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Файл:Mystery, Crime and Detective Fiction. Context, Themes and Language Activities. Детективная литература. История жанра, рассказы в оригинале и упражнени
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portrayal of police methods. The stories were always presented from the
point of view of the police, usually in a gritty, realistic style.
The most successful writer of this type of fiction was Ed McBain
(1926– ), who set his stories in the fictional 87th precinct in a big-city police
force. The popular TV series Dragnet followed this format perfectly, and
was followed later by shows such as Hawaii 5-O, Kojak, and Hill Street
Blues, all of which developed loyal followings throughout their runs on the
small screen.
Just as mystery throughout its history hasn't been limited to the page, it
hasn't been limited to one audience. Some of the most popular mystery
series have not been written for adults, but for children. The continued
popularity of such series as Nancy Drew, The Hardy Boys, and
Encyclopedia Brown, among others, attest to the fact that mystery remains a
beloved pastime for readers of all ages. Current writers like Christopher
Pike and R.L. Stine, creator of the wildly popular Goosebumps series, sell in
the millions as well. The popular Parker Brothers game, Clue, is another
example of mystery's enormous appeal to children.
The popularity of mystery has a long and varied history and shows no
sign of abating. On the contrary, it remains as popular as ever and today's
mystery writers are as diverse and wide-ranging as ever.
New arrivals on the mystery scene like Sue Grafton's Kinsey Millhone
share space on the shelves with such characters as Spenser, Robert B.
Parker's Boston-based P.I., and Adam Dagliesh, P.D. James' popular British
policeman, along with writers like Dick Francis, whose mysteries set against
the world of horse racing continue to hit the bestseller lists year after year.
Mystery in all its forms will undoubtedly continue to capture the
public's imagination, regardless of the medium, well into the future.
11
Edgar Allan Poe
1809–1849
The saddest and the strangest figure in American
literary history is that of Edgar Allan Poe. Few writers
have lived a life so full of struggle and
disappointment, and none have lived and died more
completely out of sympathy with their times. His life
has been made the subject of minute and prolonged
investigation, yet there are still periods in his history
that have not been satisfactorily cleared up. And the
widest differences of opinion have existed as to his
place and his achievements. But there are few today
who will not readily concede to him a place among the foremost writers of
America, whether in prose or in verse, and there do not want those who
account him one of the two or three writers of indisputable genius that
America has produced.
Poe was born in Boston, 19 January, 1809, the son of actor parents of
small means and of romantic proclivities. Before the end of his third year he
was left an orphan, his mother having died in wretched poverty at
Richmond, Virginia, 8 December, 1811, and his father a few weeks later.
He was promptly taken under the protection of a prosperous tobacco
exporter of Richmond, John Allan, in whose family he lived. In the summer
of 1815 he went with his foster-father to England, and for the next five year
he lived in London, attending first a boarding school. On his return to
Richmond in the summer of 1820, Poe entered an academy.
The year 1826 Poe spent as a student at the University of Virginia. At
the end of the year, however, because of his having accumulated gambling
debts of some twenty-five hundred dollars, he was withdrawn from college;
and with the beginning of the next year he was placed by his adoptive father
in his counting-house in Richmond. But he had small leaning that way;
besides, he had been disappointed in a love-affair, having become engaged
12
before going to college to Miss Sarah Elmira Royster, of Richmond, who, in
consequence of a misunderstanding, had jilted him in his absence and had
betrothed herself to another. Smarting under this disappointment and
completely out of sympathy with the life marked out for him by his fosterfather, Poe now determined to run away; and at some time in March, 1827,
he left Richmond for parts unknown. In May he appeared at Boston, and
there, 26 May, he was mustered into the army of the United States. In the
spring or summer of 1827 he brought out at Boston his first volume of
poems, Tamerlane and Other Poems, a collection of ten fugitive pieces, all
brief save one, and all plainly imitative either of Byron or of Moore.
In April 1829, Poe was discharged from the army, a substitute having
been provided, and efforts were made to obtain for him an appointment to
West Point. In December 1829 he had published at Baltimore a second
volume of poems, made up largely of his earlier pieces revised, but
containing his long poem Al Aaraaf, the most ambitious and the most
promising of his earlier productions. In April 1831 a third volume of his
poems appeared, containing some of the best work that he ever did, but in a
state much inferior to that in which he ultimately left it.
During the ensuing four years Poe seems to have made his home in
Baltimore, though it is impossible to trace his history with complete
certainty throughout this period. Much of his time, no doubt, was given to
his prose tales, five of which appeared in the Philadelphia Saturday Courier,
in 1832, and a sixth–for which he won a prize of a hundred dollars–in the
Baltimore Saturday Visitor in October, 1833; and he also worked at
intervals during these years on a play, Politian, which, though published in
part, was never completed.
In the summer of 1835, Poe went to Richmond to assist in the editing of
The Southern Literary Messenger. In May, 1836, relying on his suddenly
acquired prosperity, he married. His wife was Virginia Clemm, a child of
thirteen and the daughter of a paternal aunt, in whose home he had lived for
a time in Baltimore.
The next six years (1838–1844) he spent in Philadelphia, working as
associate editor in several magazines. During his later years in Philadelphia,
moreover, his weakness for drink had grown on him, and he had as a result
lost many of his friends; his wife, too, frail from childhood, had become an
invalid in 1841 or in 1842; and so, early in 1844, the poet concluded to seek
a new field.
At the end of January 1845 appeared in the New York Evening Mirror,
on which he had held a minor editorial position for several months, The
13
Raven; and he became at once the most talked of man of letters in America.
In the summer he published a new volume of his tales, and in the fall, a
collected edition of his poems, The Raven and Other Poems.
Early in 1847 the poet’s wife died, and throughout the year, as indeed
during the preceding year, the family suffered keenly from the pinch of
poverty. The year 1848 saw the culmination of two unhappy love-affairs–
first, with Mrs. Shew, who had nursed the poet through a spell of illness
following the death of his wife, and then with Mrs. Whitman, the Rhode
Island poetess; and this year also witnessed the publication of his Eureka, a
philosophical disquisition on the origin and composition of the universe.
The year 1849 opened auspiciously for the poet; during the first half he
wrote at least one new tale, and several new poems, including the lines For
Annie, Eldorado, a revised and much enlarged version of The Bells, and the
last of his poems, Annabel Lee. In the summer of 1849 he went to
Richmond, where he renewed his addresses to the sweetheart of his
boyhood, Miss Royster, now the widow Mrs. Shelton and wealthy, and they
became engaged for the second time. Late in September Poe left Richmond
for the North, intending to bring his mother-in-law, who remained loyal to
him throughout the years, to the South for the marriage; but at Baltimore he
was induced to break a temperance pledge that he had made in the summer,
and as a result he fell into excesses from the effects of which he died 7
October, 1849. He lies buried in the churchyard of Westminster
Presbyterian Church, Baltimore.
14
THE BLACK CAT
By Edgar Allan Poe
Part I
FOR the most wild, yet most homely narrative which I am about to pen,
1
I neither expect nor solicit belief. Mad indeed would I be to expect it, in a
case where my very senses reject their own evidence. Yet, mad am
I not – and very surely do I not dream. But to-morrow I die, and to-day I
would unburthen
world, plainly, succinctly
household events. In their consequences, these events have terrified - have
tortured – have destroyed me. Yet I will not attempt to expound
1
my soul. My immediate purpose is to place before the
2
, and without comment, a series of mere
3
them. To
me, they have presented little but Horror – to many they will seem less
terrible than _barroques_. Hereafter, perhaps, some intellect may be found
which will reduce my phantasm to the common-place – some intellect more
calm, more logical, and far less excitable than my own, which will
perceive
4
, in the circumstances I detail with awe5, nothing more than an
ordinary succession of very natural causes and effects.
From my infancy I was noted for the docility6 and humanity of my
2
disposition
me the jest
indulged
7
. My tenderness of heart was even so conspicuous8 as to make
9
of my companions. I was especially fond of animals, and was
10
by my parents with a great variety of pets. With these I spent
most of my time, and never was so happy as when feeding and caressing
them. This peculiarity of character grew with my growth, and in my
manhood, I derived from it one of my principal sources of pleasure. To
those who have cherished
11
an affection for a faithful and sagacious dog, I
need hardly be at the trouble of explaining the nature or the intensity of the
gratification thus derivable. There is something in the unselfish and selfsacrificing love of a brute, which goes directly to the heart of him who has
15
had frequent occasion to test the paltry friendship and gossamer fidelity of
mere Man.
I married early, and was happy to find in my wife a disposition not
3
uncongenial
lost no opportunity of procuring
12
with my own. Observing my partiality for domestic pets, she
13
those of the most agreeable kind. We had
birds, gold-fish, a fine dog, rabbits, a small monkey, and a cat.
This latter was a remarkably large and beautiful animal, entirely black,
4
and sagacious to an astonishing degree. In speaking of his intelligence, my
wife, who at heart was not a little tinctured with superstition, made frequent
allusion to the ancient popular notion, which regarded all black cats as
witches in disguise
14
. Not that she was ever _serious_ upon this point - and I
mention the matter at all for no better reason than that it happens, just now,
to be remembered.
Pluto – this was the cat's name – was my favorite pet and playmate.
5
I alone fed him, and he attended me wherever I went about the house. It was
even with difficulty that I could prevent him from following me through the
streets.
Our friendship lasted, in this manner, for several years, during which
6
my general temperament and character – through the instrumentality of the
Fiend Intemperance – had (I blush to confess it) experienced a radical
alteration for the worse. I grew, day by day, more moody, more irritable,
more regardless of the feelings of others. I suffered myself to use
intemperate language to my wife. At length, I even offered her personal
violence. My pets, of course, were made to feel the change in my
disposition. I not only neglected, but ill-used them. For Pluto, however,
I still retained sufficient regard to restrain me from maltreating him, as
I made no scruple
15
of maltreating the rabbits, the monkey, or even the dog,
when by accident, or through affection, they came in my way. But my
disease grew upon me – for what disease is like Alcohol! – and at length
even Pluto, who was now becoming old, and consequently somewhat
peevish
about town, I fancied that the cat avoided my presence. I seized him; when,
in his fright at my violence, he inflicted
16
– even Pluto began to experience the effects of my ill temper.
One night, returning home, much intoxicated, from one of my haunts
7
17
a slight wound upon my hand with
his teeth. The fury of a demon instantly possessed me. I knew myself no
longer. My original soul seemed, at once, to take its flight from my body
and a more than fiendish
18
malevolence19, gin-nurtured, thrilled every fibre
of my frame. I took from my waistcoat-pocket a pen-knife, opened it,
grasped the poor beast by the throat, and deliberately cut one of its eyes
16
from the socket! I blush, I burn, I shudder20, while I pen the damnable
atrocity.
When reason returned with the morning – when I had slept off the
8
fumes of the night's debauch – I experienced a sentiment half of horror, half
of remorse, for the crime of which I had been guilty; but it was, at best, a
21
feeble
plunged
and equivocal feeling, and the soul remained untouched. I again
22
into excess, and soon drowned in wine all memory of the deed.
In the meantime the cat slowly recovered. The socket of the lost eye
9
presented, it is true, a frightful appearance, but he no longer appeared to
suffer any pain. He went about the house as usual, but, as might be
expected, fled
23
in extreme terror at my approach. I had so much of my old
heart left, as to be at first grieved by this evident dislike on the part of a
creature which had once so loved me. But this feeling soon gave place to
irritation. And then came, as if to my final and irrevocable overthrow, the
spirit of PERVERSENESS
24
. Of this spirit philosophy takes no account. Yet
I am not more sure that my soul lives, than I am that perverseness is one of
the primitive impulses of the human heart – one of the indivisible primary
faculties, or sentiments, which give direction to the character of Man. Who
has not, a hundred times, found himself committing a vile or a silly action,
for no other reason than because he knows he should not? Have we not a
perpetual inclination, in the teeth of our best judgment, to violate that which
is Law, merely because we understand it to be such? This spirit of
perverseness, I say, came to my final overthrow. It was this unfathomable
longing of the soul to vex itself – to offer violence to its own nature - to do
wrong for the wrong's sake only – that urged me to continue and finally to
consummate the injury I had inflicted upon the unoffending brute. One
morning, in cool blood, I slipped a noose about its neck and hung it to the
limb of a tree; – hung it with the tears streaming from my eyes, and with the
bitterest remorse at my heart; – hung it _because_ I knew that it had loved
me, and because I felt it had given me no reason of offence; – hung it
because I knew that in so doing I was committing a sin – a deadly sin that
would so jeopardize
25
my immortal soul as to place it – if such a thing were
possible – even beyond the reach of the infinite mercy of the Most Merciful
and Most Terrible God.
On the night of the day on which this cruel deed was done, I was
10
aroused from sleep by the cry of fire. The curtains of my bed were in
flames. The whole house was blazing. It was with great difficulty that my
wife, a servant, and myself, made our escape from the conflagration
26
. The
17
destruction was complete. My entire worldly wealth was swallowed up, and
I resigned myself thenceforward
I am above the weakness of seeking to establish a sequence of cause
11
and effect, between the disaster and the atrocity
27
to despair.
28
. But I am detailing a chain
of facts – and wish not to leave even a possible link imperfect. On the day
succeeding the fire, I visited the ruins. The walls, with one exception, had
fallen in. This exception was found in a compartment wall, not very thick,
which stood about the middle of the house, and against which had rested the
head of my bed. The plastering had here, in great measure, resisted the
action of the fire – a fact which I attributed to its having been recently
spread. About this wall a dense crowd was collected, and many persons
seemed to be examining a particular portion of it with very minute and
eager attention. The words "strange!" "singular!" and other similar
expressions, excited my curiosity. I approached and saw, as if graven in has
relief upon the white surface, the figure of a gigantic cat. The impression
was given with an accuracy truly marvellous. There was a rope about the
animal's neck.
When I first beheld this apparition29 - for I could scarcely regard it as
12
less – my wonder and my terror were extreme. But at length reflection came
to my aid. The cat, I remembered, had been hung in a garden adjacent to the
house. Upon the alarm of fire, this garden had been immediately filled by
the crowd – by some one of whom the animal must have been cut from the
tree and thrown, through an open window, into my chamber. This had
probably been done with the view of arousing me from sleep. The falling of
other walls had compressed the victim of my cruelty into the substance of
the freshly-spread plaster; the lime of which, with the flames, and the
ammonia from the carcass, had then accomplished the portraiture as I saw it.
Although I thus readily accounted to my reason, if not altogether to my
conscience, for the startling fact just detailed, it did not the less fail to make
a deep impression upon my fancy. For months I could not rid myself of the
phantasm of the cat; and, during this period, there came back into my spirit
a half-sentiment that seemed, but was not, remorse. I went so far as to regret
the loss of the animal, and to look about me, among the vile haunts which I
now habitually frequented, for another pet of the same species, and of
somewhat similar appearance, with which to supply its place.
One night as I sat, half stupified, in a den of more than infamy, my
13
attention was suddenly drawn to some black object, reposing upon the head
of one of the immense hogsheads of Gin, or of Rum, which constituted the
chief furniture of the apartment. I had been looking steadily at the top of this
18
hogshead for some minutes, and what now caused me surprise was the fact
that I had not sooner perceived the object thereupon. I approached it, and
touched it with my hand. It was a black cat – a very large one – fully as
large as Pluto, and closely resembling him in every respect but one. Pluto
had not a white hair upon any portion of his body; but this cat had a large,
although indefinite splotch of white, covering nearly the whole region of the
breast. Upon my touching him, he immediately arose, purred loudly, rubbed
against my hand, and appeared delighted with my notice. This, then, was the
very creature of which I was in search. I at once offered to purchase it of the
landlord; but this person made no claim to it - knew nothing of it - had never
seen it before.
19
p
p
g
y
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Vocabulary
1. unburden **verb [transitive]
unburden yourself
to tell someone about your problems so that you feel less worried about
2. succinct adjective FORMAL
– succinctly adverb
ex
ressed in a very short but clear way: a succinct set of instructions
3. expound verb [intransitive or transitive] VERY FORMAL
expound on/upon
lain something or express your opinion about it in detail
to ex
4. perceive verb [transitive]
1 [often passive] to understand or think about something in a particular
way: perceive someone/something as something/ perceive someone/
something to be something
a perceived advantage/need/threat (=one that people think is real):
The most important problem is the perceived threat to public health.
2 FORMAL to notice or realize something:
He quickly perceived the truth.
perceive that: The doctor had perceived that something was troubling
her.
5. awe noun [uncount]
in awe /be/stand in awe of someone
a feelin
of great respect and admiration, often combined with fear.
6. docile adjective
docility noun [uncount]
well-behaved, quiet, and easy to control
Ann was a sh
docile child.
7. disposition noun
1 [singular] the way that someone normally thinks and behaves, that
shows what type of person they are:
He is not known
or having a warm and friendly disposition.
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