Synopses & Reviews
Synopsis
1890. Translations by A.W. Evans, Lafcadio Hearn, and Mrs. Wilfrid Jackson. Anatole France is the pen name of Jacques Anatole Francois Thibault, French novelist, poet, critic and winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1921. This volume contains three of his novels: Penguin Island, The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard and The Revolt of the Angels. See other titles by this author available from Kessinger Publishing.
Synopsis
This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1918 Excerpt: ...anything extraordinary, or anything even remarkable; you would be greatly deceived. "Monsieur de Lessay used to live in the second storey of an old house in the Avenue de l'Observatoire, having a stuccoed front, ornamented with antique busts, and a large unkept garden attached to it. That facade and that garden were the first images my childeyes perceived; and they will be the last, no doubt, which I shall still see through my closed eyelids when the Inevitable Day comes. For it was in that house that I was born; it was in that garden I first learned, while playing, to feel and know some particles of this old universe. Magical hours --sacred hours --when the soul, all fresh from the making, first discovers the world, which for its sake seems to assume such caressing brightness, such mysterious charm And that, Madame, is indeed because the universe itself is only the reflection of our soul. "My mother was a being very happily constituted. She rose with the sun, like the birds; and she herself resembled the birds by her domestic industry, by her maternal instinct, by her perpetual desire to sing, and by a sort of brusque grace, which I could feel the charm of very well even as a child. She was the soul of the house, which she filled with her systematic and joyous activity. My father was just as slow as she was brisk. I can recall very well that placid face of his, over which at times an ironical smile used to flit. He was fatigued with active life; and he loved his fatigue. Seated beside the fire in his big arm-chair, he used to read from morning till night; and it is from him that I inherit my love of books. I have in my library a Mably and a Raynal, which he annotated with his own hand from beginning to end. But it was utterly useless attempting ...