The New York Stories of Henry James (New York Review Books Classics)

The New York Stories of Henry James (New York Review Books Classics)

Henry James

Language: English

Pages: 592

ISBN: 1590171624

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

The New York Stories of Henry James (New York Review Books Classics)

Henry James

Language: English

Pages: 592

ISBN: 1590171624

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


Henry James led a wandering life, which took him far from his native shores, but he continued to think of New York City, where his family had settled for several years during his childhood, as his hometown. Here Colm Tóibín, the author of the Man Booker Prize–shortlisted novel The Master, a portrait of Henry James, brings together for the first time all the stories that James set in New York City. Written over the course of James's career and ranging from the deliciously tart comedy of the early "An International Episode" to the surreal and haunted corridors of "The Jolly Corner," and including "Washington Square", the poignant novella considered by many (though not, as it happens, by the author himself) to be one of James's finest achievements, the nine fictions gathered here reflect James's varied talents and interests as well as the deep and abiding preoccupations of his imagination. And throughout the book, as Tóibín's fascinating introduction demonstrates, we see James struggling to make sense of a city in whose rapidly changing outlines he discerned both much that he remembered and held dear as well as everything about America and its future that he dreaded most.

Stories included:
The Story of a Masterpiece
A Most Extraordinary Case
Crawford's Consistency
An International Episode
The Impressions of a Cousin
The Jolly Corner
Washington Square
Crapy Cornelia
A Round of Visits

Slow Bullets

Aladdin's Problem

Three Quarters: A Quarters Collection (Quarters, Book 5)

The Devil You Know (Saloninus, Book 2)

The Monkey Link: A Pilgrimage Novel

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

have it! It can’t but have been for poor Phil Bloodgood. He sticks out of you, the brute —as how, with what he has done to you, shouldn’t he? There was a man to see me yesterday—Tim Slater, whom I don’t think you know, but who’s ‘on’ everything within about two minutes of its happening (I never saw such a fellow!) and who confirmed my supposition, all my own, however, mind you, at first, that you’re one of the sufferers. So how the devil can you not feel knocked? Why should you look as if you

I should like him to see me——!” Newton Winch, from where he stood—and they were together now, on the great hearth-rug that was a triumph of modern orientalism—put out one of the noted fine hands and, with an expressive headshake, laid it on his shoulder. “Don’t wish him that, Monteith’t wish him that!” “Well, but”—and Mark raised his eyebrows still higher—“he’d see I bear up; pretty well!” “God forbid he should see, my dear fellow!” Newton cried as for the pang of it. Mark had for his idea,

Crawford’s merits were rather thrown away upon little girls. To a considerable number of wise virgins, however, he must have been an object of high admiration, and if a good observer had been asked to pick out in the whole town, the most propitious victim to matrimony, he would certainly have designated my friend. There was nothing to be said against him—there was not a shadow in the picture. He himself, indeed, pretended to be in no hurry to marry, and I heard him more than once declare, that he

looks again. “What’s your railroad?” he asked. “The Tennessee Central.” The American tilted back his chair a little, and poised it an instant. “Well, I’m sorry you want to attack one of our institutions,” he said, smiling. “But I guess you had better enjoy yourself first!” “I’m certainly rather afraid I can’t work in this weather,” the young barrister confessed. “Leave that to the natives,” said Mr. Westgate. “Leave the Tennessee Central to me, Mr. Beaumont. Some day we’ll talk it over, and I

said, was to find chairs for ladies, and who appeared on the stroke of half-past five with a white camellia in his button-hole. “I have written to Lord Lambeth, my dear,” said Mrs. Westgate to her sister, on coming into the room where Bessie Alden, drawing on her long grey gloves, was entertaining their visitor. Bessie said nothing, but Willie Woodley exclaimed that his lordship was in town; he had seen his name in the Morning Post. “Do you read the Morning Post?” asked Mrs. Westgate. “Oh

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