By Virginia Woolf
Read or Download A Haunted House and Other Short Stories PDF
Best short stories & anthologies books
"I was once born within the little ex-cowtown of Peaster [Texas],” Robert E. Howard wrote to a pal, and the 1st tale he ever released (in 1922) was once a Western cartoon. even though he went directly to write 1000s of myth stories set in Conan’s Hyborian kingdoms, Kull’s historical Atlantis, and Solomon Kane’s darkest Africa, his center regularly remained within the West.
The Brotherhood of the Holy Shroud is the explosive overseas bestseller that combines truth and fiction to inform the riveting tale of 1 of the world’s so much arguable relics—the Holy Shroud of Turin—and the determined race to reserve it from those that will cease at not anything to own its mythical energy.
A different choice of tales, poems, proverbs, and fables by means of well-known writers, together with essays approximately each one paintings, emphasizes self-discovery and personality improvement and offers a liberal substitute to the best-selling A publication of Virtues. 75,000 first printing. $60,000 ad/promo. journey.
- Historical Lovecraft: Tales of Horror Through Time
- A confession and other religious writings
- La puerta abierta. Reflexiones sobre la interpretación y el teatro
- Best European fiction 2014
Additional resources for A Haunted House and Other Short Stories
But this city to which we travel has neither stone nor marble; hangs enduring; stands unshakable; nor does a face, nor does a flag greet or welcome. Leave then to perish your hope; droop in the desert my joy; naked advance. Bare are the pillars; auspicious to none; casting no shade; resplendent; severe. Back then I fall, eager no more, desiring only to go, find the street, mark the buildings, greet the applewoman, say to the maid who opens the door: A starry night. “Good night, good night. ” “Alas.
Shot out at the feet of God entirely naked! Tumbling head over heels in the asphodel meadows like brown paper parcels pitched down a shoot in the post office! With one’s hair flying back like the tail of a race–horse. Yes, that seems to express the rapidity of life, the perpetual waste and repair; all so casual, all so haphazard. . But after life. The slow pulling down of thick green stalks so that the cup of the flower, as it turns over, deluges one with purple and red light. Why, after all, should one not be born there as one is born here, helpless, speechless, unable to focus one’s eyesight, groping at the roots of the grass, at the toes of the Giants?
Look how he bends as they reach the gateway. She finds her ticket. What’s the joke? Off they go, down the road, side by side. . Well, my world’s done for! What do I stand on? What do I know? That’s not Minnie. There never was Moggridge. Who am I? Life’s bare as bone. And yet the last look of them—he stepping from the kerb and she following him round the edge of the big building brims me with wonder—floods me anew. Mysterious figures! Mother and son. Who are you? Why do you walk down the street?