By Virginia Woolf
Read or Download A Haunted House and Other Short Stories PDF
Best short stories & anthologies books
Edgar Allan Poe, Emily Dickinson, Samuel Clemens ("Mark Twain"), Henry James, Ernest Hemingway—Joyce Carol Oates inspires every one of those American literary icons in her most modern paintings of prose fiction, poignantly and audaciously reinventing the climactic occasions in their lives. In subtly nuanced language suggestive of every of those writers, Oates explores the mysterious areas of the unknowable self that's "genius.
During this paintings, over forty wrestle veterans, nurses, reduction employees, newshounds and different women and men who've visible the face of battle examine their studies. It comprises poetry, fiction and demanding prose on battle and its legacy, from Vietnamese, American and imperative American authors.
Winner of the ahead of Columbus Foundation's American ebook AwardThis number of 16 tales brings the paintings of a exotic Filipino author to an American viewers. odor of Apples includes paintings from the Forties to the Nineteen Seventies. even supposing lots of Santos's writings were released within the Philippines, odor of Apples is his in basic terms ebook released within the usa.
- Thieves' World: Enemies of Fortune
- The Ballad of the Sad Cafe (Bloom's Modern Critical Interpretations (Hardcover))
- Tales of Two Cities: The Best and Worst of Times in Today's New York
- The End of the Trail: Western Stories (The Works of Robert E. Howard)
Extra info for A Haunted House and Other Short Stories
We shall never meet again. Moggridge, farewell! Yes, yes, I’m coming. Right up to the top of the house. One moment I’ll linger. How the mud goes round in the mind—what a swirl these monsters leave, the waters rocking, the weeds waving and green here, black there, striking to the sand, till by degrees the atoms reassemble, the deposit sifts itself, and again through the eyes one sees clear and still, and there comes to the lips some prayer for the departed, some obsequy for the souls of those one nods to, the people one never meets again.
I start after them. People drive this way and that. The white light splutters and pours. Plate–glass windows. Carnations; chrysanthemums. Ivy in dark gardens. Milk carts at the door. Wherever I go, mysterious figures, I see you, turning the corner, mothers and sons; you, you, you. I hasten, I follow. This, I fancy, must be the sea. Grey is the landscape; dim as ashes; the water murmurs and moves. If I fall on my knees, if I go through the ritual, the ancient antics, it’s you, unknown figures, you I adore; if I open my arms, it’s you I embrace, you I draw to me—adorable world!
Was he going to leave us? I prayed both ways—I prayed last that he might stay. At that instant he roused himself, crumpled his paper contemptuously, like a thing done with, burst open the door, and left us alone. The unhappy woman, leaning a little forward, palely and colourlessly addressed me—talked of stations and holidays, of brothers at Eastbourne, and the time of year, which was, I forget now, early or late. But at last looking from the window and seeing, I knew, only life, she breathed, “Staying away—that’s the drawback of it—” Ah, now we approached the catastrophe, “My sister–in–law”—the bitterness of her tone was like lemon on cold steel, and speaking, not to me, but to herself, she muttered, “nonsense, she would say—that’s what they all say,” and while she spoke she fidgeted as though the skin on her back were as a plucked fowl’s in a poulterer’s shop–window.