online / kumpulan novel roman, metropop, download ebook gratis novel terjemahan bahasa indonesia pdf - download ebook pdf gratis baca. goals automotive ebook pdf novel terjemahan bahasa indonesia - automotive ebook here baca novel romantis pdf - pdf ebooks download. Best Indonesian Romance. Buku-buku romance berkualitas dari penulis Indonesia. Sanie B. Kuncoro (Goodreads Author). avg rating.
|Language:||English, Spanish, Dutch|
|Genre:||Academic & Education|
|Distribution:||Free* [*Sign up for free]|
terjemahan bahasa indonesia pdf - baca novel, download novel ebook indonesia romantis bahasa indonesia - bahasa indonesia, baca novel romance online. kumpulan ebook novel bahasa indonesia dalam format pdf. ebook novel pdf files file type pdf baca novel erotis iningilworkren.tk novel roman baca. romantis terjemahan; novel erotis terjemahan pdf | iklan gratiz baca cerita online untuk mendapatkan update terbaru. ebook for dummies pdf novel indonesia.
Biasanya novel akan dibagi menjadi beberapa part dan dijual terpisah per part-nya. Part 1 biasanya dapat dibaca secara gratis untuk membantumu memutuskan akan membeli versi digitalnya atau tidak. Satu buku all parts jauh lebih murah dibandingkan buku versi cetak di toko buku.
Cocok banget nih buat kamu yang lebih suka membaca di smartphone. Selain itu, hasil karya penulis juga tetap dihargai dengan royalti meski tidak sebesar royalti buku cetak. Pecandu Kata www. Kamu hanya tinggal meng-klik novel yang kamu inginkan dan akan diarahkan ke Google Drive di mana kamu bisa mengunduh novel tersebut dalam format pdf. Cara ini nggak dianjurkan sih. Soalnya kamu, sebagai pembaca harusnya yang paling tahu bahwa penghargaan terbesar terhadap penulis adalah dengan membeli bukunya.
Tujuan didirikannya situs ini adalah supaya pembaca memiliki referensi sebelum membeli buku versi cetak di toko buku. It was as if they Mental Illness No. There are too many names and places, difficult for me to remember them.
My God! Where do you get off criticizing excellent literature, A Kiong? Harun, who was well-behaved , quiet and had an easy smile, was completely unable to comprehend the lessons.
Nowadays people call it Down Syndrome. When Bu Mus taught, Harun sat calmly with a constant smile on his face. Then Harun clapped his hands. The two of them shared a unique emotional connection like the quirky friendsh ip of the Mouse and the Elephant. Harun enthusiastically told a story about his three-striped cat giving birth to three kit- tens, which also had three stripes , on the third day of the month.
Sahara patiently listened, even though Harun to ld this story every day, over and over again, thousands of times, all year ro und, year after year. The number three was indeed a sacred number for Harun. He related everything t o the number three. He begged Bu Mus to teach him how to write that number, and after three years of hard work, he could finally do it. The covers of all his sc hool books soon had a big, beautiful and colorful number three written on them. He was obsessed with the number three.
He often ripped off the buttons on his sh irt so there were only three left. He wore three layers of socks. He had three k inds of bags, and in each bag he always carried three bottles of soy sauce.
He e ven had three hair combs. When we asked him why he was so fond of the number thr ee, he pondered for a while, and then answered very wisely, like a village head giving religious advice. He smiled whenever he saw me doing this. He was aware that he was the oldest amo ng us, Mental Illness No. There were times when his behav- ior was very touching.
One time, unexpecte dly, he brought a large package to school and gave each of us a boiled ca- ladiu m tuber. Everyone got one. He himself took three. In the beginning, he was just an ordinary student. B ut a chance meeting with an old hair-growth product bottle from somewhere on th e Ara- bian Peninsula forever changed the course of his life.
On that bottle was a picture of a man; he was wearing red underwear, had a tall, strong body and was as hairy as a gorilla. From then on, Borek was no longer interested in anything other than maki ng his muscles bigger.
Because of hard work and exercise, he was successful and earned himself the nickname Samson—a noble title that he bore proudly. It was definitely strange, but at least Samson had found himself at a young age and knew exactly what he wanted to be later; he strove continuously to reach his goals. There are those who never find their own identity and go through life as someone else. Samson was better off than them.
He was completely obsessed with body building and crazy about the macho-man imag e. One day, he lured me in and curiosity got the best of me. He jerked my hand and we ran to the abandoned electric shed behind the school. He reached into his bag and pu lled out a tennis ball that had been split in half.
I looked at the two halves with surprise and thought to myself: It must be a great discovery. What is he going to do to me? I was hesitant, but I had no other choice. I unbuttoned my shirt. I stumbled back and almost fell. He had caught me by surprise and I was powerles s, my back against some planks of wood.
To make matters worse, Samson was much b igger than me and was as strong as a coolie. I wriggled around trying to break f ree. And then I understood. The tennis ball halves were supposed to work like that s trange thing with a wooden handle and a rubber cup that people use to unclog toilets. I felt the life being sucked out of my insides—my heart, liver, lungs, spleen, b lood and the contents of my stomach—by the cursed tennis ball halves.
My eyes fel t like they were going to pop out of my head. I choked, unable to speak. I signa led to Samson to stop. Oh man! Darn it! Counting names and parents was our own foolish cre- ation—doing something within t he amount of time it took to say the full names of everyone in our class and the ir par- ents. For example: No way cou ld I endure these things sucking the life out of me for the entire amount of tim e it would take me to count names and parents.
Malay names were never short! I was a fish trapped in a net. My breaths became short. The su ctioning of the tennis ball halves felt like stings from killer bees. My body s eemed to be shrinking. My legs flailed around hopelessly. The suffer- ing felt a s though it would never end.
Then, all of a sudden, one of the wooden planks behind me fell and gave me r oom to gather my strength. Without stopping to think twice, I mustered the last ounce of strength left in my body, and with one roundhouse style move, I kicked Samson as hard as I could right between his legs—just like when the Japanese boxer Antonio Inoki took a cheap shot at Muhammad Ali in their fight.
Samson howled and groaned like a bumble bee trapped in a glass jar. I broke free from his grasp, jumped away and bolted off. That genius body-building invention flew up into the air before sluggishly tumbling down onto a stack of straw.
I s tole a peek back and saw the boy Her- cules hurl over and clutch his legs before falling down with a thud.
For days, my chest was encircled by two dark red cir- cular marks, traces of unb elievable idiocy. Muhammadiyah Ethics class taught us every Friday morning that we were not allowed to lie to our parents, especially not to our mothers.
I was forced to expose my own stupidity. My older brothers and my father laughe d so hard they were shak- ing. Pretty serious, Ikal! But that morning it was quiet.
Most of us came to school berkaki ayam—chicken footed, literally, but in othe r words barefooted. Our underprivileged parents deliberately bought shoes that were two sizes too big so they could be worn for at least two school years. By the time the sho es fit, they were usually falling apart. Malay people believe that destiny is a creature, and we were ten baits of destin y.
We were like small mollusks cling- ing together to defend ourselves from the pounding waves in the ocean of knowledge. Bu Mus was our mother hen. Harun with his easy smile, the handsome Trapani, li ttle Syahdan, the pompous Kucai, feisty Sahara, the gullible A Kiong, and the ei ghth boy, Samson, sitting like a Ganesha statue. And who were the ninth and tent h boys?
Lintang and Mahar. What were their stories? They were two young, truly s pecial boys. It takes a special chapter to tell their tales. We were dumbfounded when we heard his reason. In the middle of the road, blocking my way, lay a crocodile as big as a coconut tree. All I could do was stand there like a statue and talk to myself. His size and the barnacles growing on his back were clear signs that he was the rule r of this swamp. Then suddenly, from the cur- rents of the river beside me, I heard the water rippling.
I was surprised. I was frightened! The hair on th e back of my neck stood up as he walked in bowlegged steps in my direction. Not one of us could find the courage to comment. We waited tensely for the s tory to continue. Then he ap- proached the ruthless animal blo cking the road.
He touched it! He petted it gently and whispered something to it—i t was so bizarre! We were stupefied. It was as loud as seven coconut trees cras hing down! If that an- cient animal had decided to chase me earlier, the only thing people would have found would be my decrepit bicycle. My courage collapsed; with just one pull, he could have drowned me in the water.
But he just passed by. Just like that? But I feel lucky. It was true that I had never witnessed Bodenga in action, but I knew him better than Lintang.
Bodenga provided me with my firs t life lesson on premonitions. For me, he symbolized all things related to the f eeling of sadness.
His face was scarred with craters and he was in his forties. He covered himself with coconut leaves and slept under a palm t ree, curled up like a squirrel for two days and two nights at a time.
When he wa s hungry, he dove down into the abandoned well at the old police station, all th e way to the bottom, caught some eels, and ate them while he was still in the w ater. Bodenga was a free creature. He was like the wind. No one knew where he came from. His ears could not hear because one day he dove into the Linggang River to fetch some tin and dove so deep that his ears bled.
And then, he was deaf. Nowadays Bodenga was like a lone piece of driftwood. People say he sacrificed his leg in order to acquire more crocodile magi c. His father was a famous crocodile shaman. As Islam flowed into the villages, people began to shun Bodenga and his father because they refused to stop worship ping crocodiles as gods. His father died by wrapping himself from head to toe in jawi roots and throwing himself into the Mirang River. He deliberately fed his body to the ferocious cro codiles of the river.
Now Bodenga spends most of his time staring into the currents of the Mira ng River, all alone and far into the night. Th ey had caught a crocodile that had attacked a woman washing clothes in the Ma nggar River. Its big m outh was propped open with a piece of firewood.
When they split its stomach in half, they found hair, clothes and a necklace. He sat down cross-legge d be- side the crocodile. His face was deathly pale. He pitifully pleaded for th e people to stop butchering the animal. They took the firewood out of its mouth and backed off.
They also understood that for Bodenga, this w as the crocodile his father had turned into because one of its legs was missin g. Bodenga cried. It was an agonizing, mournful sound. Some wept with choking sobs. Bodenga and the incident of that evening created a blueprint of compassion and s adness in my subconscious. Perhaps I was too young to witness such a painful tra gedy.
In the years to come, whenever I was faced with heart- wrenching situatio ns, Bodenga came into my senses. That evening, Bodenga truly taught me about premo- nitions. And for the first ti me, I learned that fate could treat humankind very terribly, and that love could be so blind.
Nevertheless, he never missed a day of school. He pedaled 80 kilom eters roundtrip every day. Thinking about his daily jour- ney made me cringe.
Dur- ing the rainy season, chest -deep waters flooded the roads. When faced with a road that had turned into a ri ver, Lintang left his bicycle under a tree on higher ground, wrapped his shirt, pants and books in a plastic bag, bit the bag, plunged into the water, and swam toward school as fast as he could to avoid being attacked by a crocodile. Because there was no clock at his house, Lintang re- lied on a natural clock.
On e time, he rushed through his morning prayer because the cock had already crowed. He finished his prayer and immediately pedaled off to school. Halfway through his journey, in the middle of the forest, he became suspicious because the air w as still very cold, it was still pitch black, and the forest was strangely quiet.
There were no bird songs calling out to the dawn. Lintang realized that the co ck had crowed early, and it was actually still midnight.
He pushed the bike about a dozen kilometers by hand. By the time he got to the school, we were getting ready to head home.
The last l esson that day was music class. It was a slow and so mber song: For you, our country, we promise For you, our country, we serve For you, our country, we are devoted You, country, are our body and soul We were stunned to hear him sing so soulfully.
After he sang the song, he pushed his bike back home, all 40 kil ometers.
His father now thought of the decision to send Lintang to school as the right on e. He hoped th at one day Lintang could send his five younger siblings—each born one year after t he other—to school and also free them from the cycle of poverty.
When Lintang was in first grade, he once asked his father for help with a homewo rk question about simple multiplica- tion. How much is four ti mes four? He gazed wistfully through the windo w at the wide South China Sea, thinking very hard. The pine tree man ran at top speed as swift as a deer to ask for help from people at the village office.
Not much later, like a flash of lightning, he slipped back into the house and was suddenly standing attentively before his so n. He felt a pang in his heart, a pang t hat made him make a promise to himself, I have to be an intelligent person. Instead, he sat on the bar that connects the saddle to the handlebars.
The tips of his toes barely reached the pedals. Every day he moved slowly and bounced up and down greatly over the steel bar as he bit his lip to gather his strength to fight the wind.
The house was a shack on stilts, in ca se the sea rose too high. The roof was made of sago palm leaves and the walls we re meranti tree bark. Anything happening in the shack could be seen from outside because the bark walls were already dozens of years old and were cracked and br oken like mud in the dry sea- son.