I Prefer Real Books Over Digital Books (both)
I have never read a digital book
The opening Paragraphs of The Potato Factory by Bryce Courtenay.
Iley Solomon was so entirely a Londoner that he was a human part of the great metropolis, a jigsawed brick that fitted no other place.
He was mixed into the mouldy mortar, an ingredient in the slime and smutch of its rat infested dockside hovels and verminous netherkins. He was part of its smogged countenance and the dark, cold mannerisms of the ancient city itself.
He was contained within the clinging mud and the evil smelling putrilage.
Ikey was as natural a part of the chaffering, quarrelling humanity who lived in the rookeries among the slaughterhouses, cesspools and tanneries as anyone ever born in the square mile known to be the heartbeat of London Town.
Ikey was completely insensitive to his surroundings, his nose not affronted by the miasma which hung like a thin, dirty cloud at the level of the rooftops. The effluvian smog rose from the open sewers, known as the Venice of drains, which carried a thick soup of human excrement into the Thames.
It mixed with the fumes produced by the fat-boilers, fellmongers, glue-renderers, tripe scrapers and dog skinners, to mention but a few of the stench makers, to make London's atmosphere the foulest smelling place for the congregation of humans on earth.
The Potato Factory is the first book of a trilogy(The Potato Factory, Thommo and Hawk and Solomon's Song) which spans generations and begins in London then moving on to the penal colonies in Tasmania in the 1840's.
I highly recommend this book to anyone who enjoys historical novels.
The opening Paragraphs of The Potato Factory by Bryce Courtenay.
Iley Solomon was so entirely a Londoner that he was a human part of the great metropolis, a jigsawed brick that fitted no other place.
He was mixed into the mouldy mortar, an ingredient in the slime and smutch of its rat infested dockside hovels and verminous netherkins. He was part of its smogged countenance and the dark, cold mannerisms of the ancient city itself.
He was contained within the clinging mud and the evil smelling putrilage.
Ikey was as natural a part of the chaffering, quarrelling humanity who lived in the rookeries among the slaughterhouses, cesspools and tanneries as anyone ever born in the square mile known to be the heartbeat of London Town.
Ikey was completely insensitive to his surroundings, his nose not affronted by the miasma which hung like a thin, dirty cloud at the level of the rooftops. The effluvian smog rose from the open sewers, known as the Venice of drains, which carried a thick soup of human excrement into the Thames.
It mixed with the fumes produced by the fat-boilers, fellmongers, glue-renderers, tripe scrapers and dog skinners, to mention but a few of the stench makers, to make London's atmosphere the foulest smelling place for the congregation of humans on earth.
The Potato Factory is the first book of a trilogy(The Potato Factory, Thommo and Hawk and Solomon's Song) which spans generations and begins in London then moving on to the penal colonies in Tasmania in the 1840's.
I highly recommend this book to anyone who enjoys historical novels.
