Yellow Socks: Confessions of a Non-Don Juan is a fictional novel about a young man slowly growing into adulthood. From relationships with his Paranoid Schizophrenic Mother, oddball friends to emotionally unbalanced women through out his life, the book covers his hardships, successes and everything in between. He bases his self worth on how others feel about him through sexual and loving relationships. Written in diary or 'blog' form the book has a certain flow that peaks the reader's interest to see what will happen next in his adventures through life, chronicling each detailed relationship with people. Despite its classification as a novel, it can be picked up at any page and each story has a life of it's own so it can be read in pieces as well.

"John Brown: Confessions of a New Army Cadet" is book written by R. W. Campbell, who was an American screenwriter, author and occasional actor. This book covers the confession of one of the Army cadets named John Brown. It gives an introduction into the nature of the lifestyle of cadets and many more.

Example in this ebook CHAPTER I. THE CADET SCHOOL. No doubt you have seen, in the highways and byways, a lot of youths in khaki with white bands round their caps. These ‘boys’ are called cadets, and are usually men home from the front to train for commissions. In Sandhurst they are officially styled gentlemen cadets; but apparently we are not supposed to be gentlemen—we’re just cadets. Funny, isn’t it? But that’s the way of the army. Well, my name is John Brown—a very ordinary name—and I’m one of those fellows. Before the war I evaded toil by becoming a student, and spent a lot of time on ‘ologies and ‘osophies. Now I’m learning to be a pukka officer, and the leader of sixty men to the cannon’s mouth. When I left my battalion for the cadet school I shed no tears. They were in the trenches, or, rather, in the mud. And it cost a pair of brand-new boots to get on to the road. However, I survived, and in due time landed at Windmoor. This is a ‘blasted heath,’ swept by the winds, and isolated from picture-shows, barmaids, and revues; not a petticoat in sight, and at every corner a notice which amounts to: ‘England expects that every cadet this day will do his duty.’ ‘This is no Utopia,’ I muttered, falling into the first hut by the way. Ye gods! There was an old colonel, with eyes like a hawk and cheeks like dumplings; and what do you think he was doing? Cutting his corns. ‘What the—why the—who the devil are you, sah?’ ‘John Brown, sir,’ I said meekly, for never in my life had I seen such a perfect relic of the Napoleonic wars. ‘Get to blazes out of this, John Brown!’ he roared, putting his fat feet on the floor and banging the door. I was again alone—on the blasted heath. The old gent inside was Colonel Eat-All, the commandant. Rumour says he devoured two dervishes at Omdurman. I stumbled on once more, and found the orderly-room. ‘This way,’ said Sergeant-Major Kneesup, introducing me to the adjutant. I clicked my heels in the style of a Guardsman, and saluted like a railway signal. ‘Well?’ said a blasé-looking gent with three pips, looking up at me from his papers. ‘John Brown, sir.’ ‘Who sent you here?’ ‘The War Office.’ ‘Umph! I know nothing about you. You had better go back to your regiment for your papers.’ ‘But I can’t go all the way to France, sir.’ ‘Well, no—perhaps not. Wait a minute,’ he said, ringing a bell. A clerk answered. ‘Have you any papers dealing with Cadet John Brown?’ ‘Yes, sir. Came a fortnight ago.’ ‘Thank you. That’s all.’ The clerk went out. ‘Oh, it’s all right, Brown. Just go over to No. 1 Company. You’ll see Sergeant-Major Smartem there. He’ll fix you up. Good luck!’ he concluded with a genial smile. I saluted and went out, marvelling at the methods of the British Army. I dug out the sergeant-major, and again announced that I was John Brown. ‘That’s a fine name to go to bed with.’ ‘It’s the one my mother gave me.’ ‘Oh, well, you can’t help it. Here’s your blankets; there’s your bed. You’ll get your equipment to-morrow. Shove this white band on your cap. Tea’s at five o’clock. The lavatory’s down there. That’s the canteen over yonder. And when you want writing-paper, hymns, or free salvation, there’s a Y.M.C.A. down the road. Now, push off—John Brown.’ I was extremely grateful for all this information in tabloid form, but I had a lurking suspicion that my name was going to be a subject of rude jest. However, I am an optimist. I pitched my bag into a corner of the hut, pulled out a little book called The Pleasures of Hope, and commenced to read till tea-time. But I was disturbed. Cadet after cadet came filing in. They were all new and rather green, except one man, called Beefy Jones. ‘What a ruddy place for a cadet school!’ he roared. ‘My dear chap, it is designed to protect our morality,’ muttered a spectacled youth, who looked like (and proved to be) an ex-parson. To be continue in this ebook

A vivid and provocative literary criticism of famous women writers from Virginia Woolf to Zelda Fitzgerald by a “gifted miniaturist biographer” (Joyce Carol Oates) The novelist and essayist Elizabeth Hardwick is one of contemporary America’s most brilliant writers, and Seduction and Betrayal, in which she considers the careers of women writers as well as the larger question of the presence of women in literature, is her most passionate and concentrated work of criticism. A gallery of unforgettable portraits—of Virginia Woolf and Zelda Fitzgerald, Dorothy Wordsworth and Jane Carlyle—as well as a provocative reading of such works as Wuthering Heights, Hedda Gabler, and the poems of Sylvia Plath, Seduction and Betrayal is a virtuoso performance, a major writer’s reckoning with the relations between men and women, women and writing, writing and life.

In 1944, an FBI junior agent is dispatched by J. Edgar Hoover to infiltrate Capone's organization, an effort that is compromised by Capone's haunted memories of prison and declining health.

"A young trick-or-treater is ready for Halloween in the best Frankenstein costume ever ... if he can make it out the front door! Every time he tries to set foot into the dark and stormy night, his parents interrupt with yet another warm and cozy addition to his costume. But Frankenstein does not wear floppy boots, or a puffy jacket, or a fanny pack. And he especially doesn't wear earmuffs! Will our young Frankenstein be able to break loose from his bundled layers and have the Halloween of his dreams? Or will he be overcome by the weight of a ghastly fall wardrobe?"--Back cover.

Named Book of the Month Club's Book of the Year, 2017 Selected one of New York Times Readers’ Favorite Books of 2017 Winner of the 2018 Goldsboro Books Glass Bell Award From the beloved New York Times bestselling author of The Boy In the Striped Pajamas, a sweeping, heartfelt saga about the course of one man's life, beginning and ending in post-war Ireland Cyril Avery is not a real Avery -- or at least, that's what his adoptive parents tell him. And he never will be. But if he isn't a real Avery, then who is he? Born out of wedlock to a teenage girl cast out from her rural Irish community and adopted by a well-to-do if eccentric Dublin couple via the intervention of a hunchbacked Redemptorist nun, Cyril is adrift in the world, anchored only tenuously by his heartfelt friendship with the infinitely more glamourous and dangerous Julian Woodbead. At the mercy of fortune and coincidence, he will spend a lifetime coming to know himself and where he came from - and over his many years, will struggle to discover an identity, a home, a country, and much more. In this, Boyne's most transcendent work to date, we are shown the story of Ireland from the 1940s to today through the eyes of one ordinary man. The Heart's Invisible Furies is a novel to make you laugh and cry while reminding us all of the redemptive power of the human spirit.