This book will examine several martial arts disciplines, and find within them the Bushido codes and conduct that have survived the passage of time and continue to flourish within their modern day settings. One particular samurai family will be studied, as it is from their origins that my current martial arts discipline is derived. However, it will also be shown that the concepts of Bushido made their way into the Okinawan art of karate, as well as the Korean art of Hapkido. Bushido, the Way of the Warrior, originated in the 7th century AD in Japan, and carries on to modern times through the practice of martial arts around the world. We see the universality of Bushido by its adaptation in every continent and in hundreds of cultures throughout the world, by the spread of martial arts.
In River City, Indiana, local cake baker Charly Angell thinks she has her hands full dealing with the new dynamic of her long marriage to a husband turned rocker wannabe, her teenage son's bedroom, which resembles the local dump, and the absence of her sweet daughter, newly installed at an out-of-town university. But those things pale when there's a murder in town and Charly's son becomes a person of interest in the case. She and new friend Violet Shades, aka "Boots," a divorcee, freelance advertising agent, and California transplant, join forces to investigate the crime. As they eat cake, drink wine, and fumble their way through the investigation, the two women uncover shocking secrets and lies in the city that's home to Addicted to the Arts Co-op. While they try to absolve Charly's son of any involvement in the murder, another murder, related to the first one, occurs, escalating their sleuthing to new and more dangerous heights.
This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can usually download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1915 edition. Excerpt: ... CHAPTER II FIRST IMPRESSIONS The first month and all the early days of my prison life rise vividly before my imagination now. My other prison years flit far more dimly through my memory. Some seem to have sunk completely into the background, to have melted together, leaving only one collective impression--oppressive, monotonous, suffocating. But all I went through during my first days in Siberia is as vivid to me now as though it had happened yesterday. And this is bound to be so. I remember clearly that from the first step what struck me most in this life was that I found in it nothing striking, nothing exceptional or, rather, nothing unexpected. It seemed as though I had had glimpses of it in my imagination when, on my way to Siberia, I tried to conjecture what lay in store for me. But soon I began to find a mass of the strangest surprises, the most monstrous facts awaiting me at every step. And it was only later, after I had been some time in the prison, that I realized fully the exceptional, the surprising nature of such an existence, and I marvelled at it more and more. I must confess that this wonder did not leave me throughout the long years of my imprisonment; I never could get used to it. My first impression on entering the prison was most revolting, and yet strange to say it seemed to me that life in prison was much easier than on the journey I had fancied it would be. Though the prisoners wore fetters, they walked freely about the prison, swore, sang songs, did work on their own account, smoked, even drank vodka (though very few of them) and at night some of them played cards. The labour, for instance, seemed to me by no means so hard, so penal, and only long afterwards I realized that the hardness, the penal character of the...
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