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Lädt ... The Ghost of the Mary Celeste (Vintage Contemporaries) (2015. Auflage)| 323 | 23 | 80,585 | 
(3.34) | 14 | "A captivating, atmospheric return to historical fiction that is every bit as convincing and engrossing as Martin's landmark Mary Reilly. In 1872 the American merchant vessel Mary Celeste was discovered adrift off the coast of Spain. Her cargo was intact and there was no sign of struggle, but the crew was gone. They were never found. This maritime mystery lies at the center of an intricate narrative branching through the highest levels of late- nineteenth-century literary society. While on a voyage to Africa, a rather hard-up and unproven young writer named Arthur Conan Doyle hears of the Mary Celeste and decides to write an outlandish short story about what took place. This story causes quite a sensation back in the United States, particularly between sought-after Philadelphia spiritualist medium Violet Petra and a rational-minded journalist named Phoebe Grant, who is seeking to expose Petra as a fraud. Then there is the family of the Mary Celeste's captain, a family linked to the sea for generations and marked repeatedly by tragedy. Each member of this ensemble cast holds a critical piece to the puzzle of the Mary Celeste. These three elements--a ship found sailing without a crew, a famous writer on the verge of enormous success, and the rise of an unorthodox and heretical religious fervor--converge in unexpected ways, in diaries, in letters, in safe harbors and rough seas. In a haunted, death-obsessed age, a ghost ship appearing in the mist is by turns a provocative mystery, an inspiration to creativity, and a tragic story of the disappearance of a family and of a bond between husband and wife that, for one moment, transcends the impenetrable barrier of death. "--… (mehr) |
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Die Informationen stammen von der englischen "Wissenswertes"-Seite. Ändern, um den Eintrag der eigenen Sprache anzupassen. | |
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Die Informationen stammen von der englischen "Wissenswertes"-Seite. Ändern, um den Eintrag der eigenen Sprache anzupassen. Why does the sea moan evermore?
Shut out from heaven it makes it moan.
It frets against the boundary shore;
All earth's full rivers cannot fill
The sea, that drinking thirsteth still.
CHRISTINA ROSSETTI  | |
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| Widmung |
Die Informationen stammen von der englischen "Wissenswertes"-Seite. Ändern, um den Eintrag der eigenen Sprache anzupassen. For Adrienne Martin,
who knows how we hope | |
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Die Informationen stammen von der englischen "Wissenswertes"-Seite. Ändern, um den Eintrag der eigenen Sprache anzupassen. The captain and his wife were asleep in each other's arms. | |
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Die Informationen stammen von der englischen "Wissenswertes"-Seite. Ändern, um den Eintrag der eigenen Sprache anzupassen. Her small collection of books had been scattered widely, as if an impatient reader, pacing the carpet in search of some vital information, had thrown down volume after volume. Then it paused, and for an excruciating moment in which no one spoke and all were suspended in a soundless void, it was as if the universe itself drew in and held a startled breath. With the first breach of the bulwarks she was knocked off her feet and hurled facedown onto the deck, where like a pin before a ball in a ten-pin alley, she was summarily rolled into the scuppers. As the sea rose and fell, both ships were pushed and pulled deeper and deeper in a fatal embrace from which there was no escape. The panic of the collision was over and now the business of the sailor tribe, whose god was the sea, was to accept the verdict of their deity and prepare their ship for sacrifice. She struck me as fairylike herself, with her dark hair and light eyes, her slender limbs, the liveliness of her step, as if she could scarce bear to touch the ground. At the duet our voices skirted each other, like waves dancing on the sea. What a delightful comparison! That the notes on the staff, arranged in familiar combinations, guide my fingers and my voice to sweet harmonies, just as the stars in the heavens guide my dear cousin through all manner of tempests and gales to distant shores and back again. After a moment of anthropoidal dithering, the creature set out upon the white landscape, manically working its spindly legs and rotating its compound eyes. Though he made no decision to do so, his hand sought out his breast pocket and pulled forth the folded handkerchief, unfurling it like a flag, and mopping his brow. He grinned his toothy grin, like a bridge of yellowish stones connecting the white clouds of his sideburns, and raised his hand to the waiter who was unloading a tray of this very remedy at the next table. The sea before him was deceptively calm, and the morning sun, already brutal, smeared it with a gelatinous glow. The oceans of the world could absorb mankind entire and still the tides would roll in and out, the sun would rise and set, the moon wax and wane, pulling the waves to the shore. A breeze, as I had hoped, rustled among the lanterns, but it was stale and damp, like a human breath. At the table nearest me, an elderly couple earnestly spooned up soup as if engaged in a competition to empty their bowls. A crush of guests gathered at the opening of the tent filtered into the room, joyful and cacophonous, swooping down upon the tables like an invasion of crows on a calm summer evening. She leaned forward, her elbows on the table, her chin in her palms, studying me closely as if trying to determine what sort of animal I was. When asked, most people will tell you they don't believe in ghosts. We could hear the engines, like tired cart animals, wheezing and coughing at the end of their runs. I heard a long intake of breath, followed by a quick plosive puff of air, like a child making a wish as she blows the fuzz from a dandelion. Though all manner of spirits were welcome in Lake Pleasant, the alcoholic variety were forbidden. In my room I paused, admiring the moonlight, like spilled milk, on the desk. We had been walking in a leisurely way as we talked and had arrived at a bench set in the shade of three birch trees that hovered over it, as if to eavesdrop on any conversation that might take place in their domain. His heavy brows drew together and he cocked his head to have a closer look at me, as if I were a cat who had unexpectedly offered advice. He stroked his hair back from his temple, as if to assist his brain in its pursuit of the solution to a puzzle. All his courtesy and interest and earnest entreaty of my opinion had evaporated like the mist the sun had burned away while we had been talking. "No," he said. "I sleep like the dead." He winked at his own cleverness. "But things do go bump in the night here, don't you know," he continued. "We call them polterguests." I made out the train, like a drop of ink spreading on a page, far down the track. The approaching train wailed as if in sympathy to her plight. "You may find a whole new cast of them in Britain," I suggested facetiously. "It's full of ghosts, I hear." Outside his window a croaking band of ravens marched into view, keeping a loose formation like soldiers on maneuvers. Everything was fresh, even the geraniums in the upper-story window boxes looked brighter than the ones in town, and there was something dulling and cruel in all this newness. | |
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▾Literaturhinweise Literaturhinweise zu diesem Werk aus externen Quellen.  Wikipedia auf Englisch (1)
▾Buchbeschreibungen "A captivating, atmospheric return to historical fiction that is every bit as convincing and engrossing as Martin's landmark Mary Reilly. In 1872 the American merchant vessel Mary Celeste was discovered adrift off the coast of Spain. Her cargo was intact and there was no sign of struggle, but the crew was gone. They were never found. This maritime mystery lies at the center of an intricate narrative branching through the highest levels of late- nineteenth-century literary society. While on a voyage to Africa, a rather hard-up and unproven young writer named Arthur Conan Doyle hears of the Mary Celeste and decides to write an outlandish short story about what took place. This story causes quite a sensation back in the United States, particularly between sought-after Philadelphia spiritualist medium Violet Petra and a rational-minded journalist named Phoebe Grant, who is seeking to expose Petra as a fraud. Then there is the family of the Mary Celeste's captain, a family linked to the sea for generations and marked repeatedly by tragedy. Each member of this ensemble cast holds a critical piece to the puzzle of the Mary Celeste. These three elements--a ship found sailing without a crew, a famous writer on the verge of enormous success, and the rise of an unorthodox and heretical religious fervor--converge in unexpected ways, in diaries, in letters, in safe harbors and rough seas. In a haunted, death-obsessed age, a ghost ship appearing in the mist is by turns a provocative mystery, an inspiration to creativity, and a tragic story of the disappearance of a family and of a bond between husband and wife that, for one moment, transcends the impenetrable barrier of death. "-- ▾Bibliotheksbeschreibungen Keine Bibliotheksbeschreibungen gefunden. ▾Beschreibung von LibraryThing-Mitgliedern
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