Using the internet for E-commerce Essay Example | Topics and Well Written Essays - 1000 words

Utilizing the web for E-business - Essay Example sharing of item and administration data, creating and keeping up human business connections, and executing business over the Internet and the World Wide Web. The Internet is realizing a significant change in the manners business is directed worldwide and is considered to have become the channel for change from a maker culture to a purchaser culture. Little and medium-size endeavors are the fundamental recipients of the minimal effort promoting potential outcomes offered by the Internet, which can divert them from little specialty players into worldwide ones. An essential change is occurring in the realm of Asian showcasing that could demonstrate a bonanza for battling organizations. The Internet is giving minimal effort approaches to little to medium-size organizations to get their promoting message over, concentrating on explicit crowds. The way in to the achievement of specialty e-organizations is as a matter of first importance brand mindfulness. Second, growing the client base geologically is prompting the requirement for a more noteworthy item range to meet solid nearby inclinations in style and design. The Internet has end up being the ideal emissary for specialty interests, serving singular tastes and various geological requests. As indicated by Microsofts private company promoting supervisor, Linda Mitchell, probably the greatest bit of leeway of having a Web website is improving client support and dependability (Small Business Success Magazine, 2001). Interfacing with web indexes and bolster associations, for example, on-line registries is free as a rule and extends a companys Web nearness to an a lot bigger market. Markus (1996) recommends that as progressively medium-to little estimated organizations re-appropriate procedures to sellers by means of the Internet, the organizations will in general spotlight on center exercises. This pattern is combined with the pattern for these organizations to expand their utilization of online business and convey their administrations and items legitimately to their end clients through data innovation (IT), subsequently diminishing or taking out a considerable lot of the expenses

Lichtheim, George. A Short Essays - Idealism, Social Theories

Lichtheim, George. A Short History of Socialism. New York: Praeger Distributers, 1970. pp. 42-63. This book went into more noteworthy profundity than Lichtheim's first, talking about communism in more noteworthy detail. Manuel, Frank E. what's more, Fritzie P. French Utopias. New York: The Free Press, 1966. pp. 299-328. The editors interpreted crafted by many French scholars. Fourier's System of Passionate Attraction is incorporated. Manuel, Frank E. Utopias and Utopian Thought. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Organization, 1966. This book depicted the establishments of Utopian thinking. Taylor, Keith. The Political Ideas of the Utopian Socialists. London: Frank Cass and Organization, Limited, 1982. pp. 100-131 This book broadly expounded on Fourier, including true to life sketch what's more, editorial.

Reading When The World Is Ominous Eight Quotes From MFK Fisher

Reading When The World Is Ominous Eight Quotes From MFK Fisher When it feels like the world is too big, too cold, too heavy, too impossible, do you have an author you turn to for reassurance? For me it’s the food writer MFK Fisher who never fails to help me in finding solid footing. (Incidentally, I’m not the first Rioter to write about the impact that Fisher has had on our lives.) Over the last seven years, in eight different bedrooms, the same paperback 50th anniversary edition of her Art of Eating has lived within arm’s reach of my bed, a permanently on-call soothant for my reoccurring bouts of depression, anxiety, and general existential panic. The Art of Eating is a hefty book (between its covers are Fisher’s five books of gastronomical essays) held up with by a backbone of sensibility that approaches the grand mysteries of life with the same wry, quiet determination that she applies to following a new recipe. Personally, I believe that it’s this kind of backbone that enables Fisher to tackle, experience, and understand just about any topic she turns her clear-eyed gaze upon (her essays range from sketches from her unusual life to several thorough examinations of an oyster’s life) while maintaining a perspective that can comfortably hold both the miraculous and the mundane. Reading Fisher is a reorientation for my brain that moves me from a massive, unknowable, indifferent universe to one where even the greatest mysteries are tangible, no longer mysteries that I experience but can also engage in. It’s not just a grounding moment but a reminder that there is in fact a solid ground for me to stand upon. As a stand-in for those still searching for their MFK Fisher, or as a supplement for those who have found theirs, I’d like to offer a few quotes from The Art of Eating that exemplify the kind of sensible backbone that I find in her. To prevent me from just posting the entire text as one big quote I had to give myself arbitrary limitations and flipped through the book at random, looking only in the sections that I opened to for something that seemed appropriate. The quotes are varied, drawing from her autobiographical writings, meditations, and straight forward advice, while speaking (I hope) to her humor, her straightforward fake-it-till-you-make-it approach to life, her rooted sensibility, and her appreciation for the grand emotions that exist in everyday life. I remember when I was a college freshman my nearest approach to la gourmandize was a midnight visit to Henry’s (…) There I would call for the head waiter, which probably awed my escort almost as much as I hoped it would. The waiter, a kindly soul except on Saturday nights, played up to me beautifully, and together we ordered a large pot of coffee and a German pancake with hot apple-sauce and sweet butter. (“Salted butter ruins the flavor,” I would add in a nonchalant aside to my Tommy or Jimmy.) (p. 8) [On baking bread] It is pleasant: one of those almost hypnotic businesses, like a dance from some ancient ceremony. It leaves you filled with peace, and the house filled with one of the world’s sweetest smells. But it takes a lot of time. If you can find that, the rest is easy. And if you cannot rightly find it, make it, for probably there is no chiropractic treatment, no Yoga exercise, no hour of meditation in a music-throbbing chapel, that will leave you emptier of bad thoughts than this homely ceremony of making bread. (p. 247) I had four [bread pans] of my maternal grandmother’s: a good friend quietly liberated two, and an enemy the rest. I still have Grandmother’s black cast-iron “gem-tins,” and I plan to keep them. (p. 247) There are many ways to love a vegetable. The most sensible way is to love it well-treated. Then you can eat it with the comfortable knowledge that you will be a better man for it, in your spirit and your body too, and will never have to worry about your own love being vegetable. (p. 297) If you are used to drinking, and can, it is pleasant to have whiskey or a good stable wine in your cupboard. A glass in your hand makes the ominous sky seem very high above you. (p. 341) If by chance you want to be out in the streets, benefit by many a Londoner’s experience [during wartime blackouts] and carry a little flask, since welcoming pubs are few and far between, and none too eager to open their doors even to old friends when unidentified planes are reported within sound of the listening posts. (p. 341) For me there is too little of life to spend most of it forcing myself into detachment from it. (p. 457) More often than not people who see me on trains and in ships, or in restaurants, feel a kind of resentment of me since I taught myself to enjoy being alone (…) If I am to be alone, I refuse to be alone as if it were something weak and distasteful, like convalescence. (p. 518) Sign up for True Story to receive nonfiction news, new releases, and must-read forthcoming titles. Thank you for signing up! Keep an eye on your inbox.

How to Resurrect an Extinct Woolly Mammoth

The Great Gatsby and the American Dream - 1442 Words

In the United States Declaration of Independence, our founding fathers Â…held certain truths to be self-evident, that all Men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness. This sentiment can be considered the foundation of the American Dream, the dream that everyone has the ability to become what he or she desires to be. While many people work to attain their American dream, others believe that the dream is seemingly impossible to reach, like F. Scott Fitzgerald. Fitzgeralds The Great Gatsby examines the Jazz-Age generations search for the elusive American Dream of wealth and happiness and scrutinizes the consequences of that†¦show more content†¦They show no remorse for destruction of Gatsbys property and they take advantage of his optimistic view of human nature. Pressured by the image of an ideal American, Gatsby looks the other way when his guests take advanta ge of him. His own individual happiness is not important in a society of individuals (Bloom 17). Another aspect of Fitzgeralds criticism of the American dream is Gatsbys desire to gain the love of Daisy Buchanan, Gatsbys object of affection and his holy grail (Fitzgerald 160). Daisy on the outside is beautiful, pure, and seemingly perfect. Nick Carraway describes her as wearing white clothes and driving a white car. Her name itself is a white flower. But in actuality, she is as false and shallow as the rest of the society (Lathbury 20). The narrator Nick comments about the foul nature of Daisy and Tom Buchanan who were Americans living in the superficial world of the 1920s: They were careless people, Tom and Daisy -- they smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness or whatever it was that kept them together, and let other people clean up the mess they had made (Fitzgerald 18). Essentially, Daisy is a person who hides in her money and has affection for someone solely based upon their outer image and wealth, aspects important to the dreams of Gatsby and Daisy. In the scene where Daisy observes the movie star and the director at oneShow MoreRelatedThe American Dream : The Great Gatsby Essay1568 Words   |  7 PagesThe American Dream: The Great Gatsby The Great Gatsby is a tragic love story on the surface, but its most commonly understood as a suspicious critic of the American Dream. In the novel Jay Gatsby overcomes his poor past to gain an incredible amount of money and a limited amount of social cache of in the 1920s NYC, only to be rejected by the â€Å"old money† crowd. The focus of my paper would be the pathway towards the American Dream and how it affects the person and others around. The American dreamRead MoreThe Great Gatsby and the American Dream1401 Words   |  6 PagesThe Real American Dream Since its institution, the United States has been revered as the ultimate land of ceaseless opportunity. People all around the world immigrated to America to seek quick wealth, which was predominately seen in the new Modern era. Beginning in the late 1800s to the early 1900s, the period introduced progressive ideas into society and the arts. Accompanying these ideas was a loss of faith in the American Dream and the promise America once guaranteed, especially after WorldRead MoreThe American Dream ( The Great Gatsby )1173 Words   |  5 PagesSLIDE. *POINTS TO PICTURE LIVING IN THE AMERICAN DREAM (THE GREAT GATSBY). Did anyone notice anything that caused a change in society between these two pictures? *POINTS TO SOMEONE WITH ONE OF THE ANSWERS TO THE QUIZ/QUESTION. READS OUT THE RAPID ECONOMIC BOOMING AND GREED. *NEXT SLIDE. That’s correct! 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This idea is known as the American Dream, a set of ideals in which freedom includes the opportunity for a successful living. However, this ethos is completely false, and is nothing more than exactly that - a dream. Throughout the award-winning work of F. Scott Fitzgerald, â€Å"The Great Gatsby†, he gathers criticism about the American Dream. He denounces the dream by shedding the lightRead MoreThe Great Gatsby And The American Dream1771 Words   |  8 Pages 5/30/17 Of Gatsby and His Unattainable Dream The American dream is a concept that has been wielded into American literature throughout history. Projecting the contrast between the American dream and reality, F. Scott Fitzgerald incorporates his opinions, primarily based off of his experiences and tribulations in World War I, throughout his literary works.Many people believe that deplorable moral and social values have evolved from the materialistic pursuit of the American dream especially throughoutRead MoreThe Great Gatsby and the American Dream592 Words   |  2 PagesRed, white , and blue are iconic to the American culture we know of. They can show our passion, desire, and pride for our country, but you will always have you might have to give in, against what your morals tell you.In the novel The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald, Fitzgerald uses the colors red, blue, and white to symbolize the American dream. To accomplish the American dream you need passion and desire but you will face situations where your morals will compromised. Passion is a necessity

Original Writing Murder Story Free Essays

string(66) " relinquishing to the floor where I sunk into a bath of my tears\." You couldn’t imagine the feeling, hearing that your wife and children have been found slain. After hearing these words eight words, everything became a blur, I didn’t even hear what PC Maguire was saying I just stared, frozen to the to the carpet beneath me feet. Dead. We will write a custom essay sample on Original Writing Murder Story or any similar topic only for you Order Now My family, my girls, my beautiful girls gone. A feeling of sickness came over me, I was sick, over and over for about 20 minutes, I headed downstairs, avoiding the family photos which hung above the stairs hoping they would just disappear. Downstairs PC Maguire was sat waiting for me, he’d already told me how it happened but I couldn’t hear. On hearing the events again I ran back to the bathroom and was vomiting until there it felt like there was nothing left apart from my cold soul, then went back to staring just sat on my bathroom floor looking at nothing for hours by the time I finally went downstairs PC Maguire and his colleague had of course gone. They’d gone to my wife Maggie’s mothers for the weekend in Leeds, the last time I saw them I was rushing to get ready for work on Friday morning. Katie, my eldest was trying to get my attention she wanted me to read her a story before I left, I always read her stories before she went to bed and as I wouldn’t be with her at the weekend she insisted on one now, but I didn’t I was too busy flapping about trying find the paperwork for my meeting that afternoon, I kissed her on the forehead and my baby Abigail’s; gave my wife a hug and ran out the door. I regret so much not reading that story, not stopping and feeding Abigail, not telling Maggie I love her, I love her more than anything in this world. A teenager found them early Monday morning behind the newsagent on his paper-round route, huddled together battered and bloodied, they’d been there all night. The police think that Maggie had stopped to go into the shop for a pack of cigarettes, leaving the girls in the car not even for a minute, but someone had taken the girls and somehow they all ended up behind the shop where they were beaten to a pulp before being strangled to death. The police have no idea to who did it and neither do I. We can’t have a funeral yet due to the investigation but I’ve had to tell people, Maggie’s parents and siblings, my parents other people have found out through the local papers and hundreds of flowers have been left by the public against the shop, but it doesn’t stop the pain not even for a second. Not a minute goes by without me trying to work out who would have wante to cause such pain, and the awful feeling that it could be someone close, someone they knew and felt safe with, I’m racked with guilt, I wasn’t there to protect my own family. My family was and still is an odd one, maybe that’s why I wanted to have a ‘normal’ family. I never knew my Dad he left before I was born and my mother never got over it, apparently he left to be with another woman who he’d also pregnant with his rotten seed. I have one brother, always a bit of a bad boy it was no surprise when he landed himself in prison for G.B.H, I hadn’t seen him for over a year before he got sent down and haven’t seen him since, 4 years it’s a dam’ shame. although my mother has tried with letters I would rather not have him in my life, I didn’t want him in my family’s life to be more specific. We’ve tried to help him in the past; he even lived with us for a few months months, but 3 months down the line he just left, no note, no â€Å"good bye† just my wife’s peruse and children’s piggy banks and haven’t seen him since. As my family’s trauma was being splashed over local news the police investigation continued, the news-agents had only had CCTV inside the store, although England has turned to a camera heaven no CCTV had been installed behind the shop where my babies were found. I was then shown the tape in which Maggie was buying her cigarettes, the tape wasn’t very good quality, you couldn’t even make out my wife’s beautiful face.I could see the car vaguely through to open shop door. A man walked up to our family car with the girls inside opening the door picking up Abigail and taking her out of her car seat then walking away with Abby in his arms and Katie holding on to his hand. This made the police believe that the girls knew him and went willingly with him, he was wearing a hood and never looked toward to shop door so even with the bad quality we had no chance of identifying his face. Finally Maggie leaves the shop and stands motionless outside staring at the car then looking left and right; the tape came too much for me, I turned my head toward the wall, I clenched my fists, gripping onto the sweat running from each palm, equivocal emotions where in-caged within me; the instinct of anger couldn’t help but be fused with the pain of guilt as the Images of what happened that day begun toying with my imagination. The girls obviously knew this man to go off with him, which surely means I know him, the worst had come to reality; memories of a not so long ago time began whispering into my ear reminding me of what once used to be the family room, the anger started possessing me as my heart started beating against my chest faster and faster before relinquishing to the floor where I sunk into a bath of my tears. You read "Original Writing Murder Story" in category "Papers" The police could sense the animosity in the air and politely left. The pain slowly faded as I slowly drifted asleep on the living room floor. When I woke up I paced though my brain hacking into old memories to conclude who it could be, I start accusing my closest and dearest friends in my head, how could it be one of them†¦ how has this happened?! At that moment the doorbell rang. People had tried ringing all week but I haven’t felt the will to answer, I guess now I have to face the world once again and answer; there is a pile of notes scattered across the hall that people have posted through the letterbox. I open the door, and I’m shocked to the core, it’s him. I can’t speak or move, He tells me he has good news, I hope he’s telling me he’s finally gone clean; I politely invite him in, as he passes me the stench of memorable cigarette smoke drifts across my face, I look up and down his figure as he walks into the living room, a blood stained handle was peaking from his trouser back pocket, I briskly contemplated on what it could of been the object could of pressed against, I became cognizant of what was going on, anger which once was transfixed in guilt now seemed contradictory, once again evocative visions paced though my mind. I run at him swinging in every direction with all my might, it throws him but not much he was always the tougher one. Then I feel it, the sharp pain in my hip, I step back and see the blood flowing, but I can no longer feel it I’m numb. Before I can retaliate he has me gripped round the neck, knife to my throat and before I know it I’m strapped in a chair duck tape over my mouth, around my hands and feet and also around my stomach keeping me in the chair. My brother takes down his hood and gives a wicked grin, ‘Hello Daniel’ he whispers in my ear. I struggle in my chair and he just laughs, ‘Poor Danny, you were always the superior one weren’t you, well look at you now! You have nothing; no one’s coming to your rescue are they Danny? You’re Alone.’ He takes great pleasure in me what I know to be true, all the time waving his blood soaked knife around. ‘It’s a shame what happened to those little kiddies isn’t it Danny? Such beautiful girls just like Maggie.’ He says licking his lips menacingly. I want to scream, I wanted to shout words which I’ve never used since my youth, but I can’t so I just continue to struggle in my chair hoping to loosen the tape. ‘What about Katie? Looks an awful lot like Maggie doesn’t she? Not so much like you though Daniel, that’s odd isn’t it?’ My wrists are starting to bleed from the firmly fastened tape but I can’t feel it, my clothes have turned crimson. What is he saying? ‘Remember that lovely few months I spent here with you Danny? You were trying to get me on the straight and narrow weren’t you? You were so stupid, while you were busying yourself getting me on this course and that course you had no idea what was going on right here did you? In this house, in your bed, with your wife.’ My hands were freed and I ripped the tape off my mouth ‘Maggie would never go anywhere near you, your scum!’ I screeched. ‘Well of course she resisted, but she loved it really†¦every time.’ He said slowly right in my face. I punched him. He stumbled backwards holding his jaw before chuckling to himself. ‘You idiot Danny, Katie, she’s mine, or should I say she was ha’ he laughed. ‘No no no no no NO!’ I said it over and over trying to grab at him but the rest of me was still fastened tightly to the chair. He then explains in detail every encounter he had with my wife, my precious wife raped by a monster in my home and I knew nothing all the time I’m screaming no over and over my face soaked with tears. But I knew it was true, Maggie kept asking me to make him leave and I wouldn’t because I wanted to help him, she was on edge the whole time and I just thought it was because she didn’t like him. She wanted a new bed but I said no and I remember that when he’d fled with our rent money she seemed so relieved. How could I have not known? ‘I thought about her every day in prison, I loved her I wanted to be with her and my daughter. So of course when I got out she was my first stop, but she wouldn’t talk to me when I came to the house. It was a different story when I had your beloved children. But she didn’t want me, not nice is it Danny? When the woman you love doesn’t want you so I decided if I couldn’t have her, and Katie, you couldn’t either so I killed them.’ What about Abby? If you didn’t want Abby why did you kill her too?!’ I yelled. ‘It was unfortunate for her, she was just there’ he shrugged. This is when my anger took hold of my and I forced my way out of my restraints, I picked up the chair and struck him once, twice, three times. He fell to the ground and I stood over him, my foot to his neck ‘You sick bastard’ I cried then stood on his neck until he was gasping for air and clutching his throat, then he was gone. I fell to the ground beside him, I knew now that it was over for me too but I couldn’t move, my eyes closed blood still pumping from my hip, my time is here. How to cite Original Writing Murder Story, Papers

The Metamorphosis The Potrait Of KafkaS Life Essays

The Metamorphosis: The Potrait Of KafkaS Life Vishal S Shah ENG 102-058 04-18-01 The Metamorphosis: The Potrait Of Kafkas Life The Metamorphosis written by Franz Kafka is considered one of the few great, poetic works of the twentieth century. Addressing The Metamorphosis, Elias Canetti, a Nobel Prize-winning author, has commented, In The Metamorphosis Kafka has reached the height of his mastery: he has written something which he could never surpass, because there is nothing which The Metamorphosis could be surpassed by one of the few great, perfect poetic works of this century (Corngold ix). There are many symbolisms and parallelisms used in the story. [Kafkas] disturbing, symbolic fiction, especially The Metamorphosis, written in German, [not] only prefigures the oppression and despair of the late 20th century but also is an account of the dramatic transformations that had occurred during his own life (Kafka Franz, Funk, 2000). This beautifully written masterpiece of Kafkas is clearly symbolic of his own life and nightmare-like life experiences he had with his father. Suppose all that you have always valued in your life was shown to be an illusion. What if your precious beliefs, maxims, platitudes, and traditions were inverted and distorted beyond recognition? You suddenly realize that what is good is bad; what is beauty is foul; what is virtue, vice. What if all your points of reference were to shift: North becomes South; black becomes white; deviant becomes saint; saint becomes deviant. Suppose that this transformation a metamorphosis of perception -- were to come to you and you alone. Suddenly you awake, and in utter solitude you discover that SHAH 2 your values have reversed along with you: you are a roach! (http://www.vr.net/~her). Your world is abruptly and totally changed! This is Gregor portrayed in Kafkas The Metamorphosis. With the opening of the story, Kafka right away jumps into the woken yet uneasy dreamy state of Gregor, a young commercial traveler. With the rise of Gregor, Kafka describes the dull, gloomy and humid environment that foreshadows the decay and deterioration of Gregors life. As soon as Gregor opens his eyes, he finds himself positioned in an uncomfortable manner and transformed into a monstrous vermin or a gigantic insect, a worthless creature, with his hard armor-plated back lying on the bed: He was lying on his hard, as it were armor-plated, back and when he lifted his head a little he could see his dome-like belly divided into stiff arched segments (Kafka 296). With this arresting opening, Kafka has set his mysterious psychological fantasy in motion. He plainly describes Gregors uneasiness of keeping himself balanced in his bed. His numerous pitifully thin legs waved helplessly in the air before his eyes (296). Just so the readers are not left in confusion, Gregor asserts that It w as not a dream, and sees for himself, in disbelief, that he is still in his own regular human bedroom, with a collection of cloth samples widespread on the top of the table (296). Slowly and gradually, we notice Gregors difficulty in getting up from his bed and his effort to get up safely without hurting hims5elf. This is clearly seen when the narrator says, If he tried to bend a leg, it first straightened out; and if he finally succeeded in taking charge of it, the other legs meanwhile all kept carrying on, as if emancipated, in extreme and painful agitation SHAH 3 (297). Through this description of his difficulties one can clearly see his miserable suffering and his slowly deteriorating health. The use of lengthy descriptions of the difficulties that Gregor faces probably signifies Kafkas actual feelings and pains that he suffered within his life, mainly during his childhood. Gregors difficulties in getting up from his bed actually relate to the difficulties that Kafka faced the very morning of the initial composing of The Metamorphosis. In regard to this he wrote Felice Bauer, his German fianc?e: I was simply too miserable to get out of bed. It also seemed to me that last night my novel got much worse, and I lay in the lowest depths. Ill write you again today, even though I still have to run around a lot and shall write down a short story that occurred to me during my misery in bed