Winter's Tale

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Winter's Tale Pub. Date: 9/20/1983 Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
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Overview

New York City is subsumed in arctic winds, dark nights, and white lights, its life unfolds, for it is an extraordinary hive of the imagination, the greatest house ever built, and nothing exists that can check its vitality. One night in winter, Peter Lake—orphan and master-mechanic, attempts to rob a fortress-like mansion on the Upper West Side.

Though he thinks the house is empty, the daughter of the house is home. Thus begins the love between Peter Lake, a middle-aged Irish burglar, and Beverly Penn, a young girl, who is dying.

Peter Lake, a simple, uneducated man, because of a love that, at first he does not fully understand, is driven to stop time and bring back the dead. His great struggle, in a city ever alight with its own energy and beseiged by unprecedented winters, is one of the most beautiful and extraordinary stories of American literature.

A breathtaking novel by the author of A Soldier of the Great War, this is a book about the beauty and complexity of the human soul, about God, love, and justice, and yet readers can lose themselves in it as if it were a dream. "A gifted writer's love affair with the language."--Newsday.

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly

Issued on audio for the first time to celebrate the 25th anniversary of its publication, this version of Helprin's classic novel is a huge disappointment. Helprin's book is one of the great works of American fiction of the last quarter-century and a classic New York novel, but Oliver Wyman reads it as if it were a bedtime story for children. Playing up the whimsy of Helprin's urban fantasy, Wyman entirely misunderstands the nature of the book, which is more philosophical than fanciful, and with a sense of imagination not childish but deeply adult. Not grasping these facts, Wyman treats the book as a New York "Harry Potter," and the result is a mess unworthy of this great book. A Harvest Books paperback.(Apr.)

More Reviews (1) Fewer Reviews

From The Critics

The celebrated New York City epic appears for the first time in trade paperback in anticipation of publication of Helprin's new novel, Memoir from Antproof Case. (Mar.)

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780156031196
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
Publication date: 6/28/2005
Edition description: Reissue
Pages: 768
Sales rank: 64,938
Product dimensions: 5.30 (w) x 7.90 (h) x 1.40 (d)

Meet the Author

Mark Helprin

A conservative commentator who has served in the Israeli army may not seem the likeliest source of whimsy, but Mark Helprin's tales are written from the soul of a poet. Soldiers and burglars figure prominently in his work, but the stories are not tales of intrigue; they focus more on love, morality and far-flung travels.

Biography

Mark Helprin, a novelist, is a contributing editor of The Wall Street Journal. He is also a senior fellow of the Claremont Institute and a fellow of the American Academy in Rome. In 1996 he served as a foreign policy adviser to presidential candidate Bob Dole.

His books include A Dove of the East & Other Stories, Refiner's Fire, Ellis Island & Other Stories, Winter's Tale, Swan Lake, A Soldier of the Great War, Memoir From Antproof Case, A City in Winter, and The Veil of Snows.

Mr. Helprin was raised on the Hudson and in the British West Indies. He has degrees from Harvard College and Harvard's Graduate School of Arts and Sciences.

Author biography from The Wall Street Journal.

1. Hometown:
  
  Upstate New York
1. Date of Birth:
  
  June 28, 1947
2. Place of Birth:
  
  New York, New York
1. Education:
  
  A.B., Harvard University, 1969; A.M., 1972. Postgraduate study at Oxford University, 1976-77.

Read an Excerpt

A WHITE HORSE ESCAPES

THERE WAS a white horse, on a quiet winter morning when snow covered the streets gently and was not deep, and the sky was swept with vibrant stars, except in the east, where dawn was beginning in a light blue flood. The air was motionless, but would soon start to move as the sun came up and winds from Canada came charging down the Hudson.

The horse had escaped from his master's small clapboard stable in Brooklyn. He trotted alone over the carriage road of the Williamsburg Bridge, before the light, while the toll keeper was sleeping by his stove and many stars were still blazing above the city. Fresh snow on the bridge muffled his hoofbeats, and he sometimes turned his head and looked behind him to see if he was being followed. He was warm from his own effort and he breathed steadily, having loped four or five miles through the dead of Brooklyn past silent churches and shuttered stores. Far to the south, in the black, ice-choked waters of the Narrows, a sparkling light marked the ferry on its way to Manhattan, where only market men were up, waiting for the fishing boats to glide down through Hell Gate and the night.

The horse was crazy, but, still, he was able to worry about what he had done. He knew that shortly his master and mistress would arise and light the fire. Utterly humiliated, the cat would be tossed out the kitchen door, to fly backward into a snow-covered sawdust pile. The scent of blueberries and hot batter would mix with the sweet smell of a pine fire, and not too long afterward his master would stride across the yard to the stable to feed him and hitch him up to the milk wagon. But he would not be there.

This was a good joke, this defiance which made his heart beat in terror, for he was sure his master would soon be after him. Though he realized that he might be subject to a painful beating, he sensed that the master was amused, pleased, and touched by rebellion as often as not-if it were in the proper form and done well, courageously. A shapeless, coarse revolt (such as kicking down the stable door) would occasion the whip. But not even then would the master always use it, because he prized a spirited animal, and he knew of and was grateful for the mysterious intelligence of this white horse, an intelligence that even he could not ignore except at his peril and to his sadness. Besides, he loved the horse and did not really mind the chase through Manhattan (where the horse always went), since it afforded him the chance to enlist old friends in the search, and the opportunity of visiting a great number of saloons where he would inquire, over a beer or two, if anyone had seen his enormous and beautiful white stallion rambling about in the nude, without bit, bridle, or blanket.

The horse could not do without Manhattan. It drew him like a magnet, like a vacuum, like oats, or a mare, or an open, never-ending, tree-lined toad. He came off the bridge ramp and stopped short. A thousand streets lay before him, silent but for the sound of the gemlike wind. Driven with snow, white, and empty, they were a maze for his delight as the newly arisen wind whistled across still untouched drifts and rills. He passed empty theaters, countinghouses, and forested wharves where the snow-lined spars looked like long black groves of pine. He passed dark factories and deserted parks, and rows of little houses where wood just fired filled the air with sweet reassurance. He passed the frightening common cellars full of ragpickers and men without limbs. The door of a market bar was flung open momentarily for a torrent of boiling water that splashed all over the street in a cloud of steam. He passed (and shied from) dead men lying in the round ragged coffins of their own frozen bodies. Sleds and wagons began to radiate from the markets, alive with the pull of their stocky dray horses, racing up the main streets, ringing bells. But he kept away from the markets, because there it was noontime even at dawn, and he followed the silent tributaries of the main streets, passing the exposed steelwork of buildings in the intermission of feverish construction. And he was seldom out of sight of the new bridges, which had married beautiful womanly Brooklyn to her rich uncle, Manhattan; had put the city's hand out to the country; and were the end of the past because they spanned not only distance and deep water but dreams and time.

The tail of the white horse swished back and forth as he trotted briskly down empty avenues and boulevards. He moved like a dancer, which is not surprising: a horse is a beautiful animal, but it is perhaps most remarkable because it moves as if it always hears music. With a certainty that perplexed him, the white horse moved south toward the Battery, which was visible down a long narrow street as a whitened field that was crossed by the long shadows of tall trees. By the Battery itself, the harbor took color with the new light, rocking in layers of green, silver, and blue. At the end of this polar rainbow, on the horizon, was a mass of white-the foil into which the entire city had been set-that was beginning to turn gold with the rising sun. The pale gold agitated in ascending waves of heat and refraction until it seemed to be a place of a thousand cities, or the border of heaven. The horse stopped to stare, his eyes filled with golden light. Steam issued from his nostrils as he stood in contemplation of the impossible and alluring distance. He stayed in the street as if he were a statue, while the gold strengthened and boiled before him in a bed of blue. It seemed to be a perfect place, and he determined to go there.

He started forward but soon found that the street was blocked by a massy iron gate that closed off the Battery. He doubled back and went another way, only to find another gate of exactly the same design. Trying many streets, he came to many heavy gates, none of which was open. While he was stuck in this labyrinth, the gold grew in intensity and seemed to cover half the world. The empty white field was surely a way to that other, perfect world, and, though he had no idea of how he would cross the water, the horse wanted the Battery as if he had been born for it. He galloped desperately along the approachways, through the alleys, and over the snow-covered greens, always with an eye to the deepening gold.

At the end of what seemed to be the last street leading to the open, he found yet another gate, locked with a simple latch. He was breathing hard, and the condensed breath rose around his face as he stared through the bars. That was it: he would never step onto the Battery, there somehow to launch himself over the blue and green ribbons of water, toward the golden clouds. He was just about to turn and retrace his steps through the city, perhaps to find the bridge again and the way back to Brooklyn, when, in the silence that made his own breathing seem like the breaking of distant surf, he heard a great many footsteps.

At first they were faint, but they continued until they began to pound harder and harder and he could feel a slight trembling in the ground, as if another horse were going by. But this was no horse, these were men, who suddenly exploded into view. Through the black iron gate, he saw them running across the Battery. They took long high steps, because the wind had drifted the snow almost up to their knees. Though they ran with all their strength, they ran in slow motion. It took them a long time to get to the center of the field, and when they did the horse could see that one man was in front and that the others, perhaps a dozen, chased him. The man being chased breathed heavily, and would sometimes drive ahead in deliberate bursts of speed. Sometimes he fell and bolted right back up, casting himself forward. They, too, fell at times, and got up more slowly. Soon this spread them out in a ragged line. They waved their arms and shouted. He, on the other hand, was perfectly silent, and he seemed almost stiff in his running, except when he leapt snowbanks or low rails and spread his arms like wings.

As the man got closer, the horse took a liking to him. He moved well, though not like a horse or a dancer or someone who always hears music, but with spirit. What was happening appeared to be, solely because of the way that this man moved, more profound than a simple chase across the snow. Nonetheless, they gained on him. It was difficult to understand how, since they were dressed in heavy coats and bowler hats, and he was hatless in a scarf and winter jacket. He had winter boots, and they had low street shoes which had undoubtedly filled with numbing snow. But they were just as fast or faster than he was, they were good at it, and they seemed to have had much practice.

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I. THE CITY

A White Horse Escapes 3

The Ferry Burns in Morning Cold 10

Pearly Soames 20

Peter Lake Hangs from a Star 40

Beverly 95

A Goddess in the Bath 110

On the Marsh 130

Lake of the Coheeries 143

The Hospital in Printing House Square 173

Aceldama 191

II. FOUR GATES TO THE CITY

Four Gates to the City 219

Lake of the Coheeries 221

In the Drifts 264

A New Life 347

Hell Gate 370

III. THE SUN...AND THE GHOST

Nothing Is Random 401

Peter Lake Returns 403

The Sun... 418

...and The Ghost 438

An Early Summer Dinner at Petipas 445

The Machine Age 456

IV. A GOLDEN AGE

A Very Short History of the Clouds 505

Battery Bridge 507

White Horse and Dark Horse 544

The White Dog of Afghanistan 579

Abysmillard Redux 591

Ex Machina 606

For the Soldiers and Sailors of Chelsea 641

The City Alight 666

A Golden Age 697

epilogue 747

First Chapter

A WHITE HORSE ESCAPES

THERE WAS a white horse, on a quiet winter morning when snow covered the streets gently and was not deep, and the sky was swept with vibrant stars, except in the east, where dawn was beginning in a light blue flood. The air was motionless, but would soon start to move as the sun came up and winds from Canada came charging down the Hudson.

The horse had escaped from his master's small clapboard stable in Brooklyn. He trotted alone over the carriage road of the Williamsburg Bridge, before the light, while the toll keeper was sleeping by his stove and many stars were still blazing above the city. Fresh snow on the bridge muffled his hoofbeats, and he sometimes turned his head and looked behind him to see if he was being followed. He was warm from his own effort and he breathed steadily, having loped four or five miles through the dead of Brooklyn past silent churches and shuttered stores. Far to the south, in the black, ice-choked waters of the Narrows, a sparkling light marked the ferry on its way to Manhattan, where only market men were up, waiting for the fishing boats to glide down through Hell Gate and the night.

The horse was crazy, but, still, he was able to worry about what he had done. He knew that shortly his master and mistress would arise and light the fire. Utterly humiliated, the cat would be tossed out the kitchen door, to fly backward into a snow-covered sawdust pile. The scent of blueberries and hot batter would mix with the sweet smell of a pine fire, and not too long afterward his master would stride across the yard to the stable to feed him and hitch him up to the milk wagon. But he would not be there.

This was a goodjoke, this defiance which made his heart beat in terror, for he was sure his master would soon be after him. Though he realized that he might be subject to a painful beating, he sensed that the master was amused, pleased, and touched by rebellion as often as not-if it were in the proper form and done well, courageously. A shapeless, coarse revolt (such as kicking down the stable door) would occasion the whip. But not even then would the master always use it, because he prized a spirited animal, and he knew of and was grateful for the mysterious intelligence of this white horse, an intelligence that even he could not ignore except at his peril and to his sadness. Besides, he loved the horse and did not really mind the chase through Manhattan (where the horse always went), since it afforded him the chance to enlist old friends in the search, and the opportunity of visiting a great number of saloons where he would inquire, over a beer or two, if anyone had seen his enormous and beautiful white stallion rambling about in the nude, without bit, bridle, or blanket.

The horse could not do without Manhattan. It drew him like a magnet, like a vacuum, like oats, or a mare, or an open, never-ending, tree-lined toad. He came off the bridge ramp and stopped short. A thousand streets lay before him, silent but for the sound of the gemlike wind. Driven with snow, white, and empty, they were a maze for his delight as the newly arisen wind whistled across still untouched drifts and rills. He passed empty theaters, countinghouses, and forested wharves where the snow-lined spars looked like long black groves of pine. He passed dark factories and deserted parks, and rows of little houses where wood just fired filled the air with sweet reassurance. He passed the frightening common cellars full of ragpickers and men without limbs. The door of a market bar was flung open momentarily for a torrent of boiling water that splashed all over the street in a cloud of steam. He passed (and shied from) dead men lying in the round ragged coffins of their own frozen bodies. Sleds and wagons began to radiate from the markets, alive with the pull of their stocky dray horses, racing up the main streets, ringing bells. But he kept away from the markets, because there it was noontime even at dawn, and he followed the silent tributaries of the main streets, passing the exposed steelwork of buildings in the intermission of feverish construction. And he was seldom out of sight of the new bridges, which had married beautiful womanly Brooklyn to her rich uncle, Manhattan; had put the city's hand out to the country; and were the end of the past because they spanned not only distance and deep water but dreams and time.

The tail of the white horse swished back and forth as he trotted briskly down empty avenues and boulevards. He moved like a dancer, which is not surprising: a horse is a beautiful animal, but it is perhaps most remarkable because it moves as if it always hears music. With a certainty that perplexed him, the white horse moved south toward the Battery, which was visible down a long narrow street as a whitened field that was crossed by the long shadows of tall trees. By the Battery itself, the harbor took color with the new light, rocking in layers of green, silver, and blue. At the end of this polar rainbow, on the horizon, was a mass of white-the foil into which the entire city had been set-that was beginning to turn gold with the rising sun. The pale gold agitated in ascending waves of heat and refraction until it seemed to be a place of a thousand cities, or the border of heaven. The horse stopped to stare, his eyes filled with golden light. Steam issued from his nostrils as he stood in contemplation of the impossible and alluring distance. He stayed in the street as if he were a statue, while the gold strengthened and boiled before him in a bed of blue. It seemed to be a perfect place, and he determined to go there.

He started forward but soon found that the street was blocked by a massy iron gate that closed off the Battery. He doubled back and went another way, only to find another gate of exactly the same design. Trying many streets, he came to many heavy gates, none of which was open. While he was stuck in this labyrinth, the gold grew in intensity and seemed to cover half the world. The empty white field was surely a way to that other, perfect world, and, though he had no idea of how he would cross the water, the horse wanted the Battery as if he had been born for it. He galloped desperately along the approachways, through the alleys, and over the snow-covered greens, always with an eye to the deepening gold.

At the end of what seemed to be the last street leading to the open, he found yet another gate, locked with a simple latch. He was breathing hard, and the condensed breath rose around his face as he stared through the bars. That was it: he would never step onto the Battery, there somehow to launch himself over the blue and green ribbons of water, toward the golden clouds. He was just about to turn and retrace his steps through the city, perhaps to find the bridge again and the way back to Brooklyn, when, in the silence that made his own breathing seem like the breaking of distant surf, he heard a great many footsteps.

At first they were faint, but they continued until they began to pound harder and harder and he could feel a slight trembling in the ground, as if another horse were going by. But this was no horse, these were men, who suddenly exploded into view. Through the black iron gate, he saw them running across the Battery. They took long high steps, because the wind had drifted the snow almost up to their knees. Though they ran with all their strength, they ran in slow motion. It took them a long time to get to the center of the field, and when they did the horse could see that one man was in front and that the others, perhaps a dozen, chased him. The man being chased breathed heavily, and would sometimes drive ahead in deliberate bursts of speed. Sometimes he fell and bolted right back up, casting himself forward. They, too, fell at times, and got up more slowly. Soon this spread them out in a ragged line. They waved their arms and shouted. He, on the other hand, was perfectly silent, and he seemed almost stiff in his running, except when he leapt snowbanks or low rails and spread his arms like wings.

As the man got closer, the horse took a liking to him. He moved well, though not like a horse or a dancer or someone who always hears music, but with spirit. What was happening appeared to be, solely because of the way that this man moved, more profound than a simple chase across the snow. Nonetheless, they gained on him. It was difficult to understand how, since they were dressed in heavy coats and bowler hats, and he was hatless in a scarf and winter jacket. He had winter boots, and they had low street shoes which had undoubtedly filled with numbing snow. But they were just as fast or faster than he was, they were good at it, and they seemed to have had much practice.

Copyright © 1983 by Mark Helprin

All rights reserved.

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Anonymous

Posted February 27, 2004

in love with Helprin's Manhattan

This book¿s title hooked my imagination, Winter¿s Tale being suggestive of a good yarn with which to curl up in a cozy corner on a cold evening. Based on this mental picture, I bought Helprin's book. When I finally sat down to read Winter¿s Tale, I devoured 673 pages in just a few days. The book begins as the nineteenth century rolls into the twentieth, in a Manhattan that has not fully grown and is still dominated by horse-drawn carriages, gas lamps and burgeoning industrialization. The story follows the development of orphan Peter Lake, master thief and master mechanic and his dying lover, Beverly Penn. Peter Lake has a gift for mechanics, a sadness-tinged passion for Beverly and the meanest gang in Manhattan out to kill him. Oh, and he rides around on a white horse that itself possesses superior intuition and mythical athletic ability. (Don¿t ask. Peter Lake doesn¿t.) Peter Lake is forced by enemies to jump into the White Cloud Wall that hovers intermittently around the island and from which no one ever returns. Then the story takes an odd turn and fast-forwards one hundred years to Manhattan on the eve of the millennium. The Penn family, its publishing and political empire and Peter Lake and his magical horse are still hanging around. (Again, it¿s best not to ask.) As an apocalyptic winter sets on Manhattan, a mysterious bridge builder and his odd retinue arrive, bringing with them the potential destruction of the city. From just the bare bones of the story it is obvious that Helprin¿s novel is steeped soundly in the uncanny, that je ne sais quoi that turns the everyday ninety degrees off and makes it strange. Helprin is not afraid to push the limits of authorial credibility with his reality-straining prose, and such confidence is probably why he hardly strains the reader¿s goodwill in doing so. This limit-pushing, together with Helprin¿s vivid, living descriptions, keeps the reader interested in each page. It also becomes apparent very soon in reading Winter¿s Tale that Helprin is adept at his trade. His facility with pacing, characterization, setting and plot sets him apart from the pack of published novelists in the last twenty years. Writing seems not only Helprin¿s craft, but his art. Winter¿s Tale is a meaty stew. Because of this Helprin cultivates trust in the reader: there is an expectation that he is taking the reader somewhere. Winter¿s Tale becomes complicated early in the novel, with several brow-furrowing plot elements that are obviously, if unclearly, interrelated. The novel has several strands, but there¿s an expectation that in Helprin¿s capable hands those several strands will be woven together to deliver some kind of satisfaction. This expectation is disappointed, but it¿s rather a minor thing¿getting through the book is worth its eventual plot dissolution. Winter¿s Tale has big characters with uncompromising ideals: this author exhibits a willingness (and refusal not to) idealize his characters¿even the horse¿into something grand. The women are beautiful and strong, the men handsome and capable; the villains wicked and stupid. New York's Manhattan receives the most loving treatment, a character in its own right, and it is impossible not to fall in love, based on this novel, with Manhattan. This novel is suffused with a sense of optimism: the world of Winter¿s Tale may be complicated, but Helprin portrays this world as a benevolent place with order and meaning. But here resides the damaging flaw in Winter¿s Tale¿Helprin hints at an order and meaning he doesn¿t explore. Let¿s return to the idea of the uncanny: Those who like their books offbeat, as I do, will be with Helprin most of the way through the novel. However, three-quarters of the way through reader faith falters: what had been quirky/uncanny descends rather messily into vague mysticism and pseudo-philosophizing. Helprin¿s crisp prose loses its clarity as his ideas lose their clarity. (Funny how that works...) All

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Anonymous

Posted March 25, 2003

I love this book more with each re-read

This is my favorite book of all time. Its a long tale so you must be patient when reading- but the story pays off in the long run. I fine myself checking the bookstore shelves to see if Helprin has written anything since! This story is magical and it makes you want to put yourself inside the narrative

1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.
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Anonymous

Posted July 9, 2001

I think I'm in Love

I don't think anything I could write here could do this novel justice. Winter's Tale is my all time favorite book. I just finished reading it for the second time and am absolutely speechless. Helprin's style of writing is poetic and you feel closely connected emotionally with all his characters. Its fantastic and realistic all at the same time. Its a long book to read, but I think most people will be surprised by how quickly you finish it. Once you're hooked, there's no way to put it down

1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.
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Hilton-Head-Reader

Posted April 8, 2011

Fanciful and Enchanting

This book requires more than one reading. It is a masterful piece of fantasy and a total delight to the senses. The scenes are breathtaking and totally memorable.
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Atthebeach

Posted December 9, 2010

Totally fantastical, complicated and enthralling....totally Helprin

I love Helprin's books. Once I read "A Soldier of the Great War", I was hooked. And now I have read every one of his books. ("Memoir from Antproof Case" is my favorite!) They're not easy reads, but they are so worth the effort. "A Winter's Tale" seems the most complex, at times hard to follow, over the top fantastical. But it is so worth finishing and knowing you have read this divine work. You simply have to remember that it's fantasy and then just float with it. Yes, the horse flies. Who says they don't? I couldn't begin to describe this story. I think only Mark Helprin could do that.
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RPyle

Posted March 9, 2009

Helprin's Winter's Tale defies description.

Helprin's incredibly layered historical fantasy is a feast for the imagination. The reader is caught up in a whirlwind of imagery that makes a valiant attempt to describe the indescribable city--New York. Characters of fire roam a city of ice and the reader is in awe of the place and it's people. From the first chapter it becomes impossible to look away from the beauty, the horror and the banality of life in the city. The density of Halprin's gorgeous poetic prose makes for a slow read. And don't expect such a complex web of time and space to be neatly tied up in the final chapter. But Winter's Tale is much like a first-time visit to Manhattan--the senses are overwhelmed, time stands still and you know you must return some day for a closer look.
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Anonymous

Posted November 20, 2004

Read and read gain and again and again

I first read this book when it first came into paperback and this was my first Mark Helprin book. I have since read it at least five time and enjoyed it even more each time. The characters are magic and real while you know that all the pictorial aspects of this version of New York are totally unreal or realistic. Since then I have read a Soldier of the Great War and Refiners Fire. Both were very impressive but didn't 'speak' to me like Winters Tale. I am a fantasy freak. Buy and Enjoy.
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Anonymous

Posted March 1, 2004

Magical, Lyrical, High Art

The splendid author of A Soldier of the Great War, brings us something different in Winter's Tale. The difference isn't his mastery of prose-poetry. There are few ARTISTS of words as good today as Helprin. The difference is that the hard edges of Soldier are replaced by soft allusiveness here. It's almost as though the author is preening his talent for us - just to demonstrate his range. For anyone who likes beautiful writing, you must buy this book and A Solidier of the Great War too. Once you finish both, you'll know Helprin's working up to a magnum opus of some sort he's going to leave behind one of these days as his legacy to world literature. Unlike most of the beach trash on the shelves today, when you finish reading this, you'll know you're reading someone who'll be read in 100 years. Treat yourself.
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Anonymous

Posted September 2, 2003

helprin hangs from a star

Perhaps the thing to be most admired about Winter's Tale is the scope of Mr. Helprin's compassion and humanity. The character's (all flawed, except for Beverly) all achieve a level of dignity and honor that most authors don't have the ability to evoke out of similar narrative styles. When Beverly finally passes, the degree of Peter Lake's grief is sublimely heroic. This book has carried me a few times and it always seems to be in mid-December when I need to be carried the most. Thank You Mr. Helprin
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Anonymous

Posted December 23, 2002

mythical-historical

This book is one of my favorites, and it would be difficult to find a better-written book in any genre. It merges the history of New York City (and state)with a mythical tale of human redemption. This is a perfect companion to Martin Scorsese's new masterpiece "Gangs of New York" (December '02) and will give you real insight into the period.
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Anonymous

Posted March 26, 2002

An enchanting history of NYC!

Although the descriptions were tedious at times I really enjoyed this book. I liked the magic in the story and I really enjoyed the history of NYC. The story continually called me back to find out what would happen!
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Anonymous

Posted December 3, 2001

The best Author of the past century

To say that Helprin is my favorite writer today would be a small understatement. Every month I wander into Barnes and Nobel to find out if anything new has surfaced from this writer, but unfortuantly genius seems to ebb into the publishing world very slowly. A Winters Tale is arguably the best of Helprin's work, combining history, fantasy, and a unparalleled attention to detail that delights and enthralls the reader throughout. The characters speak to you as if they were alive, and you want so desparately to meet them, to console them, to love them.
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Anonymous

Posted December 10, 2001

Intimations

At the first breath of Winter, every year since putting the book aside, I find myself once again being aborbed into the mystical city represented in the novel. And when this happens I look for the first snowy day when I could return to lower Manhatten, and in a crowded, brawling kind of a place, find a corner seat where I could lap up grilled oysters over a glass of ale -- and immerse myself in the dream. Over the years this inclination has remained merely a fancy, a simple acknowledgement of the spell this book has cast on me. To be best enjoyed, this book 'should' be read on cold winter days with at least a hint of snow in the air.
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Anonymous

Posted June 5, 2001

Mythical

I am sure that I do not understand much of this book today, years after first reading it. The pure beauty of the language is enough to provide a place on your book shelf among your favorites. Anything by Mark Helprin is well worth reading.
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Anonymous

Posted January 20, 2001

Enchanting over and over

This is one of the few books ever that I could read over and over and never be afraid of knowing the ending. Helprin writes as a bird flies, and makes me lose myself in his world, sad to return to this one.
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Anonymous

Posted May 14, 2000

Mesmerizing!

I bought this book at random while looking for a big book that would take me a long time to read - it took me less than 2 weeks! I could not put it down! I usually am not drawn to fantasy-based type stories and at first was a little disappointed when I realized this was that type of story. But the narrative was so poetic and rich I kept reading until I was hooked - I struggled to keep my eyes open long into the night while I read. A beautiful powerful story - highly recommended - let your imagination soar!!!
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Anonymous

Posted March 10, 2000

Incredible imagery

One of the most beautiful books I have ever read. Helprin's style of writing flows so easily and is very poetic.
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Anonymous

Posted December 15, 2009

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Anonymous

Posted August 19, 2010

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Posted July 24, 2010

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Winter's Tale

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Overview

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Overview

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly

From The Critics

Product Details

Meet the Author

Mark Helprin

Biography

Read an Excerpt

Table of Contents

First Chapter

Rating Distribution

in love with Helprin's Manhattan

I love this book more with each re-read

I think I'm in Love

Fanciful and Enchanting

Totally fantastical, complicated and enthralling....totally Helprin

Helprin's Winter's Tale defies description.

Read and read gain and again and again

Magical, Lyrical, High Art

helprin hangs from a star

mythical-historical

An enchanting history of NYC!

The best Author of the past century

Intimations

Mythical

Enchanting over and over

Mesmerizing!

Incredible imagery