検索キーワード： ナレーター "John Rayburn" すべてのカテゴリー

The description “consulting detective” was often a reference to Sherlock Holmes, but that was inadequate to tell about his unusual characteristics. He was a loner who preferred to keep to himself and kept many secrets from others, including the few friends he had. Holmes did have a constant professional relationship with Dr. Watson, and it was the faithful Watson who once said, “I had no idea that such personalities exist outside of stories.”

Overall, those who loved Penny Parker overlooked her casual ways and flippant speech. These largely resulted from her dad having taught her to think straight. She sometimes had to wait a few minutes before gathering sufficient courage to continue battling whatever setbacks might come her way. Her mother died when Penny was only a three-year-old child, but she was, as she said, “on my own, with a vengeance.” This largely resulted from the loving care of her newspaper owner/editor father, Anthony Parker, who never remarried

Wallace, a master British storyteller, creates a fascinating tale. It tells of the fictional mystery author, John Lexdale, who is caught in a plot concocted by an unscrupulous millionaire. The fictional author is entrapped in the strange circumstances, becomes charged with murder and sentenced to prison. At one point he is told his wife has been killed and pledges revenge.

Here is a land where a man, to live, must be a man. It is a land of granite and marble, strong stone and gold—and a man’s strength must be as the strength of the primeval hills. It is a land of oaks and cedars and pines—and a man’s mental grace must be as the grace of the untamed trees. It is a land of far-arched and unstained skies, where the wind sweeps free and untainted, and the atmosphere is the atmosphere of those places that remain as God made them—and a man’s soul must be as the unstained skies, the unburdened wind, and the untainted atmosphere.

The idea that the extraordinary narrative which has been called the Joyce-Armstrong Fragment is an elaborate practical joke evolved by some unknown person, cursed by a perverted and sinister sense of humor, has now been abandoned by all who have examined the matter. The most macabre and imaginative of plotters would hesitate before linking his morbid fancies with the unquestioned and tragic facts which reinforce the statement. Though the assertions contained in it are amazing and even monstrous, it is nonetheless forcing itself upon the general intelligence that they are true.

In truth the mastery of flying was the work of thousands of men—this man a suggestion and that an experiment, until at last only one vigorous intellectual effort was needed to finish the work. But the inexorable injustice of the popular mind has decided that of all these thousands, one man, and that a man who never flew, should be chosen as the discoverer, just as it has chosen to honor Watt as the discoverer of steam and Stephenson of the steam-engine.

The ferry-boat was waiting when Rebecca Flint got off the train with her bag and lunch basket. When she and her small trunk were safely embarked she sat stiff and straight and calm in the ferry-boat as it shot swiftly and smoothly across stream. There was a horse attached to a light country wagon on board, and he pawed the deck uneasily. His owner stood near, with a wary eye upon him, although he was chewing, with as dully reflective an expression as a cow.

The fiction world of today needs a “Saint” more than it ever did. For years now that scene has been dominated by the “anti-heroes"—those grim gray operators in a sunless sub-culture where global issues are worked out with totally unemotional pragmatism, those hapless uninspired puppets manipulated and expended by ruthlessly dedicated little brothers of Big Brother. It made morbidly fascinating narrative, but it never gave anyone a lift until it climaxed in the hyper-gadgeted parodies of 007 extravaganzas.

The chief character, Lord Peter Wimsey, goes to the Bellona Club to have a meal with an old friend of his, ninety-year old General Fentiman. In great surprise, he finds the aged man fully dressed by the fire in full rigor mortis. A question arises concerning the time of death and the situation develops into a serious murder investigation. Wimsey sometimes seemed to have a supercilious attitude as a monocled aristocrat and sometimes became a sort of professional detective. His family motto was, “As my whimsy takes me.”

If it had not rained on a certain May morning, Valancy Stirling’s whole life would have been entirely different. She would have gone, with the rest of her clan, to Aunt Wellington’s engagement picnic and Dr. Trent would have gone to Montreal. But it did rain and you shall hear what happened to her because of it. Valancy wakened early, in the lifeless, hopeless hour just preceding dawn. She had not slept very well.

One January day, many years ago, the little town of Hanover, anchored on a windy Nebraska tableland, was trying not to be blown away. A mist of fine snowflakes was curling and eddying about the cluster of low drab buildings huddled on the gray prairie, under a gray sky. The dwelling-houses were set about haphazard on the tough prairie sod; some of them looked as if they had been moved in overnight, and others as if they were straying off by themselves, headed straight for the open plain. None of them had any appearance of permanence, and the howling wind blew under them as well as over them.

Penny’s father is a newspaper owner being sued for libel in his home base of New York. He sends her on a western ski vacation in order to avoid the legalities, but she manages to gain entrance to a room with a mysterious Green Door, an entrance to an illegal fur importation racket from Canada. The culprits turn out to be those pursuing the libel situation back east. She is threatened with possible death, but not only solves the fur racket but winds up scooping a rival reporter.

Penny Parker’s father is a car accident victim and is taken to a hospital by another driver. However, they never arrive and the widowed father, Anthony Parker, is struck by brain damage with memory loss. At one point he cannot remember his own name nor recognize Penny as his daughter. He is owner and publisher of The Riverview Star newspaper and is pursuing information concerning a car-theft gang. Fortunately, the time element is overcome for his recovery and this leads to thwarting the plans of the unscrupulous gang.

Outside was the red dust, a foot deep on the highway, and the burning sun. The fountain before the mission splashed lazily; down at the beach it seemed that the tide had not its usual energy. Neophytes slept in the shadows cast by the mission walls. Here and there a robed friar went about his business despite the heat and the hour. There was no human being travelling El Camino Real—the king’s highway—as far as a man with good eyes could see. You can hear the whole story.

The weekly mail had just arrived at the Flying U ranch. Shorty, who had made the trip to Dry Lake on horseback that afternoon, tossed the bundle to the “Old Man” and was halfway to the stable when he was called back peremptorily.

This book is an example of Alternative History. That, in essence, is asking what the future could be like. It suggests the US could have become a Dominion of America. Call this standard history with a twist, or even mythology in part. It is certainly historical material, told in fictional fashion.

A subtitle of this book is “The Lost World Under the Sea,” and it’s somewhat based on the famed legend of Atlantis. That was an ancient city or continent that was supposedly inundated by the sea. Whether it actually existed has been a question that has lasted for thousands of years. Greek philosopher Plato wrote about it around 360 BC, so even his possible information was second-hand. Tsunamis (sea storms) have existed for centuries and if there really was an Atlantis, any survivors may have fled inland and built new cities.

Even the coming of an autumn dusk could not subdue the color of this land. Shadows here were not gray or black; they were violet and purple. The crumbling adobe walls were laced by strings of crimson peppers, vivid in the torch and lantern light. It had been this way for days, red and yellow, violet—colors many had hardly been aware existed back in the cool green, silver, gray-brown of Kentucky. So this was Tubacca! Back in ‘59 this had been a flourishing town, well on its way to prominence in the Southwest.

Unassuming in plot and style, Heidi may none the less lay claim to rank as a world classic. In the first place, both background and characters ring true. The air of the Alps is wafted to us in every moment; the house among the pines, the meadows, and the eagle poised above the naked rocks form a picture that no one could willingly forget. And the people, from the kindly towns-folk to the quaint and touching peasant types, are as real as any representation of human nature need be. Every goat even, has its personality.

Frederick Faust (pen name Max Brand) was said to have written in excess of twenty-five million words as he seemed to have a button to push to generate fictional ideas. Of course, it’s known that much of his work was issued under pen names, around twenty of them, a great many of them wild Westerns. This one that features a drifter named Donnegan. He gets off a train and takes on a job with a rich man who doesn’t seem to care much about the difference between rights and wrongs.