My Antonia Paperback – May 20, 2014

This edition was written in a bizarre form of English and published on kindle by someone hoping to make a cheap buck. I cannot fathom why, as the original book is in English and freely available in the public domain. I presume some software translated the text from another translation back into English or just randomly swapped words, e.g. ‘old’ for ‘antique’, which led to phrases like ‘antique friends’. I bought this book without thoroughly reading the reviews and have learnt my lesson. I really hope Amazon Kindle store takes this issue seriously and makes a reporting system and a verification system for fake versions of public domain books.The opening paragraphs of this Kindle version of ‘My Antonia’ (in attached pictures too):‘Last summer season I passed off to be crossing the plains of Iowa in a season of extreme heat, and it was my right fortune to have for a travelling accomplice James Quayle Burden - Jim Burden, as we nonethelesss name him within the West. He and I are antique buddies - we grew up together in the same Nebraska town - and we had lots to say to each different. While the teach flashed via never-ending miles of ripe wheat, by using United States towns and bright-flowered pastures and alrightgroves wilting in the solar, we sat in the observation vehicle, in which the woodwork turned into warm touch and red dust lay deep over the entirety. The dust and warmth, the burning wind, reminded us of many stuff. We have been speaking approximately what it is like to spend one’s youth in little towns like those, buried in wheat and corn, under stimulating extremes of weather:burning summers when the arena lies green and billowy under a fantastic sky, when one is fairly stifled in flowers, inside the shade and scent of strong weeds and heavy harvests; blustery winters with little snow, when the complete us of a is stripped naked and grey as sheet-iron.The opening paragraphs from a PDF on ibiblio:‘Last summer I happened to be crossing the plains of Iowa in a season of intense heat, and it was my good fortune to have for a traveling companion James Quayle Burden — Jim Burden, as we still call him in the West. He and I are old friends — we grew up together in the same Nebraska town — and we had much to say to each other. While the train flashed through never-ending miles of ripe wheat, by country towns and bright-flowered pastures and oak groves wilting in the sun, we sat in the observation car, where the woodwork was hot to the touch and red dust lay deep over everything. The dust and heat, the burning wind, reminded us of many things. We were talking about what it is like to spend one’s childhood in little towns like these, buried in wheat and corn, under stimulating extremes of climate: burning summers when the world lies green and billowy beneath a brilliant sky, when one is fairly stifled in vegetation, in the color and smell of strong weeds and heavy harvests; blustery winters with little snow, when the whole country is stripped bare and gray as sheet-iron.’