The Black House

The Black House

Patricia Highsmith

Language: English

Pages: 272

ISBN: 0393326314

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

"Highsmith's writing is wicked . . . it puts a spell on you, after which you feel altered, even tainted." ―Entertainment Weekly

With Norton's publication of The Black House, Patricia Highsmith's entire body of work is now back in print. First published in 1981, this volume is one of Highsmith's most nuanced and psychologically suspenseful works. The stories in The Black House mine classic Highsmith terrain as they sketch the lives of suburban dwellers that appear quite normal at first but unravel to reveal their proximity to the macabre. This collection is a perfect example of Highsmith's view of human nature and a fitting capstone to the reintroduction of one of the twentieth century's greatest writers.

Hymnic Narrative and the Narratology of Greek Hymns (Mnemosyne Supplements: Monographs on Greek and Latin Language and Literature, Volume 384)

Bring Larks and Heroes

The Scarlet Letter

Last Steps: Maurice Blanchot's Exilic Writing

Lolly Willowes (New York Review of Books Classics)

Samuel Beckett's Hidden Drives: Structural Uses of Depth Psychology (Crosscurrents: Comparative Studies in European Literature and Philosophy)


















and realized that she had been holding her breath, or almost, the entire time of the burning. She was not going to say anything to Reg about getting rid of the basket, and he was not apt to notice its absence, Diane knew. Diane did mention, on Tuesday in New York, that she had changed her mind about asking for a leave of absence. The implication was that she felt better, but she didn’t say that. The basket was gone, she would never see it again, unless she deliberately tried to

meant to introduce him to Ben and Georgie! Next to impossible in all this crowd! Yes, Steve was gone. Over all the people, Ralph could just see the top of the tall door closing. Well, that was that. Ralph’s ears were now aching and ringing from the loud music, and he felt slightly deaf. He couldn’t hear what someone was shouting at him, as he headed back for the kitchen. No, maybe there was more space in the little bedroom, and he could close the door on himself for a minute. But when

be honored,” said Harry. Dick came in smiling, with a couple of photographs in his hand, a manila envelope, a couple of typewritten pages. “House for sale in my neck of the woods,” said Dick, after closing Harry’s door. “We know the owners, their name is Buck. Anyway, look. See if it interests you.” Harry looked at the two photographs of a Westchester house—white, with a lawn, with grown-up trees, and it looked to him like his dream house, the one that came into his head when he was

form. He felt calmer and more detached, as if he were seeing the situation—even the black house itself—from a certain distance. So he was quite cool and collected as he walked into the White Horse Tavern at twenty past noon on Sunday. He wore his walking boots, twill trousers, an anorak jacket of bright blue. The boys were here, Ed Sanders, Frank Keynes, a couple of others whose names Tim knew also, even one high school acquaintance, Steve, whose last name Tim couldn’t at once recollect,

stranger to Tim, tall with neat black hair, wearing a cashmere sweater with a blue-and-yellow silk scarf, one of the group obviously. Tim glanced again quickly at the very pretty girl in the front corner, who was smiling, but not at him. Tim took no comfort from his glimpse of her. He suddenly thought of Linda, his last girl friend, who had stopped seeing him because she had met a fellow she liked better. Tim hadn’t been much in love with Linda, just a little bit, but her telling him she wouldn’t

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