothing". - The spoken words slip in while reading, as it were. Yes, I cannot even look at a German printed word without a peculiar process of inwardly hearing the sound of the word.

Read(7)Marc Bernard: Allow Boris Vian to ask you a few questions in the heat of the moment, with all the respect your honorary office deserves, of course. There are some pataphysical works including The clerk's monologueto be read lying on your back. Why?

Boris Vian: Yes, of course, because no one has ever thought of the people who read lying down, and that is extremely embarrassing. For example, imagine that he is freezing. You are forced to keep both hands out of bed while reading; Ferry's monologue can be read lying down, one hand outside, the other under the warm blanket, and one hand can alternately turn the page, i.e. alternately take the right and left hand, which means that the reader of monologue hands do not need to freeze even in freezing cold.
I allow myself to add one last word. There is no need to wait for complicated things to find 'pataphysics. To give you a personal example: I came across' pataphysics when I was eight or nine years old when I saw a piece of Robert de Flers and Caillavet read that The Beautiful Adventure was called, that is really the last place where one can expect it if one is not a pataphysicist; but it contained in particular the reply from Viktor Boucher, which I will give you to bring this conversation to a close for the time being. I believe that it can inspire everyone to 'pataphysics' very easily and very quickly. That is her: I like to think hard about things that I think others don't.



Read(9)   Find the places in a book that you can do something with. We no longer read and write in the traditional way. There is no death of the book, but a new way of reading. There is nothing to understand in a book, but there is a lot that can be used. Nothing to interpret and mean, but plenty to experiment with.

Read(10)   I may have been eleven or twelve when I was in the suburbs of Buenos Aires II tragico quotidiano (The everyday tragic) and II pilota cieco (The blind flier) read in a bad Spanish translation. At this age, one enjoys reading, enjoying and not judging. Stevenson and Salgari, Eduardo Gutierrez and Arabian Nights are forms of happiness, not the subject of judgment.  

Read(11)   Since the nonsensical similarity affects all reading, access to the strange double meaning of the word reading as its profane and also magical meaning opens up in this deep layer. The student reads the abc book and the astrologer reads the future in the stars. In the first sentence reading does not split into its two components. On the other hand, probably in the second, which makes the process clear after its two layers: the astrologer reads the celestial position from the stars in the sky; at the same time he reads the future or fate out of it.

Read(12)  Read something difficult to open yourself to the most personal, most secret interior.

In other words, starting the engine on fuel that comes from elsewhere.

Read(13)  We are not given the opportunity to take in everything that is written while reading. Our thoughts are jealous of every strange thought and darken every moment; there is no place in us for two smells at the same time. Those under the sign of the Holy Trinity, a masculine sign, take up the odd sentences while reading, but we, under the sign of the number four, a female number, only take up the even sentences of our books while reading. You and your brother will not read the same sentences from the same book, because our books only consist in the connection of the masculine with the feminine sign.

Read(14)   The child is all alone in the parlor where the Christmas tree is. She sprinkles on the side of the table where her presents are, the blanket she has thrown back for the night, takes out the book, sits down on the rocking chair. But that's not the right place to read. It switches over to the armchair in front of which the footstool is. It kneels on the footstool, lays the book on the blue eiderdown pillow that hugs the armchair, opens it, reads.

First come the verses from the fisherman's boy, the shepherd and the alpine hunter. She's not reading it very carefully yet. They rock quickly from line to line and enter gently. But then Ruodi, the fisherman, comes out of the hut and begins:

“Hurry up, Jenni. Draw in the naue. «Naue! How mysterious.

"The gray Talvogt comes, the firn roars dully." These are storm spirits. So they roar. And what the fisherman announces, the shepherd confirms:

“It's going to rain, ferryman. My sheep eagerly eat grass, and watchmen scratch the earth. "

What is the earth doing there? You paw guards? Scratches up because she is afraid of the storm, of all the evil beings, the valley governor, the firn, the Mythenstein with its warlike hood, guards. Guardian scrapes the earth!

Later, when you "have" the "part" at school, it comes out: the Naue is a boat, the Mythenstein is a mountain. And not the earth paws guard, but the dog called guard paws the earth. It's also quite nice, but actually it was even nicer than you didn't understand. . . when she herself, the goddess, pawed the earth - in the middle of the Christmas room, through whose fir and marzipan scent distant storm roared, when there was still the time when myths were created around the narrowly guarded kingdom of children, the time there in the beautiful Song of the "brig there on the waves" last the lost boat of the savior is driven ashore by a demon. The demon is called Kieloben! "The boat drifts ashore up the keel, and the brig will pass safely by." Yes, you crouched there, surrounded by ghosts. They were scary, but they couldn't harm you. One was an esthete, a pure connoisseur, had a pleasant way of dealing with death and the devil. . .

How beautiful was the time when you still read without understanding!

Read(15)   Tell me, don't you think that the reader only assimilates parts, and even that only partially? He reads a part or a bit and then stops to read the next bit after a while; and sometimes it happens that it starts in the middle or even at the end and so, from the end backwards, arrives at the beginning. Often he reads a few pieces and gives up - not even because he is bored, but because something else occurred to him.And even when he has finally read the whole thing, do you mean that he will then see it in its entirety and recognize the harmonious relationships between the individual parts, if a specialist does not point this out to him? So the author struggles to do this for years, cutting to size, bending, tearing off, mending, sweating and tormenting himself so that a specialist can tell the reader that the construction is good? But let's go further, further into the terrain of everyday private experience! Will the reader not be interrupted by the telephone or by a fly at the point where all the individual parts come together in the unity of a dramatic solution? And what if at this very moment, shall we say, his brother comes into the room and says something? In the face of the brother, the fly, or the telephone, all the writer's noble efforts go to hell - ugh, you bad flies, why are you bothering people who have already lost their tails and have nothing left to defend themselves with? And do we also consider whether this work of yours, your only, unique and elaborated work is not just a part of thirty thousand other, equally unique works, which in principle appear year after year? Oh, you horrible parts! So that's why we construct the whole so that a particle of a part of the reader absorbs a particle of a part of the work - and that only in part?

Read(16)  One reads well only for a very personal purpose. For example, to achieve a certain skill.

Or because you hate the author.

Read(17)   Most writers are also theirs reader- by writing - and that is why there are so many traces of the reader in the works - so many critical considerations - so much that belongs to the reader and not to the writer. Dashes - words in large print - highlighted passages - all of these belong in the field of the reader. The reader sets the accent arbitrarily - he actually makes a book what he wants. (Schlegfels treatment of the master.)

/ Isn't every reader a philologist? /

There is no general reading, in the ordinary sense. Reading is a freye operation. No one can tell me how and what to read.

/ Shouldn't the writer be a philologist to the infinite power at the same time - or shouldn't he be a philologist at all? The latter has literary innocence/.  

Read(18)   I am accused of not reading, but even without reading there is so much to see around me and in me. What do I care what someone else thinks if I can think for myself, even if my thinking is as slow as an ox cart. Whoever reads is usually satisfied with his reading; this removes him from thinking and deceives him about his indolence. He would feel inactive if he was content with himself, if he was content with thinking, and instead of living he reads. When I have nothing to do, I sit in front of my door and look at everything I see; I listen to everything I hear; I feel the things where others are content with the mere touch, and everything that touches me may also touch me, as if it were a hand caressing me and I a dog throwing itself on its back and all fours stretches out; what I breathe, I breathe in, and I taste my own taste.

Read(19)   “Reading,” he says, “is always this: you have a thing in front of you, a thing that consists of writing, a material, tangible object that cannot be changed, and through this object you suddenly become aware of something else struck, something that is not present, that belongs to the immaterial world, invisible because only conceivable, only imaginable, or because it once existed, but no longer there, past, lost, gone, inaccessible in the land of the dead ... «

"... or not present because not yet there, something that is only wanted or feared, something possible or impossible," says Ludmilla. "Reading is approaching something that is just emerging and of which nobody knows what it will be ..." (Look how the reader is now leaning forward to peer over the edge of the printed page, far beyond the saving or enemy ships on the horizon, after the storms that are brewing ...) »The book I would like to read now is a novel in which one hears history approaching like a distant rumble, world history together with the fate of the People, a novel that gives me the feeling of experiencing a still nameless, still informal upheaval ... «


Read(21)  Whatever your thinking at the age you have reached, all sorts of books are to be read in two ways. At first quickly, in order to effortlessly grasp the intention and structure or to enjoy the stylistic beauties. (Because you won't find any greater pleasure in successful treatises if you pick out each word individually, just as you don't enjoy the beauty of a woman by carefully examining it.) Then read slowly to grasp the nuances, the flaws to notice and surpass the author.