Alemanha: “Perfectionist” já está à venda - encomendar o seu exemplar na Amazon.de e no iTunes. “Free” está saindo em 22 de julho.

Reino Unido: “Perfectionist” está saindo em 05 de setembro - pré-encomendar o seu exemplar na Amazon.co.uk.“Free” está saindo em 29 de agosto.

EUA: “Perfectionist” está saindo em 16 de agosto - pré-encomendar o seu exemplar na Amazon.com. “Free” já disponível - encomendar o seu exemplar na Amazon.com ou no iTunes

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'Oh, minha querida filha - não me pergunte. ... Eu só sei que você é você! .. . e eu sou eu! e isso é suficiente para mim. .. você é a minha pobre, gentil, filha, paciente que sofre, tudo aquilo que você é - mais do que pecaram contra o pecado, tenho certeza! Mas lá ... tenho julgado mal você assim, e foi tão injusto, que eu daria mundos para fazer-lhe algumas reparações ... além disso, eu deveria ser tão apaixonado por você se você tivesse cometido um assassinato, eu realmente acredito - você é tão estranha! você é irresistível! Alguma vez, em toda a sua vida, encontrou alguém que não gostava de você?

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She seemed ill and weak and worn out, and insisted on keeping the Laird's hand in hers.

'What's the matter with Svengali? He must be dead!'

They all three looked at each other, perplexed.

'Ah! he's dead! I can see it in your faces. He'd got heart disease. I'm sorry! oh, very sorry indeed! He was always very kind, poor Svengali!'

'Yes. He's dead,' said Taffy.

'And Gecko--dear little Gecko--is he dead too? I saw him last night-- he warmed my hands and feet: where were we?'

'No. Gecko's not dead. But he's had to be locked up for a little while. He struck Svengali, you know. You saw it all.'

'I? No! I never saw it. But I dreamt something like it! Gecko with a knife, and people holding him, and Svengali bleeding on the ground. That was just before Svengali's illness. He'd cut himself in the neck, you know--with a rusty nail, he told me. I wonder how?...But it was wrong of Gecko to strike him. They were such friends. Why did he?'

'Well--it was because Svengali struck you with his conductor's wand when you were rehearsing. Struck you on the fingers and made you cry! don't you remember?'

'Struck me! rehearsing?--made me cry! what are you talking about, dear Taffy? Svengali never struck me! He was kindness itself--always! and what should I rehearse?'

'Well, the songs you were to sing at the theatre in the evening.'

'Sing at the theatre! I never sang at any theatre--except last night, if that big place was a theatre! and they didn't seem to like it! I'll take precious good care never to sing in a theatre again! How they howled! and there was Svengali in the box opposite, laughing at me. Why was I taken there? and why did that funny little Frenchman in the white waistcoat ask me to sing? I know very well I can't sing well enough to sing in a place like that! What a fool I was! It all seems like a bad dream! What was it all about? Was it a dream, I wonder!'

'Well--but don't you remember singing at Paris, in the Salle des Bashibazoucks--and at Vienna--St. Petersburg--lots of places?'

'What nonsense, dear--you're thinking of some one else! I never sang anywhere! I've been to Vienna and St. Petersburg--but I never sang there--good heavens!'

Then there was a pause, and our three friends looked at her helplessly.

Little Billee said: 'Tell me, Trilby--what made you cut me dead when I bowed to you in the Place de la Concorde, and you were riding with Svengali in that swell carriage?'

'I never rode in a swell carriage with Svengali! Omnibuses were more in our line! You're dreaming, dear Little Billee--you're taking me for somebody else; and as for my cutting you--why, I'd sooner cut myself---into little pieces!'

'Where were you staying with Svengali in Paris?'

'I really forget. Were we in Paris? Oh yes, of course. Hotel Bertrand, Place Notre Dame des Victoires.'

'How long have you been going about with Svengali?'

'Oh, months, years--I forget. I was very ill. He cured me.'

'Ill! What was the matter?'

'Oh! I was mad with grief, and pain in my eyes, and wanted to kill myself, when I lost my dear little Jeannot, at Vibraye. I fancied I hadn't been careful enough with him. I was crazed! Don't you remember writing to me there, Taffy--through Angele Boisse? Such a sweet letter you wrote! I know it by heart! And you too, Sandy'; and she kissed him. 'I wonder where they are, your letters? I've got nothing of my own in the world--not even your dear letters--nor Little Billee's-- such lots of them!

'Well, Svengali used to write to me too--and then he got my address from Angele. .. .

'When Jeannot died, I felt I must kill myself or get away from Vibraye--get away from the people there; so when he was buried I cut my hair short and got a workman's cap and blouse and trousers and walked all the way to Paris without saying anything to anybody. I didn't want anybody to know; I wanted to escape from Svengali, who wrote that he was coming there to fetch me. I wanted to hide in Paris. When I got there at last it was two o'clock in the morning, and I was in dreadful pain--and I'd lost all my money--thirty francs--through a hole in my trousers' pocket. Besides, I had a row with a carter in the Halle. He thought I was a man, and hit me and gave me a black eye, just because I patted his horse and fed it with a carrot I'd been trying to eat myself. He was tipsy, I think. Well, I looked over the bridge at the river--just by the Morgue--and wanted to jump in. But the Morgue sickened me, so I hadn't the pluck. Svengali used to be always talking about the Morgue, and my going there some day. He used to say he'd come and look at me there, and the idea made me so sick I couldn't. I got bewildered and quite stupid.

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Halting opposite one of the finest and oldest of all these gateways, his especial favourite, labelled 'Hotel de la Rochemarte' in letters of faded gold over a ducal coronet and a huge escutcheon of stone, he began to descant upon its architectural beauties and noble proportions to l'Zouzou.

'Parbleu!' said l'Zouzou, 'connu, farceur! why, I was born there, on the 6th of March 1834, at 5.30 in the morning. Lucky day for France-- hein?'

'Born there? what do you mean--in the porter's lodge?'

At this juncture the two great gates rolled back, a liveried Suisse appeared, and an open carriage and pair came out, and in it were two elderly ladies and a younger one.

To Little Billee's indignation, the two incorrigible warriors made the military salute, and the three ladies bowed stiffly and gravely.

And then (to Little Billee's horror this time) one of them happened to look back, and Zouzou actually kissed his hand to her.

'Do you know that lady?' asked Little Billee, very sternly.

'Pat bleu! si je la connais! Why, it's my mother! Isn't she nice? She's rather cross with me just now.'

'Your mother!

Why, what do you mean? What on earth would your mother be doing in that big carriage and at that big house?'

'Parbleu, farceur!

She lives there!'

'Lives there? Why, who and what is she, your mother?'

'The Duchesse de la Rochemartel, parbleu! and that's my sister; and that's my aunt, Princesse de Chevagne-Bauffremont! She's the "patronne" of that chic equipage. She's a millionaire, my aunt Chevagne!'

'Well--I-never! What's your name, then?'

'Oh, my name! Hang it--let me see! Well--Gontran--Xavier--Francois-- Marie--Joseph d'Amaury de Brissac de Roncesvaulx de la Rochemartel- Boissegur, at your service!' 'Quite correct!' said Dodor; Tenfant ditvrai!' 'Well--I--never! And what's your name, Dodor?' 'Oh! I'm only a humble individual, and answer to the one-horse name of Theodore Rigolot de Lafarce. But Zouzou's an awful swell, you know--his brother's the Duke!'

Little Billee was no snob. But he was a respectably-brought-up young Briton of the higher middle class, and these revelations, which he could not but believe, astounded him so that he could hardly speak. Much as he flattered himself that he scorned the bloated aristocracy, titles are titles--even French tides!--and when it comes to dukes and princesses who live in houses like the Hotel de la Rochemartel...!

It's enough to take a respectably-brought-up young Briton's breath away.

When he saw Taffy that evening, he exclaimed: 'I say, Zouzou's mother's a duchess!'

'Yes--the Duchesse de la Rochemartel-Boissegur.'

'You never told me!'

'You never asked me. It's one of the greatest names in France. They're very poor, I believe.'

'Poor! You should see the house they live in!'

'I've been there, to dinner; and the dinner wasn't very good. They let a great part of it, and live mostly in the country. The Duke is Zouzou's brother; very unlike Zouzou; he's consumptive and unmarried, and the most respectable man in Paris. Zouzou will be the Duke some day.'

'And Dodor--he's a swell, too, I suppose--he says he's de something or other!'

'Yes--Rigolot de Lafarce. I've no doubt he descends from the Crusaders too; the name seems to favour it, anyhow; and such lots of them do in this country. His mother was English, and bore the worthy name of Brown. He was at school in England; that's why he speaks English so well--and behaves so badly, perhaps! He's got a very beautiful sister, married to a man in the 60th Rifles--Jack Reeve, a son of Lord Reevely's; a selfish sort of chap. I don't suppose he gets on very well with his brother-in-law. Poor Dodor! His sister's about the only living thing he cares for--except Zouzou.'

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Par dela, ne dela la mer Ne s'jay dame ni damoiselle Qui soil en tous biens parfaits telle-- C'est un songe que d'y penser: Dieu! qu'il fait bon la regarder!'

ONE LOVELY MONDAY morning in late September, at about eleven or so, Taffy and the Laird sat in the studio--each opposite his picture, smoking, nursing his knee, and saying nothing. The heaviness of Monday weighed on their spirits more than usual, for the three friends had returned late on the previous night from a week spent at Barbizon and in the forest of Fontainebleau--a heavenly week among the painters; Rousseau, Millet, Corot, Daubigny, let us suppose, and others less known to fame this day. Little Billee, especially, had been fascinated by all this artistic life in blouses and sabots and immense straw hats and panamas, and had sworn to himself and to his friends that he would some day live and the there--painting the forest as it is, and peopling it with beautiful people out of his own fancy--leading a healthy outdoor life of simple wants and lofty aspirations.

At length Taffy said: 'Bother work this morning! I feel much more like a stroll in the Luxembourg Gardens and lunch at the Cafe de l'Odeon, where the omelets are good and the wine isn't blue.'

'The very thing I was thinking of myself,' said the Laird.

So Taffy slipped on his old shooting-jacket and his old Harrow cricket cap, with the peak turned the wrong way, and the Laird put on an old greatcoat of Taffy's that reached to his heels, and a battered straw hat they had found in the studio when they took it; and both sallied forth into the mellow sunshine on the way to Carrel's. For they meant to seduce Little Billee from his work, that he might share in their laziness, greediness, and general demoralisation.

And whom should they meet coming down the narrow turreted Rue Vielle des Trois Mauvais Ladres but Little Billee himself, with an air of general demoralisation so tragic that they were quite alarmed. He had his paint-box and field-easel in one hand and his little valise in the other. He was pale, his hat on the back of his head, his hair starting all at sixes and sevens, like a sick Scotch terrier's.

'Good Lord! what's the matter?' said Taffy.


'Good Lord! what's the matter?' said Taffy.

'Oh! oh! oh! she's sitting at Carrel's!'

'Who's sitting at Carrel's?'

'Trilby! sitting to all those ruffians! There she was, just as I opened the door; I saw her, I tell you! The sight of her was like a blow between the eyes, and I bolted! I shall never go back to that beastly hole again! I'm off to Barbizon, to paint the forest; I was corning round to tell you. Good-bye!...'

'Stop a minute--are you mad?' said Taffy, collaring him. 'Let me go, Taffy--let me go, damn it! I'll come back in a week--but I'm going now! Let me go; do you hear?' 'But look here--I'll go with you.'

'No; I want to be alone--quite alone. Let me go, I tell you!' 'I shan't let you go unless you swear to me, on your honour, that you'll write directly you get there, and every day till you come back. Swear!'

'All right; I swear--honour bright! Now there! Good-bye--good-bye; back on Sunday--good-bye!' And he was off.

'Now, what the devil does all that mean?' asked Taffy, much perturbed.

'I suppose he's shocked at seeing Trilby in that guise, or disguise, or unguise, sitting at Carrel's--he's such an odd little chap. And I must say, I'm surprised at Trilby. It's a bad thing for her when we're away. What could have induced her? She never sat in a studio of that kind before. I thought she only sat to Durien and old Carrel.'

They walked for a while in silence.

'Do you know, I've got a horrid idea that the little fool's in love with her!'

'I've long had a horrid idea that she's in love with him.'

'That would be a very stupid business,' said Taffy.

'He'll come back, I hope!' exclaimed the master.

And the incident gave rise to no further comment.

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J. K. Rowling revela o que é Pottermore

J.K. Rowling, autora dos livros estrelados pelo bruxinho Harry Potter, revelou nesta quinta-feira (23/6) o que é o misterioso site Pottermore. O site surgiu há poucos dias com uma contagem regressiva que anunciava um novo projeto, o que deixou os fãs da franquia em êxtase, alimentando inúmeros boatos. Infelizmente, não se trata de um novo livro.

Pottermore é um site gratuito em que os usuários poderão ler as histórias de Harry Potter de uma maneira mais interativa. Rowling revelou que escreveu um pouco mais sobre os personagens, lugares e objetos envolvidos na franquia, especialmente para o site. Assim, as histórias ganharão mais detalhes com ilustrações e momentos interativos. Para entrar no site, o usuário deverá escolher um “nome mágico”.

“Eu queria dar algo de volta aos fãs que seguiram o Harry tão devotamente durante todos esses anos e trazer as histórias para a geração digital. Eu espero que os fãs e os que ainda não conhecem a história participem no ato de moldar Pottermore”, disse Rowling.

Para fazer o anúncio, ela postou o vídeo abaixo no YouTube. Confira:

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Amélie Louise Rives Troubetzkoy (1863-1945) foi uma romancista e poetisa americana. Rives escreveu pelo menos 24 volumes de ficção, numerosos poemas e, Herodes e Marianne (1889), um drama em versos. Em 1888, ela publicou romance The Quick or the Dead?, sua obra mais famosa e popular que vendeu 300 mil cópias. O trabalho representado paixões eróticas de uma mulher recém-viúva e ganhou notoriedade Rives. Depois ela virou-se para o teatro e começou a escrever peças para a Broadway. Seu jogo The Fear Market correu para 118 apresentações no Teatro Booth em 1916.

A afilhada de Robert E. Lee e uma neta do engenheiro e senador William Cabell Rives, Amélie Rives casou excêntrica de John Armstrong Chanler (herdeiro da fortuna da família Astor) de Nova York.

O casamento foi escandaloso, mas infeliz. O casal passou sete anos como marido e mulher, mas a maior parte do tempo vivido separados. Rives flertou com George Curzon, irmão mais novo de seu marido, e começou a usar drogas. Em 1896, apenas quatro meses após seu divórcio, casou-se com Pierre Troubetzkoy, um artista e aristocrata. O casal residiu em Castle Hill, perto de Cismont, Virginia. Ela era uma amiga próxima da escritora, Julia Magruder, que era um convidado freqüente em Castle Hill.

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Amélie Rives Troubetzkoy

Amélie Louise Rives Troubetzkoy (1863-1945) foi uma romancista e poetisa americana. Rives escreveu pelo menos 24 volumes de ficção, numerosos poemas e, Herodes e Marianne (1889), um drama em versos. Em 1888, ela publicou romance The Quick or the Dead?, sua obra mais famosa e popular que vendeu 300 mil cópias. O trabalho representado paixões eróticas de uma mulher recém-viúva e ganhou notoriedade Rives. Depois ela virou-se para o teatro e começou a escrever peças para a Broadway. Seu jogo The Fear Market correu para 118 apresentações no Teatro Booth em 1916.

A afilhada de Robert E. Lee e uma neta do engenheiro e senador William Cabell Rives, Amélie Rives casou excêntrica de John Armstrong Chanler (herdeiro da fortuna da família Astor) de Nova York.

O casamento foi escandaloso, mas infeliz. O casal passou sete anos como marido e mulher, mas a maior parte do tempo vivido separados. Rives flertou com GeorgeCurzon, irmão mais novo de seu marido, e começou a usar drogas. Em 1896, apenas quatro meses após seu divórcio, casou-se com Pierre Troubetzkoy, um artista e aristocrata. O casal residiu em Castle Hill, perto de Cismont, Virginia. Ela era uma amiga próxima da escritora, Julia Magruder, que era um convidado freqüente em Castle Hill.

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01 Born To Die (Condenada à Morte)
02 Kill My Boyfriend
03 Bloody Mary featuring Lykke Li (Bloody Mary)
04 Peak (Auge)
05 My Last Regret (Meu Ultimo Arrependimento)
06 Do Or Die (Fazer Ou Morrer)
07 Marlena (Marlena)
08 Drama (Drama)

09 (?)
10 Half Psychotic (Meio Psicótica)
11 Law (Lei)
12 Already Been There (Já Estado Lá)

13 (?) (Deluxe)
14 (?) (Deluxe)
15 (?) (Deluxe)
16 (?) (Deluxe)

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“...pessoas comentam, ela é uma aberração, ela é (mãos de monstro), como? Ela é tão normal quanto... você? Sim.”

“Onde passo pessoas comentam absurdos sobre ela. Ela é uma artista, é lembrada por todos. Pelo comentário tanto quanto absurdo, você lembra dela mesmo odiando.”

“Ela é Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta, apenas isso basta.”

“Não, você acredita que ela como qualquer artista não muda sua vida? Ela mudou minha vida, me trouxe esperança, me fez enfrentar meus medos, me fez lutar... Ela mudou minha vida, não digo por ser Little Monster, mais por ser humano, ter sangue Germanotta.”

“Ela é como minha mãe, que me protege e que me ensina, me torna guerreiro.”

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