Thank you for the help. I can study this essay for my English exam.
Paragraph on books are our best friends - temetlatalri.gq
There will paragraph writing for the exam. And this is very easy to study. It was very helpful. I had a school project on it and was tensed what to do.
Long and Short Essay on Books in English
Yes I had learnt much from the books. I thought books are the best tools which remain silent yet gives lot of knowledge. Yes the books are our best friend. For me the book make me laugh sometimes and sometimes make me suspicious to get the end.
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Really helpful. Please log in again. The login page will open in a new tab. After logging in you can close it and return to this page. Others Short Essays. I am too thankful to you I had not done my homework and your were the one who helped me out. Book gives us best life but care your time and sitting with book.
Books Are Our Best Friends – Essay, Speech, Article, Paragraph
Books are really great friends, especially, the digital ones. You can take them anywhere you go. Really good Simple to understand Got many good points and thoughts to write in exam. More Bookish Stuff. Essay on Library in English March 20, Essay on Importance of Books in our life January 18, October 15, Close dialog. Session expired Please log in again.
Defiantly, she insists that, while inanimate, they were true friends. She was not alone. They were not only companions, but mirrors.
Or more than mirrors—they were seer stones. That revelation came through the process of witnessing herself described, breathtakingly, in the texts. It also came through the joy of reading itself. She felt a sense of triumph interpreting complicated words, and not only interpreting them but seeing them, in her mind, expand into a whole imaginary world, one she could enter and survive.
Oliver also confesses that books were her friends because she felt frail in the real world. Her father was abusive. Her beloved uncle killed himself. I, too, had book friends as a child, and at a time when making real friends could feel like too much to bear. I had asthma.
I wore giant glasses with pink plastic frames. I felt anxious often. A month or two earlier, my Dad had bought me Is Paris Burning? I can still remember the tear on the shiny black cover, evidence it had been previously loved.
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The hand-cut pages. The smell, that delicious smell, part paper, part hardwood, that only old books seem to have. To escape the soccer kids, I sat at the front of the bus—that dorky jump seat reserved for kids who have to form a desperate, sad alliance with the driver over children their own age.
When I got off the bus, I relished, like Mary Oliver, the weight the hardcover made in my backpack. It felt like the bulk of a friend, one of the hefty soccer players, but a kindly one, accepting, who would come always to my defense. The next year, at Hebrew school, I so hated the cliquey, enforced socialization over soft drinks between classes that I hid for the whole 20 minutes with a book in a bathroom stall. When I confessed this to my father, he was so worried about my development that he showed up during one of these breaks to keep me company , introducing himself to other kids and asking them to hang out with me.
You can imagine what this did for my cool factor. We say we want kids to read more, yet we also harbor a deep suspicion of the too-bookish kid. Fran Lebowitz, the writer, tells of barricading herself in a bedroom as a child to read. We associate an obsession with books, too, with loneliness, and perhaps a willful failure to learn how to play nice with other people.
In fact, the books I loved most as a child were also the ones I dared most joyously to damage. I dog-eared every other page in Is Paris Burning. Eventually, the poor, soaked Giver started to physically dissolve. Unearthing old copies of Calvin and Hobbes in my childhood bedroom last January, I discovered that I had practiced cursive handwriting in orange marker not only on the flyleaf but on top of the cartoons , rendering the books, now, practically unreadable.
All of which sounds like a fair description of a really bad adult relationship. And yet I reckon this rests on a terrible misunderstanding of both friendship and childhood. Books can teach kids something essential about how to be a friend—and teach us adults, too.watch
A Man's Best Friend Essay
What is a friend? It seems that incredibly little is written about friendship compared to romantic love. Friendship was once a topic that engaged the great philosophers, from Aristotle to C. To the extent that we do ponder it, we often think about it in economic terms. We assume friendships take work and depend on, or are even essentially the sum total of, tangible deeds—the quantity of phone calls, Facebook likes, or coffee dates.
Our friendships are like the ledgers in checkbooks: what we put in equals what we get out. It will bring you closer. We treat friends like money in another way: the more we have, the better. Recently, two Facebook friends of mine posted remarkably candid mini-essays, one lamenting the breakdown of his marriage and another revealing his inner torment about his racism. The posts were so real; they made me feel closer to both people.
Then, within hours, and after receiving snarky comments from acquaintances, both scrubbed them from their feeds. For Aristotle, a highly fussed-over, meticulously crafted, and obsessively reciprocal friendship based on jointly performing common interests was one of the baser forms of friendship.
He identified three: the friendship of utility, the friendship of pleasure, and the friendship of virtue. The friendship of pleasure is what WikiHow was going for: you both enjoy Zumba, so you make standing dates to do it. The friendship of virtue, though, is something completely different, something far beyond mutual care and sharing common interests, something for which we barely have the language. Aristotle ranked it as the highest ethical good, above both honor and justice.
What is the friendship of virtue? It does not seek flattery; in fact, it condemns it. The virtuous friendship can withstand criticism and even some damage. Mary Oliver felt eudaimonia with Walt Whitman. You too? As such, it is the ultimate, perhaps the only, bulwark against loneliness. It gives us the mystical and gratifying experience that our inner selves, which we all secretly fear are shamefully weird, are seen and even partially possessed by another. Our souls have a true sibling.