The Collected Stories of Katherine Mansfield (Penguin Classics)
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY ALI SMITH
Katherine Mansfield's clear, sparkling and perceptive short stories revolutionized the genre, and this collection represents the whole range of her writing. Moving, resonant, full of light and colour, they range from short sharp studies to longer, richer tales, encompassing her three major volumes Bliss, The Garden Party and In a German Pension, and fifteen tantalizing fragments of unfinished stories published after her tragic death, including 'Honesty', an intriguing tale of two bachelors, and 'The Doves' Nest', an exquisite story of a widowed mother and her daughter in the Riviera who receive a mysterious gentleman caller. Graceful, delicate and quietly devastating, they observe apparently trivial incidents to create sensitive, often painful revelations of her characters' inner lives.
Hunt, emerging, added, “With whole fish in it.” “Oh, what a bore!” wailed Isabel. And she explained to William how they had been chasing round the town for ice while she waited for him. “Simply everything is running down the steep cliffs into the sea, beginning with the butter.” “We shall have to anoint ourselves with the butter,” said Dennis. “May thy head, William, lack not ointment.” “Look here,” said William, “how are we going to sit? I’d better get up by the driver.” “No, Bobby Kane’s by
It’ll do you good. And don’t put any water with it. It’s sacrilege to tamper with stuff like this. Ah!” He tossed off his, pulled out his handkerchief, hastily wiped his moustaches, and cocked an eye at old Woodifield, who was rolling his in his chaps. The old man swallowed, was silent a moment, and then said faintly, “It’s nutty !” But it warmed him; it crept into his chill old brain—he remembered. “That was it,” he said, heaving himself out of his chair. “I thought you’d like to know. The
you know?—tell me things they wouldn’t for the world tell a man. I feel it wouldn’t be fair to them. Don’t you see?” He gave way at last. But “I’m old-fashioned,” he said, and his smile was a little rueful. “I like to feel my wife reads my letters.” “My precious dear! I’ve made you unhappy.” She felt so repentant; she didn’t know quite about what. “Of course I’d love to read …” “No, no! That’s all right. It’s understood. We’ll keep the bond.” And they had kept it. He slit open the grimy
clematis. Each flower was the size of a small saucer, with a centre like an astonished eye fringed in black. But the room was not finished yet. Stanley had set his heart on a Chesterfield and two decent chairs. Linda liked it best as it was…. Two big moths flew in through the window and round and round the circle of lamplight. “Fly away before it is too late. Fly out again.” Round and round they flew; they seemed to bring the silence and the moonlight in with them on their silent wings….
course she wore gloves, white ones, stained at the fastenings with iron-mould, and in one hand she carried a very dashed-looking sunshade which she referred to as her perishall. Beryl, sitting in the window, fanning her freshly washed hair, thought she had never seen such a guy. If Alice had only blacked her face with a piece of cork before she started out the picture would have been complete. And where did a girl like that go to in a place like this? The heart-shaped Fijian fan beat scornfully