Novel & Cerita Books Like Crime And Punishment

She wasn't prepared for his blunt remark, the unexpected sharpness of his words. "For a woman, I must say that you have a bitter taste," Nyx continued, his voice low and menacing. "And it seems that your taste in books is equally bitter," he added, his eyes shifting to the copy of "Crime and Punishment" that lay on her desk. "it looked like you brought ages ago as if it was your mother's." Nyx voiced gain making her face sad for a second, it was her mother's. Nyx was not a dump man to not notice the old print book, he knew the book as much as he knew about the writer. Athena felt a surge of unease and vulnerability wash over her.

It sank even deeper but I tried not to show it. "Why are you telling me? You usually don't." He was quiet, till he breathed. "I don't know," before his footsteps got entirely erased. * * * * My fingers trailed across the spine of the books and I stopped on a white covered book. I pull it out of the shelf and hold it in both hands. "Crime and Punishment," I read aloud before gazing down at the author's name. "Fyodor Dos-tos-to-eeev-evsky?" I squint my eyes. "Fyodor Dostoevsky!"

And I was grateful for the time I needed to move past the anger and the humiliation of having him assert dominance like I was a common, misbehaving pup. I found myself in the library again, on the third day of my anti-Asha crusade, a book comfortable and familiar in my lap. It was a novel I hadn’t read yet, something I wasn’t used to. A crime thriller that had titillated my interest with its bold main character and wild plot twists that had me hooked from the first line. I was three quarters done with the book, quietly paging through the novel in the silence of the library. Not many wolves came by, which was something I had never been more grateful for, leaving me in peace.

Then there were his psychology books and books on wilderness craft. His gaze fell on a small cluster of volumes of English literature, some that Faith had convinced him to try. While he couldn't bring himself to read them, he hadn't been able to part with them, either. The top shelf held an extensive collection of contemporary bestsellers, and it was one of those he chose, a mystery thriller, as he heard the first roll of thunder. "Yep, Bear, it seems like a 'dark and stormy night' kind of night." He gave the dog a pat as he settled down in his chair.

I can’t smell coffee, so I assume it’s some herbal tea. “Yeah, mom’s been in the hospital for a while”, she says as she stands next to me and grabs a book from a shelf. “This was my favourite book growing up”, she says. It’s a classic. The little prince. I understand why. I read it once. Not my cup of tea, but I can understand why she likes it.

Author’s Note:- Hey guys, You’re gonna see a different side of NIKOLAI in this book, hope you’re ready. Add this book to your libraries, and do like the book and comment how excited you are to read this book. GO FOLLOW MY PROFILE IF YOU HAVEN’T, Right now, I*******m:- S.n_nina_arthur. F******k:- S.N Nina Arthur.

"It helps me think. Or not think, depending on what I need." "What kind of books?" "Everything. History. Philosophy. Fiction. Biographies. I'm not picky." I pull out a worn paperback. Look at the cover. "The Count of Monte Cristo?" "One of my favorites. Read it at least five times." "Really? The mafia boss likes classic literature?" He smiles. "The mafia boss is full of surprises." We settle on the couch. Not too close. But not distant either. The fire crackles softly. "So why couldn't you sleep?" Ocean asks.

Why did they want to punish me? I do not believe that for Angelov. But it was somehow connected with him, otherwise Ibragimov would not have intervened. Or maybe it was still connected with Grisha? Or with Ibragimov himself, who dragged both of us into settling his personal scores? Crap! I didn't think at all! Murders, chases, more murders... My perception and ability to think - everything floated and distorted, as if it was not real. The tip of Grisha's cigarette flared brightly when he took a puff and reflected in his eyes, igniting the already burning darkness, and I felt like never before the gaze of a frighteningly silent killer with experience.

He returned his attention to the bookshelf at the rear of his office, the one he’d been browsing when he’d first heard the strange sounds outside, only being made by the cats, after all. The top shelf held purely “literary works.” Poetry collections of Blake, Yeats, Robert Frost, and Shakespeare. Prose collections of Zora Neal Hurston, Hemingway, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Flannery O’Connor, and folktales collected by the Brothers Grimm. Novels, from The Man in the Iron Mask to Madame Bovary, to Villette and Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte, to A Passage to India by E. M. Forster.

Crime? In his case crime really did pay it would seem. Everything about him screamed money. It was so different to me. He was so different to me and maybe that’s why I was so attracted to him. Not for his money but because like he had said he was so darkly dangerous. Even dressed casually like he was, it poured off of him in waves.