The woman in black book author
W hen I am emailed by pupils studying The Woman in Black for GCSE and A-level, many refer to it as "gothic", and indeed it forms part of a university course in gothic literature. But although the book has something in common with the pure gothic fiction of the 18th and 19th centuries, it is really only a distant cousin of the genre. It is a ghost story — not a horror story, not a thriller — and not a gothic novel; although the terms are often used very loosely, they are not by any means the same thing. I set out to write a ghost story in the classic 19th-century tradition, a full-length one. The list of ingredients included atmosphere, a ghost, a haunted house and other places, and weather. A footnote to "ghost" was a of a human being; and b with a purpose.SEE VIDEO BY TOPIC: The Woman in Black by Susan Hill Audiobook
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The classic ghost story from the author of The Mist in the Mirror : a chilling tale about a menacing spectre haunting a small English town. Now a major motion picture starring Daniel Radcliffe. Arthur Kipps is an up-and-coming London solicitor who is sent to Crythin Gifford—a faraway town in the windswept salt marshes beyond Nine Lives Causeway—to attend the funeral and settle the affairs of a client, Mrs.
Alice Drablow of Eel Marsh House. Psychologically terrifying and deliciously eerie, The Woman in Black is a remarkable thriller of the first rate. Read more Read less. Kindle Cloud Reader Read instantly in your browser. Customers who viewed this item also viewed these digital items. Page 1 of 1 Start over Page 1 of 1. The Little Stranger. Sarah Waters. Hell House. Audible Audiobook. The Haunting of Hill House. The Women in Black: A Novel.
Madeleine St John. The Mist in the Mirror. Susan Hill. Rosemary's Baby. Recommended popular audiobooks. Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, Book 1. Where the Crawdads Sing. If It Bleeds. Little Fires Everywhere. Review "A rattling good yarn, the sort that chills the mind as well as the spine.
Nerve shredding. Susan Hill has been a professional writer for over fifty years. Somerset Maugham Award, and have been shortlisted for the Booker Prize.
Susan is married with two adult daughters and lives in North Norfolk. All rights reserved. Christmas Eve It was nine-thirty on Christmas Eve. I have always liked to take a breath of the evening, to smell the air, whether it is sweetly scented and balmy with the flowers of midsummer, pungent with the bonfires and leaf-mold of autumn, or crackling cold from frost and snow. I like to look about me at the sky above my head, whether there are moon and stars or utter blackness, and into the darkness ahead of me; I like to listen for the cries of nocturnal creatures and the moaning rise and fall of the wind, or the pattering of rain in the orchard trees, I enjoy the rush of air toward me up the hill from the flat pastures of the river valley.
Tonight, I smelled at once, and with a lightening heart, that there had been a change in the weather. All the previous week, we had had rain, chilling rain and a mist that lay low about the house and over the countryside.
From the windows, the view stretched no farther than a yard or two down the garden. It was wretched weather, never seeming to come fully light, and raw, too. There had been no pleasure in walking, the visibility was too poor for any shooting and the dogs were permanently morose and muddy. Inside the house, the lamps were lit throughout the day and the walls of larder, outhouse and cellar oozed damp and smelled sour, the fires sputtered and smoked, burning dismally low.
My spirits have for many years now been excessively affected by the ways of the weather, and I confess that, had it not been for the air of cheerfulness and bustle that prevailed in the rest of the house, I should have been quite cast down in gloom and lethargy, unable to enjoy the flavor of life as I should like and irritated by my own susceptibility.
I took a step or two out from under the shadow of the house so that I could see around me in the moonlight. Below us are pastures, interspersed with small clumps of mixed, broadleaf woodland.
But at our backs for several square miles it is a quite different area of rough scrub and heathland, a patch of wildness in the midst of well-farmed country. We are but two miles from a good-sized village, seven from the principal market town, yet there is an air of remoteness and isolation which makes us feel ourselves to be much further from civilization.
Bentley was formerly my employer, but I had lately risen to become a full partner in the firm of lawyers to which I had been articled as a young man and with whom, indeed, I remained for my entire working life. He was at this time nearing the age when he had begun to feel inclined to let slip the reins of responsibility, little by little, from his own hands into mine, though he continued to travel up to our chambers in London at least once a week, until he died in his eighty-second year.
But he was becoming more and more of a country-dweller. He was no man for shooting and fishing but, instead, he had immersed himself in the roles of country magistrate and churchwarden, governor of this, that and the other county and parish board, body and committee.
I had been both relieved and pleased when finally he took me into full partnership with himself, after so many years, while at the same time believing the position to be no more than my due, for I had done my fair share of the donkey work and borne a good deal of the burden of responsibility for directing the fortunes of the firm with, I felt, inadequate reward—at least in terms of position.
So it came about that I was sitting beside Mr. Bentley on a Sunday afternoon, enjoying the view over the high hawthorn hedgerows across the green, drowsy countryside, as he let his pony take the road back, at a gentle pace, to his somewhat ugly and over-imposing manor house.
In London I lived for my work, apart from some spare time spent in the study and collecting of watercolors. I was then thirty-five and I had been a widower for the past twelve years. I had no taste at all for social life and, although in good general health, was prone to occasional nervous illnesses and conditions, as a result of the experiences I will come to relate.
Truth to tell, I was growing old well before my time, a somber, pale-complexioned man with a strained expression—a dull dog. I remarked to Mr. Pretty little cottage—down there, perhaps? Until, that is, we reached a stretch of road leading past a long, perfectly proportioned stone house, set on a rise above a sweeping view down over the whole river valley and then for miles away to the violet-blue line of hills in the distance.
At that moment, I was seized by something I cannot precisely describe, an emotion, a desire—no, it was rather more, a knowledge, a simple certainty , which gripped me, and all so clear and striking that I cried out involuntarily for Mr.
Bentley to stop, and, almost before he had time to do so, climbed out of the pony trap into the lane and stood on a grassy knoll, gazing first up at the house, so handsome, so utterly right for the position it occupied, a modest house and yet sure of itself, and then looking across at the country beyond. I had no sense of having been here before, but an absolute conviction that I would come here again, that the house was already mine, bound to me invisibly. To one side of it, a stream ran between the banks toward the meadow beyond, whence it made its meandering way down to the river.
Bentley was now looking at me curiously, from the trap. Beyond that, I glimpsed the perimeter of some rough-looking, open land. The feeling of conviction I have described was still upon me, and I remember that I was alarmed by it, for I had never been an imaginative or fanciful man and certainly not one given to visions of the future. Indeed, since those earlier experiences I had deliberately avoided all contemplation of any remotely nonmaterial matters, and clung to the prosaic, the visible and tangible.
Nevertheless, I was quite unable to escape the belief—nay, I must call it more, the certain knowledge—that this house was one day to be my own home, that sooner or later, though I had no idea when, I would become the owner of it. When finally I accepted and admitted this to myself, I felt on that instant a profound sense of peace and contentment settle upon me such as I had not known for very many years, and it was with a light heart that I returned to the pony trap, where Mr.
Bentley was awaiting me more than a little curiously. I had told Mr. Bentley that if ever he were to hear that the house was for sale, I should be eager to know of it. Some years later, he did so.
I contacted the agents that same day and hours later, without so much as returning to see it again, I had offered for it, and my offer was accepted. Our affection for one another had been increasing steadily, but, cursed as I still was by my indecisive nature in all personal and emotional matters, I had remained silent as to my intentions for the future.
On that day, I truly believed that I had at last come out from under the long shadow cast by the events of the past and saw from his face and felt from the warmth of his handclasp that Mr. Bentley believed it too, and that a burden had been lifted from his own shoulders.
He had always blamed himself, at least in part, for what had happened to me—it had, after all, been he who had sent me on that first journey up to Crythin Gifford, and Eel Marsh House, and to the funeral of Mrs.
But all of that could not have been further from my conscious thought at least, as I stood taking in the night air at the door of my house, on that Christmas Eve.
In the early days I had come here only at weekends and holidays but London life and business began to irk me from the day I bought the place and I was glad indeed to retire permanently into the country at the earliest opportunity. And, now, it was to this happy home that my family had once again repaired for Christmas. In a moment, I should open the front door and hear the sound of their voices from the drawing room—unless I was abruptly summoned by my wife, fussing about my catching a chill.
Certainly, it was very cold and clear at last. The sky was pricked over with stars and the full moon rimmed with a halo of frost. The dampness and fogs of the past week had stolen away like thieves into the night, the paths and the stone walls of the house gleamed palely and my breath smoked on the air. There would be no snow for them on the morrow, but Christmas Day would at least wear a bright and cheerful countenance.
There was something in the air that night, something, I suppose, remembered from my own childhood, together with an infection caught from the little boys, that excited me, old as I was. That my peace of mind was about to be disturbed, and memories awakened that I had thought forever dead, I had, naturally, no idea. That I should ever again renew my close acquaintance, if only in the course of vivid recollections and dreams, with mortal dread and terror of spirit, would have seemed at that moment impossible.
I took one last look at the frosty darkness, sighed contentedly, called to the dogs, and went in, anticipating nothing more than a pipe and a glass of good malt whisky beside the crackling fire, in the happy company of my family.
And indeed I did give thanks, at the sight of my family ensconced around the huge fire which Oliver was at that moment building to a perilous height and a fierce blaze with the addition of a further great branch of applewood from an old tree we had felled in the orchard the previous autumn. At that time, Isobel was only twenty-four years old but already the mother of three young sons, and set fair to produce more.
She had the plump, settled air of a matron and an inclination to mother and oversee her husband and brothers as well as her own children. She had been the most sensible, responsible of daughters, she was affectionate and charming, and she seemed to have found, in the calm and level-headed Aubrey Pearce, an ideal partner. In all honesty, I could not have wished it so.
The Woman in Black
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The Woman in Black by Susan Hill
Arthur Kipps, a junior solicitor, is summoned to attend the funeral Mrs Alice Drablow, the house's sole inhabitant of Eel Marsh House, unaware of the tragic secrets which lie hidden behind the shuttered windows. The house stands at the end of a causeway, wreathed in fog and mystery, but it is not until he glimpses a wasted young woman, dressed all in black, at the funeral, that a creeping sense of unease begins to take hold, a feeling deepened by the reluctance of the locals to talk of the woman in black - and her terrible purpose. I don't know if it was because of the hype of the book, or Susan Hill's atmospheric descriptions, but The Woman in Black was giving me goosebumps from the start. Arthur Kripps is spending Christmas Eve with Really enjoyed this, very well written and to the point - gave me the shivers! A resolute and determined Arthur Kipp has his sanity severely tested in this genuinely unnerving ghost story. As the mystery of the woman in black slowly unfolds, the tension magnifies and leads us to a heart-stopping Please sign in to write a review.
There are undertakers with shovels, of course, a local official who would rather be anywhere else, and one Mr Arthur Kipps, solicitor from London. He is to spend the night in Eel Marsh House, the place where the old recluse died amidst a sinking swamp, a blinding fog and a baleful mystery about which the townsfolk refuse to speak. But when the high tide pens him in, what he finds — or rather what finds him — is something else entirely. Susan Hill.
Look Inside. The classic ghost story from the author of The Mist in the Mirror : a chilling tale about a menacing spectre haunting a small English town. Now a major motion picture starring Daniel Radcliffe. Arthur Kipps is an up-and-coming London solicitor who is sent to Crythin Gifford—a faraway town in the windswept salt marshes beyond Nine Lives Causeway—to attend the funeral and settle the affairs of a client, Mrs.SEE VIDEO BY TOPIC: The Woman In Black BY Susan Hill - Book Review
T his is a ghost story, so we start with the storyteller. Literary critics rarely use this last term, preferring to talk of the "narrator". But when it comes to hauntings this traditional description is fitting. Arthur Kipps is giving us a tale that he is condemned by his own memories to tell. When the novella opens, he is a man in late middle age, surrounded by adult stepchildren at Christmas. Naturally they begin to tell ghost stories: Christmas is the time for this, when the year is darkest and family or friends are gathered together to be entertained.
Вообще-то она ничего не имела против этого имени, но Хейл был единственным, кто его использовал, и это было ей неприятно. - Почему бы мне не помочь тебе? - предложил Хейл.
Он подошел ближе. - Я опытный диагност. К тому же умираю от любопытства узнать, какая диагностика могла заставить Сьюзан Флетчер выйти на работу в субботний день. Сьюзан почувствовала прилив адреналина и бросила взгляд на Следопыта.
Немец не хотел его оскорбить, он пытался помочь. Беккер посмотрел на ее лицо. В свете дневных ламп он увидел красноватые и синеватые следы в ее светлых волосах. - Т-ты… - заикаясь, он перевел взгляд на ее непроколотые уши, - ты, случайно, серег не носила.
Они со Сьюзан слушали этот концерт в прошлом году в университете в исполнении оркестра Академии Святого Мартина. Ему вдруг страшно захотелось увидеть ее - сейчас. Прохладный ветерок кондиционера напомнил ему о жаре на улице. Он представил себе, как бредет, обливаясь потом, по душным, пропитанным запахом наркотиков улицам Трианы, пытаясь разыскать девчонку-панка в майке с британским флагом на груди, и снова подумал о Сьюзан.
Он протягивал свою изуродованную руку… пытаясь что-то сообщить. Танкадо хотел спасти наш банк данных, - говорила она. - А мы так и не узнаем, как это сделать. - Захватчики у ворот.
Дэвид Беккер начал читать, Джабба печатал следом за .
- Надеюсь, удача не оставит. Беккер опустился на колени на холодный каменный пол и низко наклонил голову. Человек, сидевший рядом, посмотрел на него в недоумении: так не принято было вести себя в храме Божьем. - Enferno, - извиняясь, сказал Беккер.
- Он сказал, что на кольце были выгравированы какие-то буквы. - Буквы. - Да, если верить ему - не английские. - Стратмор приподнял брови, точно ждал объяснений. - Японские иероглифы. Стратмор покачал головой. - Это и мне сразу пришло в голову.
Он не допустит, чтобы какие-то страхи лишили его потенциального клиента. - Друг мой, - промурлыкал он в трубку. - Мне показалось, что я уловил в вашей речи бургосский акцент. Сам я из Валенсии.