Winter's Tale

( 166 )

Overview


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New York Times bestseller

"Utterly extraordinary . . . A piercing sense of the beautiful arising from narrative and emotional fantasy is everywhere alive in the novel . . . Not for some time have I read a work as funny, thoughtful, passionate or large-souled . . . I find myself nervous, to a degree I don’t recall in my past as a reviewer, about failing the work, inadequately ...

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Overview


Now a major motion picture

New York Times bestseller

"Utterly extraordinary . . . A piercing sense of the beautiful arising from narrative and emotional fantasy is everywhere alive in the novel . . . Not for some time have I read a work as funny, thoughtful, passionate or large-souled . . . I find myself nervous, to a degree I don’t recall in my past as a reviewer, about failing the work, inadequately displaying its brilliance." – Benjamin DeMott, New York Times Book Review

Mark Helprin’s masterpiece will transport you to New York of the Belle Epoque, to a city clarified by a siege of unprecedented snows. One winter night, Peter Lake – master mechanic and second-storey man – attempts to rob a fortress-like mansion on the Upper West Side. Though he thinks it is empty, the daughter of the house is home. Thus begins the affair between a middle-aged Irish burglar and Beverly Penn, a young girl dying of consumption. It is a love so powerful that Peter Lake, a simple and uneducated man, will be driven to stop time and bring back the dead. His great struggle is one of the most beautiful and extraordinary stories of American literature.

"He creates tableaux of such beauty and clarity that the inner eye is stunned." – Publishers Weekly

"This novel stretches the boundaries of contemporary literature. It is a gifted writer’s love affair with the language." – Newsday

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.

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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.)

Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
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.
Library Journal
"This novel is imaginatively engaging as well as entertaining, and it will find an eager audience among adults and older adolescents alike," predicted LJ's reviewer quite accurately LJ 8/83-the book became a smash best seller. This magical story of the multiple lives of protagonist Peter Lake is now available in an oversized trade paper edition.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780156031196
  • Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
  • Publication date: 6/28/2005
  • Edition description: Reissue
  • Pages: 768
  • Sales rank: 89,620
  • Product dimensions: 5.30 (w) x 7.90 (h) x 1.40 (d)

Meet the Author

Mark Helprin

MARK HELPRIN is the acclaimed author of Winter's Tale, A Soldier of the Great War, Freddy and Fredericka, The Pacific, Ellis Island, Memoir from Antproof Case, and numerous other works. His novels are read around the world, translated into over twenty languages.

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.

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    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.

Copyright © 1983 by Mark Helprin

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the work should be mailed to the following address: Permissions Department, Harcourt, Inc.,
6277 Sea Harbor Drive, Orlando, Florida 32887-6777.

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Table of Contents


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

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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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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 3.5
( 166 )
Rating Distribution

5 Star

(67)

4 Star

(23)

3 Star

(21)

2 Star

(19)

1 Star

(36)

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See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 166 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted November 3, 2012

    Lovely story, inferior e book

    The story is ethereal. I found it difficult to believe that this was written in the early eighties, because in some places Helprin's descriptions of things - a workplace that sounds a lot like Google, for example - are just spot on. The language is almost Baroque at times, and there are clunkers here and there, but the overall effect is magical and timeless.

    It's a shame that the ebook version is so poorly rendered though. It seems clear to me that somebody just scanned in the text and never cleaned it up. There seem to be NO apostrophes at all, so that we're appears as were and the possessive appears as the plural. Sometimes random numbers or symbols appear in the text where presumably the scanner failed to recognize the character. This sort of sloppiness is insulting to both author and reader, and if you're going to charge me for a book I expect it to be in better shape than this, B&N.

    59 out of 65 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • 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

    31 out of 34 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • 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

    24 out of 31 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • 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.

    20 out of 24 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • 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.

    19 out of 22 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • 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.

    14 out of 16 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • 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!!!

    14 out of 17 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted September 14, 2012

    One of my favorite books. Fantastical yet grounded in human emot

    One of my favorite books. Fantastical yet grounded in human emotions. I've read it repeatedly over the years until the pages are falling out and cover is soft, and each time, I find something new in the story that I didn't perceive or understand before. It is wonderful to be swept along with an author seemingly giddy with storytelling and words.

    11 out of 16 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted November 16, 2013

    Winters tale

    This book was a 600 page sleeping pill.

    10 out of 12 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • 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

    10 out of 14 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 17, 2014

    Anonymous

    I love reading and am interested in a wide variety of books, including time travel stories. I was excited to read this book and see the movie (until I read the book). Unfortunately all the way through the 600 plus pages, I kept hoping I would get it. I didn't get it. About halfway through I thought it was strange that I did not know what the story was about. I now finished the book and I still do not know what the story was about.

    8 out of 9 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 30, 2014

    I would really like my money back

    It is extremely rare for me to dislike a book so much. But this is the second time I feel taken and cheated by this book; I bought it when it was first published and had apparently cleansed it from my mind bc I recently bought it again for my nook! I am extremely generous with authors - I want them to entertain me! I will try and try to find something worthwhile in almost every book I pick up. I am willing to believe the author put sincere effort in to their art. But I find nothing but arrogance in this work. That is the only explanation I can find for the excruciating, semi-poetic waste of language on a story that goes nowhere for and for no seeming purpose.

    8 out of 10 people found this review helpful.

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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.

    8 out of 12 people found this review helpful.

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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.

    7 out of 9 people found this review helpful.

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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.

    7 out of 9 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 16, 2014

    disappointed

    the author was very wordy. He could have cut the book by 200 pages and still got the plot across. The plot was very confusing and didn't know who the different characters were as they were reintroduced. I can't imagine this being a successful movie if it was cast as the as the plot was played out.

    6 out of 6 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 6, 2014

    Sadly disappointed

    This is by far one of the hardest reads I have ever had to endure. The reviews of this book had me clinging to the hope of redemption to the bitter end as I was so excited about reading this book after seeing movie previews. My excitement was soon replaced by dread. The pages of descriptions and delay in revealing the storyline made me want to skim and skip constantly. It simply drags on and does not have a plot or climax worth the pain of getting through 600 pages. Disappointed:(

    6 out of 7 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted December 20, 2012

    Had potential

    Great descriptive writing, but takes you to a place of erratic timeline and incoherent plot. Only a fraction of the story is a love story. The descriptions of old New York are intriguing but not enough to carry a pointless story. I hear they are making a movie...I imagine it will be 5 hours long and released on dvd after two failed weeks at select, limited theatres.

    6 out of 8 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted October 22, 2012

    A Winter Tale

    On page 126. The writing is enchanting and to be savored slowly like a favorite taste. Unfortunately I am interrupted at least once a page by the appaling typing errors.
    I have owned one version or another of a Nook since they first became available and was very patient with errors of this type at the beginning. Clearly as the models are "improved" and offer more and more features, and of course cost more, it is past time for these kind of errors to exit at all let alone be so frequent. Its a big problem and brings the reader annoyingly out off the beautiful story time after time!
    Time to seriously get with the program B&N!

    6 out of 7 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 14, 2014

    I love to read. I like love stories, and mysteries and books th

    I love to read. I like love stories, and mysteries and books that make you think, fantasies and science fiction. I HATED this book. The flowery writing is confusing and I couldn't follow
    a lot of what was going on. I made myself finish it, and the ending was not worth it. I was left going "Huh?" I didn't get the symbolism (if that's even what it was) and it leaves a key character's ending hanging with,
    "That is a question you must answer within your own heart." 750 pages and I didn't get an ending? I have thrown 3 books in my life across the room I was so mad at the end, and this was #3.

    5 out of 5 people found this review helpful.

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