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This “jewel at the heart of English comic literature” chronicles the daily fortunes and misfortunes of a middle-age, middle-class clerk (William Trevor, The Mail on Sunday). Since its original publication in 1892, The Diary of a Nobody has become a much-loved classic. It is a fictional man's dissection of the everyday drama of his life as an office worker in a London firm. With dry wit, the authors step into the character of Charles Pooter as he navigates work life with not-so-respectful young coworkers and family life with his charming wife, Carrie, and impetuous son, Lupin. From home repairs gone wrong (painting the tub red), to the comings and goings of his friends Cummings and Gowings, Pooter painstakingly shares intimate details of his existence, with the (not completely absurd) hope of maybe someday having his memoir published. An ongoing tally of the good jokes he makes shares space with descriptions of grievous insults to his person, party mishaps, the annoying behavior of everyone around him, and Lupin's on-again off-again employment and engagement status. The Diary of a Nobody gives everyone a reason to laugh—and recognize themselves in Pooter's droll prose. “The funniest book in the world.” —Evelyn Waugh, author of Brideshead Revisited “There's a universality about Pooter that touches everybody... [he] fits into the tradition of absurd humour that the British do well, which started with Jonathan Swift and runs through Lewis Carroll and Edward Lear to Monty Python.” —Jasper Fforde, Time Out “Pooter himself is as gentle as you could wish, a wonderful character, genuinely lovable. The book is beautifully constructed.” —Andrew Davies, The Herald

Dive into the life of a normal man with a normal family in this humorous novel told in diary entries from one Charles Pooter: husband, father, and someone who experiences relatable social embarrassments and humiliations. As he chronicles a year in his life, he discusses his twenty-year-old son's foray into the dating scene, the couple's attempts at blending in with higher society, and his general interactions with friends and co-workers. Originally released as an intermittent serial in Punch, a satirical magazine, The Diary of a Nobody is the literary genius of two brothers who told it like it is.

The Diary of a Nobody is a novel written by brothers George and Weedon Grossmith. This edition by Heraklion Press has a linked table of contents.Das E-Book The Diary of a Nobody wird angeboten von Charles River Editors und wurde mit folgenden Begriffen kategorisiert: free; classic; mystery; detective; oxford; delphi

George Grossmith (9 December 1847 – 1 March 1912) was an English comedian, writer, composer, actor, and singer. His performing career spanned more than four decades. As a writer and composer, he created 18 comic operas, nearly 100 musical sketches, some 600 songs and piano pieces, three books and both serious and comic pieces for newspapers and magazines. Grossmith is best remembered for two aspects of his career. First, he created a series of nine memorable characters in the comic operas of Gilbert and Sullivan from 1877 to 1889, including Sir Joseph Porter, in H.M.S. Pinafore (1878), the Major-General in The Pirates of Penzance (1880) and Ko-Ko in The Mikado (1885–87). Second, he wrote, in collaboration with his brother Weedon, the 1892 comic novel “The Diary of a Nobody”. (Excerpt from Wikipedia)

The Diary of a Nobody is a novel written by brothers George and Weedon Grossmith that helped to establish a genre of humorous popular fiction based on lower class aspirations. It also paved the way for other kinds of fictitious diary novels in the 20th century.

A secret terrorist group infiltrates the household of a government official's son, with a view to spying on the father and, ultimately, assassinating him. But the young man entrusted with the task – an ailing, world-weary “nobody” – seized with the purposelessness of life and a sense of his own impending death, gradually becomes disillusioned with his mission, and decides to embark on a new path which will lead him to tragedy. Combining psychological detail with a strong sense of place and time, The Story of a Nobody bears all the hallmarks of Chekhov's genius, and perfectly captures the political and social tensions of its day.

Charles Pooter and his wife Caroline have just moved to a new home. Mr Pooter is a City of London clerk with Perkupps. The couple have a 20-year-old son, Lupin, who works as a bank clerk in Oldham. From the beginning a pattern is set whereby the small vexations of the Pooters'daily lives are recounted, many of them arising from Pooter's unconscious self-importance and pomposity. Trouble with servants, tradesmen and office juniors, together with minor social embarrassments and humiliations, occur regularly.

- The updated 1910 edition. - Contains a note from the authors, written 1892. - Features all 33 original illustrations by Weedon Grossmith. - Bonus features: a publisher's note and letters from Lord Roseberry and Augustine Birrell, MP. - An extract from an essay by Hilaire Belloc, MP. - Fully searchable table of contents. - Exquisitely formatted and presented in e-book form. The Grossmith brothers'comedic masterpiece allows us a peek inside the diaries of the absurdly self-important Charles Pooter, a London banker frustrated by life at every turn. Detailing the snubs and disappointments and gaffes that befall the hapless Pooter, The Diary of a Nobody has been an laugh-out-loud success for well over a century. As former prime minister Lord Roseberry says in the notes to this Apostrophe Books edition: “I regard any bedroom I occupy as unfurnished without a copy of it.”

Weedon Grossmith's 1892 book presents the details of English suburban life through the anxious and accident-prone character of Charles Pooter. Pooter's diary chronicles his daily routine, which includes small parties, minor embarrassments, home improvements, and his relationship with a troublesome son. The small minded but essentially decent suburban world he inhabits is both hilarious and painfully familiar. This edition features Weedon Grossmith's illustrations and an introduction which discusses the story's social context.

George Grossmith was an English comedian, writer, composer, actor and singer, who is best known for a series of nine characters in the Gilbert and Sullivan operas, as well as the novel,'The Diary of a Nobody', which he wrote in collaboration with his brother, Weedon. Weedon Grossmith had been trained as a painter, but was forced to turn to the stage for financial reasons. The brothers were both successful actors and playwrights, specializing in comic roles.'The Diary of a Nobody'first appeared in the magazine'Punch'in 1888-1889, its popularity prompting the publication of a book that has remained in print since 1892. The'nobody'of the story is Charles Pooter, a self-important, middle aged bank clerk who is oblivious to his own gaffes and the snubs of those he considers inferior. This book's sharp satire of social insecurity and snobbery in the late Victorian era, through the overly serious voice of Pooter, will leave readers in stitches.

`Why should I not publish my diary? I have often seen reminiscences of people I have never even heard of, and I fail to see - because I do not happen to be a `Somebody'- why my diary should not be interesting.'The Diary of a Nobody (1892) created a cultural icon, an English archetype. Anxious, accident-prone, occasionally waspish, Charles Pooter has come to be seen as the epitome of English suburban life. His diary chronicles encounters with difficult tradesmen, the delights of home improvements, small parties, minor embarrassments, and problems with his troublesome son. The suburban world he inhabits is hilariously and painfully familiar in its small-mindedness and its essential decency. Both celebration and critique, The Diary of a Nobody has often been imitated, but never bettered. This edition features Weedon Grossmith's hilarious illustrations and is complemented by an enjoyable introduction discussing the book's social background and suburban fiction as a genre. ABOUT THE SERIES: For over 100 years Oxford World's Classics has made available the widest range of literature from around the globe. Each affordable volume reflects Oxford's commitment to scholarship, providing the most accurate text plus a wealth of other valuable features, including expert introductions by leading authorities, helpful notes to clarify the text, up-to-date bibliographies for further study, and much more.

Robert William Chambers was born on 26th May 1865 in Brooklyn. Chambers was educated at the Brooklyn Polytechnic Institute, and then the Art Students'League. From there he studied in Paris at the École des Beaux-Arts, and at Académie Julian, from 1

Móric Jókay de Ásva was born on the 18th February 1825 in Komárom, then in the Kingdom of Hungary but now part of Slovakia.Due to his timid and delicate constitution he was educated at home until the age of 10 and then sent away to complete his studies at the Calvinist college at Pápa.At 12 his father died, and he was pushed to honour him by replicating his career as a lawyer. He studied hard and completed the curriculum at Kecskemét and Pest. He won his first case as a newly graduated lawyer.But he found a career in law to be dull and, encouraged by the positive reaction to his first play, he moved to Pest in 1845. There he published, first in a newspaper, and then as a novel ‘Hétköznapok'(‘Working Days'). It was acclaimed as a masterpiece. To add to his promise he was appointed as the editor of Életképek, the leading Hungarian journal.In 1848 he married the actress, Róza Laborfalvi. That same year Europe was awash with revolutions and Jókai, a moderate Liberal, enthusiastically supported the nationalist cause and its decision to depose the Habsburg dynasty. The attempt failed.He was now classed as a political suspect and threw himself into his literary career, writing dozens of novels, many of them masterpieces, stories, essays and the like. In total he wrote several hundred volumes, many of them in the local Magyar language which helped arrest its declining relevance in society.By 1867 the political temperature had cooled, and he entered parliament as well as becoming the editor a government journal he had founded. His skills were much admired and helped the government navigate through several difficult matters.His wife died in 1886 but although grief-stricken he continued to work and to write.In 1897 the king appointed him a member of the upper house. Two years later he caused a minor scandal by marrying the young 20-year-old actress, Bella Nagy. At the time he was 74.Mór Jókai died in Budapest on the 5th May 1904. He was 79.

The great author of Vanity Fair and The Luck Of Barry Lyndon was born in India in 1811. At age 5 his father died and his mother sent him back to England. His education was of the best but he himself seemed unable to apply his talents to a rigorous work ethic. However, once he harnessed his talents the works flowed in novels, articles, short stories, sketches and lectures. Sadly, his personal life was rather more difficult. After a few years of marriage his wife began to suffer from depression and over the years became detached from reality. Thackeray himself suffered from ill health later in his life and the one pursuit that kept him moving forward was that of writing. In his life time, he was placed second only to Dickens. High praise indeed.

The great author of Vanity Fair and The Luck Of Barry Lyndon was born in India in 1811. At age 5 his father died and his mother sent him back to England. His education was of the best but he himself seemed unable to apply his talents to a rigorous work ethic. However, once he harnessed his talents the works flowed in novels, articles, short stories, sketches and lectures. Sadly, his personal life was rather more difficult. After a few years of marriage his wife began to suffer from depression and over the years became detached from reality. Thackeray himself suffered from ill health later in his life and the one pursuit that kept him moving forward was that of writing. In his life time, he was placed second only to Dickens. High praise indeed.

Ann Radcliffe was born Ann Ward on 9th July 1764 in Holborn, central London to parents William and Ann. For writer who illuminated her times very little is known of her life. Her father was a haberdasher and the family eventually moved to Bath and lived in well to do gentility. Ann married journalist William Radcliffe, an Oxford graduate, the owner and editor of the English Chronicle, in 1788. The couple's marriage was happy but childless. Radcliffe's career was all consuming. Ann, spending most of her time at home with no children or husband began to develop a literary career to make use of this spare time. It is thought that she would read her writings to him and that he encouraged her to write. Her first novels, The Castles of Athlin and Dunbayne (1789) and A Sicilian Romance (1790) were published anonymously. She achieved a wide fame with her third novel, The Romance of the Forest (1791), a tale of 17th-century France. Her next novel, The Mysteries of Udolpho (1794), turned her into the most popular novelist in England. Such was the interest in her that the famed Christina Georgina Rossetti wished to write a biography of her but abandoned the project as there was scant information to use. However we do have her books, six novels in total of which five number several volumes each. They demonstrate her demonstrate vivid descriptions and strong characterisations of tender heroines. She was a pioneer of the Gothic romance adding suspense and sensibility to give the genre a respectability and widespread popularity that it had never previously enjoyed. Strangely she travelled little, her only journey abroad, to Holland and Germany was made in 1794 after most of her novels had been published. It is said many of her beautiful descriptions come from paintings that others painted of the scenes. There is no explanation for why, at the age of thirty-two, the most popular writer of her times stopped publishing, though there is a vast amount of speculation, many years prior to her death on 7th February, 1823.

'The profoundest book there is, born from the innermost richness of truth, an inexhaustible well into which no bucket descends without coming up with gold and goodness.'Thus Spoke Zarathustra (1885) was Nietzsche's own favourite among all his books and has proved to be his most popular, having sold millions of copies in many different languages. In it he addresses the problem of how to live a fulfilling life in a world without meaning, in the aftermath of'the death of God'. Nietzsche's solution lies in the idea of eternal recurrence which he calls'the highest formula of affirmation that can ever be attained'. A successful engagement with this profoundly Dionysian idea enables us to choose clearly among the myriad possibilities that existence offers, and thereby to affirm every moment of our lives with others on this'sacred'earth. This translation of Zarathustra (the first new English version for over forty years) conveys the musicality of the original German, and for the first time annotates the abundance of allusions to the Bible and other classic texts with which Nietzsche's masterpiece is in conversation. ABOUT THE SERIES: For over 100 years Oxford World's Classics has made available the widest range of literature from around the globe. Each affordable volume reflects Oxford's commitment to scholarship, providing the most accurate text plus a wealth of other valuable features, including expert introductions by leading authorities, helpful notes to clarify the text, up-to-date bibliographies for further study, and much more.

Long humorous story. It begins:'I am Buffalo Bill's horse. I have spent my life under his saddle - with him in it, too, and he is good for two hundred pounds, without his clothes; and there is no telling how much he does weigh when he is out on the war-path and has his batteries belted on. He is over six feet, is young, hasn't an ounce of waste flesh, is straight, graceful, springy in his motions, quick as a cat, and has a handsome face, and black hair dangling down on his shoulders, and is beautiful to look at; and nobody is braver than he is, and nobody is stronger, except myself. Yes, a person that doubts that he is fine to see should see him in his beaded buck-skins, on my back and his rifle peeping above his shoulder, chasing a hostile trail, with me going like the wind and his hair streaming out behind from the shelter of his broad slouch. Yes, he is a sight to look at then - and I'm part of it myself.'

It is to be supposed that children do not read Prefaces; these are Bluebeard's rooms, which they are not curious to unlock. A few words may therefore be said about the Romances contained in this book. In the editor's opinion, romances are only fairy tales grown up. The whole mass of the plot and incident of romance was invented by nobody knows who, nobody knows when, nobody knows where. Almost every people has the Cinderella story, with all sorts of variations: a boy hero in place of a girl heroine, a beast in place of a fairy godmother, and so on. The Zuñis, an agricultural tribe of New Mexico, have a version in which the moral turns out to be against poor Cinderella, who comes to an ill end. The Red Indians have the tale of Orpheus and Eurydice, told in a very touching shape, but without the music. On the other hand, the negroes in the States have the Orpheus tale, adapted to plantation life, in a form which is certainly borrowed from Europeans. This version was sent to me some years ago, by Mr. Barnet Phillips, Brooklyn, New York, and I give it here for its curiosity. If the proper names, Jim Orpus and Dicey, had not been given, we might not feel absolutely certain that the story was borrowed. It is a good example of adaptation from the heroic age of Greece to the servile age of Africans. All the romances are written by Mrs. Lang, except the story of Grettir the Strong, done by Mr. H. S. C. Everard from the saga translated by Mr. William Morris. The Drawing of the Sword The Questing Beast The Sword Excalibur The Story of Sir Balin How the Round Table began The Passing of Merlin How Morgan Le Fay tried to kill King Arthur What Beaumains asked of the King The Quest of the Holy Graal The Fight for the Queen The Fair Maid of Astolat Lancelot and Guenevere The End of it All The Battle of Roncevalles The Pursuit of Diarmid Some Adventures of William Short Nose Wayland the Smith The Story of Robin Hood The Story of Grettir the Strong

YOU may still see the old Scotch house where Randal was born, so long ago. Nobody lives there now. Most of the roof has fallen in, there is no glass in the windows, and all the doors are open. They were open in the days of Randal's father—nearly four hundred years have passed since then—and everyone who came was welcome to his share of beef and broth and ale. But now the doors are not only open, they are quite gone, and there is nobody within to give you a welcome. So there is nothing but emptiness in the old house where Randal lived with Jean, three hundred and sixty years or so before you were born. It is a high old house, and wide, with the broken slates still on the roof. At the corner there are little round towers, like pepperboxes, with sharp peaks. The stems of the ivy that covers the walls are as thick as trees. There are many trees crowding all round, and there are hills round it too; and far below you hear the Tweed whispering all day. The house is called Fairnilee, which means'the Fairies'Field;'for people believed in fairies, as you shall hear, when Randal was a boy, and even when my father was a boy. Randal was all alone in the house when he was a little fellow—alone with his mother, and Nancy the old nurse, and Simon Grieve the butler, who wore a black velvet coat and a big silver chain. Then there were the maids, and the grooms, and the farm folk, who were all friends of Randal's. He was not lonely, and he did not feel unhappy, even before Jean came, as you shall be told. But the grown-up people were sad and silent at Fairnilee. Randal had no father; his mother, Lady Ker, was a widow. She was still quite young, and Randal thought her the most beautiful person in the world. Children think these things about their mothers, and Randal had seen no ladies but his mother only. She had brown hair and brown eyes and red lips, and a grave kind face, which looked serious under her great white widow's cap with the black hood over it.

Richard Horatio Edgar Wallace was born on the 1st April 1875 in Greenwich, London. Leaving school at 12 because of truancy, by the age of fifteen he had experience; selling newspapers, as a worker in a rubber factory, as a shoe shop assistant, as a milk delivery boy and as a ship's cook. By 1894 he was engaged but broke it off to join the Infantry being posted to South Africa. He also changed his name to Edgar Wallace which he took from Lew Wallace, the author of Ben-Hur. In Cape Town in 1898 he met Rudyard Kipling and was inspired to begin writing. His first collection of ballads, The Mission that Failed! was enough of a success that in 1899 he paid his way out of the armed forces in order to turn to writing full time. By 1904 he had completed his first thriller, The Four Just Men. Since nobody would publish it he resorted to setting up his own publishing company which he called Tallis Press. In 1911 his Congolese stories were published in a collection called Sanders of the River, which became a bestseller. He also started his own racing papers, Bibury's and R. E. Walton's Weekly, eventually buying his own racehorses and losing thousands gambling. A life of exceptionally high income was also mirrored with exceptionally large spending and debts. Wallace now began to take his career as a fiction writer more seriously, signing with Hodder and Stoughton in 1921. He was marketed as the ‘King of Thrillers'and they gave him the trademark image of a trilby, a cigarette holder and a yellow Rolls Royce. He was truly prolific, capable not only of producing a 70,000 word novel in three days but of doing three novels in a row in such a manner. It was in, estimating that by 1928 one in four books being read was written by Wallace, for alongside his famous thrillers he wrote variously in other genres, including science fiction, non-fiction accounts of WWI which amounted to ten volumes and screen plays. Eventually he would reach the remarkable total of 170 novels, 18 stage plays and 957 short stories.Wallace became chairman of the Press Club which to this day holds an annual Edgar Wallace Award, rewarding ‘excellence in writing'. Diagnosed with diabetes his health deteriorated and he soon entered a coma and died of his condition and double pneumonia on the 7th of February 1932 in North Maple Drive, Beverly Hills. He was buried near his home in England at Chalklands, Bourne End, in Buckinghamshire.

Excerpt:'I selected a handkerchief, gave a last look at the weather, which was beastly, and went down (very late) to breakfast. As I opened the door there was a sudden hush. Everybody looked eagerly at me. Then Miss Fortescue tittered. Well, you know how one feels when that happens. I put my hand quickly to my tie—it was still there. I squinted down my nose, but there was no smut. To make quite sure I went over to the glass. Then Simpson exploded. Yet nobody spoke. They all sat there watching me, and at last I began to get nervous. I opened my mouth to say'Good-morning,'but before I got it out Miss Blair gave a little shriek of excitement. That upset me altogether. I walked up to the tea-pot, and pouring myself out a cup said, with exaggerated carelessness,'Rotten day, isn't it?''

Excerpt:'“There's some mystery about that girl—I'm certain of it.” “What makes you suspect that?” “Well, first, she's evidently a lady—the daughter of a man who has come down in the world most probably: and secondly—” “Ah! You mean the secret lover—the man who was here yesterday and bought a twenty-guinea evening gown of her to send to his sister—eh?” exclaimed Mr Warner, “buyer” of the costume department of the great drapery house of Cunnington's, in Oxford Street, that huge store which, as everybody knows, competes with Whiteleys and Harrods for the premier place of the middle-class trade in London. “Yes,” laughed Miss Thomas, the rather stout middle-aged woman who was head saleswoman of the department, as she stood in the small, glass-partitioned office of the buyer, a pleasant-faced man of forty-five who was an expert in ladies'costumes, and twice yearly bought his stock personally in Paris and in Berlin. “Yes. She's a really nice girl, but I can't quite make her out, although she's been here for over a year now.” “And the lover?” asked the buyer, with a glance across the long square room where autumn costumes of every description were displayed upon stands, or hanging by the hundred in long rows, while ranged round the walls were many expensive evening-dresses exhibited in glass cases. It was afternoon, and the place was full of customers, the assistants in their neat black holding ready-made skirts to their sides to try the effect, or conducting the prospective purchaser to the fitting-rooms. And yet they were not what Mr Warner termed “busy.” “The man, too, is a mystery, like Miss Rolfe. Nobody knows his name. He comes in sometimes, goes up to her, and asks to be served with a skirt or something, and has it sent to Mr Evans at some chambers in Dover Street. The name is, of course, not the right one,” said the head assistant. “But Miss Rolfe knows it, of course?” “Probably she does.” “And she meets him after business hours?” “I think so. But she keeps herself very much to herself, and is always at home early.” Mr Warner glanced across at the tall, fair-haired, handsome girl, whose figure showed to such advantage in her black satin gown. At that moment she was displaying a cheap tweed skirt to two middle-aged women. Her face, as he caught its profile, was very soft and refined, the contour of her cheeks perfect, and the stray wisp of hair across the brow gave a softness to her countenance that was charming. Many a stage girl whose photograph was displayed in the shop-windows was not half so beautiful as the demure, hard-working shop-assistant, Marion Rolfe.'

Over 100 selections embrace a wide range of themes and motifs: meditations on the meaning of existence, celebrations of life's joys, appreciations of the natural world, and many more. Here are some of the most-loved poems in the English language, chosen not merely for their popularity, but for their literary quality as well. Dating from the Middle Ages to the 20th century, these splendid poems remain evergreen in their capacity to engage our minds and refresh our spirits. This book is intended for teachers and true literature enthusiasts. Contents: Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold The Lamb by William Blake The Sick Rose by William Blake The Tyger by William Blake London by William Blake My Last Duchess by Robert Browning Thanatopsis by William Cullen Bryant A Red, Red Rose by Robert Burns To A Mouse, On Turning Her Up In Her Nest With The Plough by Robert Burns She Walks in Beauty by George Gordon Byron The Destruction of Sennacherib by George Gordon Byron So We'll Go No More a Roving by George Gordon Byron Kubla Khan by Samuel Taylor Coleridge “I'm Nobody! Who Are You?” by Emily Dickinson “This Is My Letter to the World” by Emily Dickinson “I Heard a Fly Buzz When I Died” by Emily Dickinson “Because I Could Not Stop for Death” by Emily Dickinson Jabberwocky by Charles Lutwidge Dodgson The Good Morrow by John Donne Holy Sonnet X by John Donne Holy Sonnet XIV by John Donne Hymn: Sung at the Completion of the Concord Monument by Ralph Waldo Emerson The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard by Thomas Gray Ode on the Death of a Favourite Cat, Drowned in a Tub of Gold Fishes by Thomas Gray The Darkling Thrush by Thomas Hardy Love Bade Me Welcome by George Herbert To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time by Robert Herrick Upon Julia's Clothes by Robert Herrick The Chambered Nautilus by Oliver Wendell Holmes Old Ironsides by Oliver Wendell Holmes Pied Beauty by Gerard Manley Hopkins The Windhover: To Christ Our Lord by Gerard Manley Hopkins To An Athlete Dying Young by Alfred Edward Housman Abou Ben Adhem by James Henry Leigh Hunt Jenny Kissed Me by James Henry Leigh Hunt To Celia by Ben Jonson On My First Son by Ben Jonson On First Looking into Chapman's Homer by John Keats Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats Ode on a Grecian Urn by John Keats La Belle Dame sans Merci by John Keats “When I Have Fears That I May Cease to Be” by John Keats Gunga Din by Rudyard Kipling Recessional by Rudyard Kipling If - by Rudyard Kipling The Village Blacksmith by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow The Children's Hour by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow To Lucasta, Going to the Wars by Richard Lovelace The Passionate Shepherd to His Love by Christopher Marlowe To His Coy Mistress Andrew Marvell Lucifer in Starlight by George Meredith First Fig by Edna St. Vincent Millay Sonnet: 19. On His Blindness by John Milton Sonnet: 23. On His Deceased Wife by John Milton “Adieu, Farewell Earth's Bliss” by Thomas Nashe Anthem for Doomed Youth by Wilfred Owen To Helen by Edgar Allan Poe The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe Annabel Lee by Edgar Allan Poe Richard Cory by Edwin Arlington Robinson Miniver Cheevy by Edwin Arlington Robinson A Birthday by Christina Georgina Rossetti Chicago by Carl Sandburg Fog by Carl Sandburg Sonnet XVIII by William Shakespeare Sonnet LXXIII by William Shakespeare Sonnet XCIV by William Shakespeare Sonnet CXVI by William Shakespeare Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelley Ode to the West Wind by Percy Bysshe Shelley To a Skylark by Percy Bysshe Shelley Requiem by Robert Louis Stevenson “Why So Pale and Wan, Fond Lover?” by John Suckling The Charge of the Light Brigade by Alfred Tennyson Crossing the Bar by Alfred Tennyson The Retreat by Henry Vaughan Song by Edmund Waller I Hear America Singing by Walt Whitman O Captain! My Captain! by Walt Whitman A Noiseless Patient Spider by Walt Whitman Barbara Frietchie by John Greenleaf Whittier Composed upon Westminster Bridge, Sept. 3, 1802 by William Wordsworth “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud” by W

An eccentric professor saves a London Zoo ape from a rocket experiment in this dazzling classic by a trailblazing animal rights activist, introduced by Sarah Hall.'Pitch-perfect.'Ali Smith'So original.'Hilary Mantel'Stunning.'Isabel Waidner'There is nobody quite like her.'A.S. Byatt'Her beastly, risky best.'Eley Williams When my species has destroyed itself, we may need yours to start it all again. In London Zoo, Professor Darrylhyde is singing to the apes again. Outside their cage, he watches the two animals, longing to observe the mating ritual of this rare species. But Percy, inhibited by confinement and melancholy, is repulsing Edwina's desirous advances. Soon, the Professor's connection increases as he talks, croons, befriends - so when a scientist arrives on a secret governmental mission to launch Percy into space, he vows to secure his freedom. But when met by society's indifference, he takes matters into his own hands... A trailblazing animal rights campaigner, Brigid Brophy's sensational 1953 novel is as provocative and philosophical seventy years on. An electric moral fable, it is as much a blazingly satirical reflection on homo sapiens as the non-human - on our capacity for violence, red in tooth and claw, not only to other species, but our own.

The Earl of Saxham was vastly annoyed when his son, Guy, fell in love with a “penniless nobody,” and announced that he would marry her against all opposition. He determined to separate the lovers; to which end he persuaded an influential friend in the Foreign Office to secure an appointment for Guy in the Embassy at Madrid. He little knew that he was sending his son into the centre of a hotbed of anarchism, that Guy's footsteps were to be dogged by a vindictive and revengeful woman, that his life was to hold many a thrilling moment and not a few narrow escapes. Mr Le Queux has written a thrilling story of anarchism and its deadly secret plotting, a story through which there runs, nevertheless, a rich vein of romance.

Excerpt:'Dinner was coming to an end. The Chinaman, soft-footed in his immaculate white, had just finished his circuit of the table, leaving a tiny gold-rimmed coffee-cup at each of the four plates. Into hers Letitia was lowering a lump of sugar, when a thought occurred to her, and she dropped the sugar into the cup with a little splash, and looking across at her vis-ã-vis, said: “Oh, John, I've been going to ask you half a dozen of times, and have always forgotten: did you know that Colonel Ramsay Reed had a daughter?” To see the effect of her question, she stretched forward a plump white hand and tilted to one side one of the pink silk petticoats that veiled the candle-flames. The obstruction removed, she looked with vivacious interest at the person to whom she had addressed her query. He, too, had just dropped his sugar into his coffee, and was stirring it slowly, watching the little maelstrom in the cup. “Colonel Ramsay Reed,” he said, without looking up. “Yes, I think I've heard something about his having a daughter. But why do you ask me? Isn't Maud a much better person? She knows everything about everybody.” He glanced at his sister-in-law, the dark, brown-eyed woman, very splendid in her white-and-yellow dress, who sat at the head of the small table. It was just a family party—Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer Gault, Mrs. Mortimer's sister, Letitia Mason, and Mortimer's brother, John Gault. Mrs. Gault, who seemed to be quite oblivious to the impertinence of her brother-in-law's remark, answered smartly: “I shouldn't be surprised to hear that Colonel Reed had daughters by the dozens. Who knows really anything about those old bonanza men who've lost their bonanzas? They drop out of sight, and nobody ever hears of them again. Colonel Reed was in his glory before I was born.”'

Excerpt:'“Well, she ain't changed an awful lot since I left,” remarks Magpie Simpkins, as he cuddles his long legs up under his chin and tilts his chair against the side of the cabin. “You can't expect no big changes in uh wilderness like this in thirty days,” says I, and he nods emphatic like and spits at uh lizard. “The East looks good, Ike,” he proclaims. “Did the East look good to you or did you look good to the East?” I asks. “Seems to me that you gets uh heap civilized in thirty days. What's the idea uh that hard hat?” “Last word in head-gear, Ike,” he states, picking the yaller, pot-shaped thing off the ground, and patting it affectionate like. “They calls'em Darby hats. Did yuh notice that green and red shirt in my valise? I annexes that in Chicago, Ill., U. S. A., and she sure is uh humdinger. Got uh necktie pin in that valise, too, that only assessed me ten dollars and eighty-five cents, and nobody what never seen uh real diamond could tell the difference.”'

Excerpt:'Star-gazing was never more popular than it is now. In every civilized country many excellent telescopes are owned and used, often to very good purpose, by persons who are not practical astronomers, but who wish to see for themselves the marvels of the sky, and who occasionally stumble upon something that is new even to professional star-gazers. Yet, notwithstanding this activity in the cultivation of astronomical studies, it is probably safe to assert that hardly one person in a hundred knows the chief stars by name, or can even recognize the principal constellations, much less distinguish the planets from the fixed stars. And of course they know nothing of the intellectual pleasure that accompanies a knowledge of the stars. Modern astronomy is so rapidly and wonderfully linking the earth and the sun together, with all the orbs of space, in the bonds of close physical relationship, that a person of education and general intelligence can offer no valid excuse for not knowing where to look for Sirius or Aldebaran, or the Orion nebula, or the planet Jupiter. As Australia and New Zealand and the islands of the sea are made a part of the civilized world through the expanding influence of commerce and cultivation, so the suns and planets around us are, in a certain sense, falling under the dominion of the restless and resistless mind of man. We have come to possess vested intellectual interests in Mars and Saturn, and in the sun and all his multitude of fellows, which nobody can afford to ignore.'

Western novelette by W C Tuttle, published in Adventure magazine. Excerpt:'“Scientific prospectin'has its merits,” announced Ike Harper, as he climbed out of the gopher-hole and sat down beside me on a boulder and filled his pipe, “but fool luck has uncovered more bonanzas than science. “Now, there was ol'Jerry Sullivan's burro went skatin'down th'hill off th'trail one day and slid th'coverin'off th'Silver Cross, which made uh millionaire outa Jerry. Hen Berry accidentally fired his six-shooter into th'ground oncet and uncovered one of th'richest gold veins in th'State. Yuh can talk science till yer tongue hangs out, but if yuh ain't lucky yuh never hit it rich. Do yuh happen to know uh elongated person named Magpie Simpkins?” I replied that I had never had that pleasure. “Pleasure!” he snorted. “No, I reckon nobody ever did. Let me tell yuh why. “Magpie was uh scientific prospector. He could take uh piece uh rock and tell yuh jist what it contained and why it contained said constituents. Mineralogy was an open book to that jasper, and because of it he never made uh strike. “But he didn't merely go in fer prospectin'. That person was loco on anything except work. I reckon he had tried nearly everything. First he went in fer hypnotism. Not havin'uh likely subject, he tried it on uh wildcat. I reckon he forgot to tell th'cat what it meant. He got loose from th'cat and th'hypnotism thing at th'same time.''

A novel of duty and destiny from the pioneering fantasy author, the “inventor of a new mythology and weaver of surprising folklore” (H. P. Lovecraft). In Spain, Gonsalvo, the Lord of the Tower, is in a bind. His daughter is nearing her fifteenth year and should marry soon, yet she has no dowry. To cure the ills of his impoverished family, Gonsalvo turns to his son, Ramon Alonzo. He tells Ramon Alonzo the story of his grandfather, who is owed a favor by a magician. Now that the family is in dire need of money, Gonsalvo sends Ramon Alonzo to the forests beyond Aragona to meet the sorcerer and learn the secrets of the Black Art, in particular, the act of transmuting base metals into gold. Ramon Alonzo does as he is told. But he is warned by the magician's charwoman that the wizard's fees are too high to pay. After gifting her with immortality, the magician took her shadow, making her an outcast among the villagers. Heeding her words yet unwilling to give up on his mission, Ramon Alonzo will have to decide just what he is willing to sacrifice—for money, for his family, and for love... “Dunsany's best stories remain unique: nobody else has ever been able to capture his visions.” —Ursula K. Le Guin, Los Angeles Times Book Review “Perhaps the strongest single influence in the development of fantasy fiction in the present century.” —L. Sprague de Camp “Lord Dunsany is the great grandfather of us all.” —Jane Yolen, winner of the National Book Award, Nebula Award, and World Fantasy Award

Excerpt:'“There's Frank Merriwell and his set,” said Tilton Hull, with an effort to appear contemptuous. “A nice lot of chumps they are!” exclaimed Julian Ives, speaking loudly, as if he wished to be heard by the little group of laughing students that was passing down the walk in front of Battell, one of the halls at Yale. “Don't nothithe them,” lisped Lew Veazie, turning his back on the passing group. “They are verwy cheap.” “Be generous, be generous!” said Rupert Chickering, with clasped hands. “We should pity them, instead of speaking of them with scorn. They can't help being what they are.” “Your campaign against Merriwell does not seem to thrive?” said Hull, addressing Gene Skelding, who was leaning against the fence and scowling blackly at the passing students. “I'm waiting,” muttered Gene. “I'll get him yet.” “There are others who are waiting,” said Ives impatiently. “That fellow Badger must have given up his ambition to down Merriwell.” “Don't mention him!” cried Ollie Lord, standing on his tiptoes in an attempt to look tall and imposing, although he was barely five feet in height. “He insulted me! I felt like killing him on the spot!” “You mutht westwain your angwy pathions, deah boy,” simpered Lew. “You thould not allow yourthelf to become dangerous.” The idea of Ollie becoming very dangerous was extremely ludicrous, but nobody in the group cracked a smile. The Chickering crowd took themselves seriously. “Badger,” said Ives, “is a bluff. But I did think that Bertrand Defarge might take some of the wind out of Merriwell's sails.” “Defarge got it in the neck,” muttered Skelding, “and he's as quiet as a sick kitten now.” “They say Merriwell played with him after the fashion of a cat playing with a mouse,” spoke Ives, gently caressing his bang, which fell in a roll over his forehead quite to his eyebrows. The trouble with the Frenchman was that he thought Merriwell knew nothing at all about fencing,” declared Skelding. “Is there anything in the world that Merriwell knows nothing at all about?” exclaimed Tilton Hull, looking over the top of his wonderfully high collar despairingly. “Sure thing,” nodded Skelding, scowling. “His weak point will be found some time, and then he'll go down with a crash. Every man has a weakness, you know.” “I take extheptionth!” cried Lew Veazie, with great vigor. “I weally defy anybody to dithcover my weak point.”'

Boyhood (1854) is a novel by Leo Tolstoy. Published at the beginning of his career as a leading Russian author of his generation, Boyhood is the second in a trilogy of semi-autobiographical novels tracing Nikolenka's journey from innocence to experience. As a record of the past, a nostalgic reminder of a lost world, Boyhood is one of Tolstoy's most personal works, and yet his prose shows signs of the universal religious and philosophical themes that would inspire such masterpieces as War and Peace (1869) and Anna Karenina (1877). A story of life and death, love and grief, Boyhood is an invaluable treasure of Russian literature. “No longer were my eyes confronted with the closed door of Mamma's room (which I had never been able to pass without a pang), nor with the covered piano (which nobody opened now, and at which I could never look without trembling), nor with mourning dresses (we had each of us on our ordinary travelling clothes), nor with all those other objects which recalled to me so vividly our irreparable loss, and forced me to abstain from any manifestation of merriment lest I should unwittingly offend against her memory.” Following the death of his beloved mother, Nikolenka is forced to adjust to a world grown unbearably cold. As though the grief were not enough, he must also overcome his own feelings of loneliness and uncertainty, as well as his hatred of his new French tutor. As his story unfolds, we see him experience love, grief, and anger for the first time in his life, returning us for a brief moment to our own childhoods, the bittersweet memories of good and bad things that can never return. Praised for its expressionistic style and meditative prose, Boyhood won Tolstoy the attention of Russia's literary elite, launching his career as one of the nineteenth century's most influential artists. This edition of Leo Tolstoy's Boyhood is a classic work of Russian literature reimagined for modern readers. Since our inception in 2020, Mint Editions has kept sustainability and innovation at the forefront of our mission. Each and every Mint Edition title gets a fresh, professionally typeset manuscript and a dazzling new cover, all while maintaining the integrity of the original book. With thousands of titles in our collection, we aim to spotlight diverse public domain works to help them find modern audiences. Mint Editions celebrates a breadth of literary works, curated from both canonical and overlooked classics from writers around the globe.

To most, Sir Percy Blakeney is but a wealthy fop, idling away his days and spending his fortune on whatever takes his fancy. But what nobody but his most trusted allies know is that he is, in fact, the Scarlet Pimpernel! A dashing hero well-versed in both swordplay and daring escapes, Blakeney dedicates himself to saving aristocrats before they meet an untimely demise at the hands of the guillotine, before vanishing without a trace - save for a single flower left in his wake.

The renowned British crime writer's classic locked-room Golden Age mystery that introduced amateur sleuth Roger Sheringham. A party at Layton Court, the country house of Victor Stanworth, is disrupted when the host is found shot through the forehead in his own library, a suicide as far as the police are concerned. After all, the gun is found in his hand, a note has been left, and the room is locked from the inside. But one of the guests, author Roger Sheringham, has his doubts. The bullet wound is not positioned where it could have been easily self-inflicted. With a house full of partygoers and servants, suspects abound. It will take Sheringham's sharp wit and fearless investigating to deduce who brought the festivities to a fatal end. The founder of the Detection Club in London, along with Agatha Christie and other writers, Anthony Berkeley wrote numerous novels, sometimes using the pseudonyms Francis Iles and A. Monmouth Platts. The Layton Court Mystery is his first book in the Roger Sheringham Cases, which includes The Poisoned Chocolates Case and The Silk Stocking Murders, among other titles. “Certainly, Berkeley's short and fascinating career deserves to be saluted. For fans of the classic English crime novel, his books remain enjoyable to this day. Nobody has ever done ironic ingenuity better than Anthony Berkeley.” —Mystery Scene “He was one of the most influential crime novelists of the 1920s and 1930s, but has languished somewhat in obscurity since. A troubled, dark, incredibly innovative writer...” —Shedunnit

Excerpt:'Nobody had heard the report of a pistol. There had been no disturbance; in fact, no audible altercation, no startling cry for help, or even a groan of sudden, terrible distress. The man lay there as motionless, nevertheless, as if felled by a thunderbolt. His life had been snuffed out like the flame of a candle by the fury of a whirlwind. Death had come upon him like a bolt from the blue. By slow degrees his face underwent a change—but it was not the change that ordinarily follows sudden death, that peaceful calm that marks the end of earthly toil and trouble. Instead, the smoothly shaven skin seemed to shrink and wither slightly over the dead nerves and lifeless muscles, and a singular slaty hue that was hardly perceptible settled around his lips and nostrils, partly dispelling the first deathly pallor. It was as if the blast from a furnace, or the searing touch of a fiery hand, had withered and parched it. He was a comparatively young man, not over thirty, and he was fashionably clad in a plaid business suit. He was lying flat on his back on the floor of the second-story corridor of a building known as the Waldmere Chambers, in the city of Madison.'

'The young man came to his senses right at the foot of the door. He told the coachman to wait for him, and walked briskly the length of the corridor, climbing the stairs. The light was bleak, the stairsteps were worn out from all the feet that had trod them, the handrail was sticky; but he, in his turn, did not see nor feel anything. He blundered up the stairs and knocked. Once nobody appeared, he considered turning back. It was too late: his blood boiled with curiosity, his temples throbed; he hit the door again with one, two, three knocks. A woman emerged; it was the fortune-teller.'Joaquim Maria Machado de Assis was born on June 21, 1839. His father was Brazilian, and his mother, Portuguese. Machado attended a public school. He was a typographer and a proofreader, and in 1869, married Carolina Xavier de Novais. He made a name for himself in the public service, and in 1897 was elected as President of the Brazilian Academy of Letters. His works embrace almost all literary genres as he was a journalist, a novel and short-story writer, a poet and a playwright. He died at home in 1908 at the age of 69. Satire, social criticism, family customs, a deep view of the soul of man are some of the elements constituting his works. Machado de Assis is regarded as one of the greatest writers in the world among literary critics.

Once banned in several countries, this classic novel about a torrid love affair touches on themes of class, romance, and industrialization. Lyric and sensual, D. H. Lawrence's last novel is one of the major works of fiction of the twentieth century. Filled with scenes of intimate beauty that explore the emotions of a lonely woman trapped in a sterile marriage and her growing love for the robust gamekeeper of her husband's estate. The most controversial of Lawrence's books, Lady Chatterley's Lover joyously affirms the author's vision of individual regeneration through sexual love. The book's power, complexity, and psychological intricacy make this a completely original work-a triumph of passion, an erotic celebration of life. “Nobody concerned with the novel in our century can afford not to read it.”—Lawrence Durrell, author of the Alexandria Quartet “The greatest imaginative novelist of our generation.”—E.M. Forster, author of Howards End

A nice little love story with a couple of twists I didn't see coming. Leerie is the nickname of Sheila O'Leary, a young nurse at a sanitarium. Peter ends up there when he falls into severe depression and nobody can figure out the reason. Leerie correctly diagnoses the problem and helps him overcome it and you would think that would be the story, but that is only the skeleton. Leerie's career as a nurse brings her into some interesting and dangerous situations that threaten her relationship with Peter. (Goodreads)

Synopsis: The fierce heat of the mid-day hours was waning, and the leaves stirred in the first faint breath of the evening breeze stealing over the Roman Campagna from the sea that lay like a golden streak along the western horizon. It was the month of the sollione--of the midsummer sun'rejoicing as a giant to run his course.'From twelve o'clock till four the little town of Montefiano, nestling among the lower spurs of the Sabine Hills, had been as a place from which all life had fled. Not a human creature had been visible in the steep, tufa-paved street leading up to the square palace that looked grimly down on the little township clustering beneath it--not even a dog; only some chickens dusting themselves, and a strayed pig. The cicale, hidden among the branches of a group of venerable Spanish chestnuts on the piazza in front of the church, had never ceased their monotonous rattle; otherwise silence had reigned at Montefiano since the church bells had rung out mezzogiorno—that silence which falls on all nature in Italy during the hours when the sollione blazes in the heavens and breeds life on the earth. But now, with the first coming of the evening breeze, casements were thrown open, green shutters which had been hermetically closed since morning were flung back and Montefiano awoke for the second time in the twenty-four hours. A side door of the church opened, and Don Agostino, the parish priest, emerged from it, carrying his breviary in one hand and an umbrella tucked under the other arm. Crossing the little square hurriedly, for the western sun still beat fiercely upon the flag-stones, he sought the shade of the chestnut-trees, under which he began pacing slowly backwards and forwards, saying his office the while. A tall, handsome man, Don Agostino was scarcely the type of priest usually to be met with in hill villages such as Montefiano. His black silk soutane was scrupulously clean and tidy; and its button-holes stitched with red, as well as the little patch of violet silk at his throat, proclaimed him to be a monsignore. Nobody at Montefiano called him so, however. To his parishioners he was simply Don Agostino; and, in a district in which priests were none too well looked upon, there was not a man, woman, or child who had not a good word to say for him.

Excerpt:'Some say scientists should keep their noses out of politics. Benson says it's to prevent damage to their olfactory senses. Benson's a physicist. I've known Allan Benson for a long time. In fact I've bodyguarded him for years and think I understand him better than he does himself. And when he shook security at White Sands, my boss didn't hesitate to tell me that knowing Benson as I do I certainly shouldn't have let him skip off. Or crisp words to that effect. The pressure was on. Benson was seeking a new fuel—or a way of compressing a known fuel—to carry a torchship to Mars. His loss could mean a delay of decades. We knew he'd been close, but not how close. My nickname's Monk. I've fought it, certainly, but what can you do when a well-wishing mother names you after a wealthy uncle and your birth certificate says Neander Thalberg? As early as high school some bright pundit noted the name's similarity to that of a certain prehistoric man. Unfortunately the similarity is not in name alone: I'm muscular, stooped, and, I must admit, not handsome hero model material. Well, maybe the nickname's justified, but still, Al Benson didn't have to give the crowning insult. And yet, if he hadn't, there probably wouldn't be a torchship stern-ending on Mars just about now. C. I. (Central Intelligence, that is) at the Sands figured Benson would head for New York. Which is why the boss sent me here. I registered in a hotel in the 50's and, figuring that whatever Benson intended to do would have spectacular results, I kept the stereo on News. Benson's wife hadn't yielded much info. Sure she described the clothes he was wearing and said he'd taken nothing else except an artist's case. What was in that was anybody's guess; his private lab is such a jumble nobody could tell what, if anything, was missing. C. I. knew his political feelings. Seems he'd been talking wild about the upcoming presidential election and had sworn he'd nip the draft-Cadigan movement in the bud. Cadigan's Mayor of New York City. He's anti-space. In fact, Cadigan's anti just about everything in science except intercontinental missiles. Strictly for defense, of course. Cadigan says.'

One of the most striking American lyric poet, Emily Dickinson came to be known only after she passed away.This collectable edition brings together her finest poems including ‘ Heart! We will forget him!'(47), ‘ Success is counted sweetest'(67), ‘ “ Hope” is the thing with feathers'(254), ‘ I'm Nobody! Who are you?'(288), ‘ The Soul selects her own Society'(303), ‘ I measure every Grief I meet'(561), ‘ Because I could not stop for Death'(712), ‘ My Life had stood — a Loaded Gun'(754), and ‘ Rearrange a “ Wife's” affection!'(1737).Dickinson did not give titles to her poems. They are known either by the first line of the poem or the numbers allotted to them in the Thomas H. Johnson's edition, The Poems of Emily Dickinson. We have used the numbers to identify the poems. A specimen of her exquisite craftsmanship, each poem gives an insight into Dickinson's life and the emotions she experienced.'

Richard Horatio Edgar Wallace was born on the 1st April 1875 in Greenwich, London. Leaving school at 12 because of truancy, by the age of fifteen he had experience; selling newspapers, as a worker in a rubber factory, as a shoe shop assistant, as a milk delivery boy and as a ship's cook.By 1894 he was engaged but broke it off to join the Infantry being posted to South Africa. He also changed his name to Edgar Wallace which he took from Lew Wallace, the author of Ben-Hur.In Cape Town in 1898 he met Rudyard Kipling and was inspired to begin writing. His first collection of ballads, The Mission that Failed! was enough of a success that in 1899 he paid his way out of the armed forces in order to turn to writing full time.By 1904 he had completed his first thriller, The Four Just Men. Since nobody would publish it he resorted to setting up his own publishing company which he called Tallis Press.In 1911 his Congolese stories were published in a collection called Sanders of the River, which became a bestseller. He also started his own racing papers, Bibury's and R. E. Walton's Weekly, eventually buying his own racehorses and losing thousands gambling. A life of exceptionally high income was also mirrored with exceptionally large spending and debts.Wallace now began to take his career as a fiction writer more seriously, signing with Hodder and Stoughton in 1921. He was marketed as the ‘King of Thrillers'and they gave him the trademark image of a trilby, a cigarette holder and a yellow Rolls Royce. He was truly prolific, capable not only of producing a 70,000 word novel in three days but of doing three novels in a row in such a manner. It was estimated that by 1928 one in four books being read was written by Wallace, for alongside his famous thrillers he wrote variously in other genres, including science fiction, non-fiction accounts of WWI which amounted to ten volumes and screen plays. Eventually he would reach the remarkable total of 170 novels, 18 stage plays and 957 short stories.Wallace became chairman of the Press Club which to this day holds an annual Edgar Wallace Award, rewarding ‘excellence in writing'. Diagnosed with diabetes his health deteriorated and he soon entered a coma and died of his condition and double pneumonia on the 7th of February 1932 in North Maple Drive, Beverly Hills. He was buried near his home in England at Chalklands, Bourne End, in Buckinghamshire.

Richard Horatio Edgar Wallace was born on the 1st April 1875 in Greenwich, London. Leaving school at 12 because of truancy, by the age of fifteen he had experience; selling newspapers, as a worker in a rubber factory, as a shoe shop assistant, as a milk delivery boy and as a ship's cook.By 1894 he was engaged but broke it off to join the Infantry being posted to South Africa. He also changed his name to Edgar Wallace which he took from Lew Wallace, the author of Ben-Hur.In Cape Town in 1898 he met Rudyard Kipling and was inspired to begin writing. His first collection of ballads, The Mission that Failed! was enough of a success that in 1899 he paid his way out of the armed forces in order to turn to writing full time.By 1904 he had completed his first thriller, The Four Just Men. Since nobody would publish it he resorted to setting up his own publishing company which he called Tallis Press.In 1911 his Congolese stories were published in a collection called Sanders of the River, which became a bestseller. He also started his own racing papers, Bibury's and R. E. Walton's Weekly, eventually buying his own racehorses and losing thousands gambling. A life of exceptionally high income was also mirrored with exceptionally large spending and debts.Wallace now began to take his career as a fiction writer more seriously, signing with Hodder and Stoughton in 1921. He was marketed as the ‘King of Thrillers'and they gave him the trademark image of a trilby, a cigarette holder and a yellow Rolls Royce. He was truly prolific, capable not only of producing a 70,000 word novel in three days but of doing three novels in a row in such a manner. It was estimated that by 1928 one in four books being read was written by Wallace, for alongside his famous thrillers he wrote variously in other genres, including science fiction, non-fiction accounts of WWI which amounted to ten volumes and screen plays. Eventually he would reach the remarkable total of 170 novels, 18 stage plays and 957 short stories.Wallace became chairman of the Press Club which to this day holds an annual Edgar Wallace Award, rewarding ‘excellence in writing'. Diagnosed with diabetes his health deteriorated and he soon entered a coma and died of his condition and double pneumonia on the 7th of February 1932 in North Maple Drive, Beverly Hills. He was buried near his home in England at Chalklands, Bourne End, in Buckinghamshire.

Richard Horatio Edgar Wallace was born on the 1st April 1875 in Greenwich, London. Leaving school at 12 because of truancy, by the age of fifteen he had experience; selling newspapers, as a worker in a rubber factory, as a shoe shop assistant, as a milk delivery boy and as a ship's cook.By 1894 he was engaged but broke it off to join the Infantry being posted to South Africa. He also changed his name to Edgar Wallace which he took from Lew Wallace, the author of Ben-Hur.In Cape Town in 1898 he met Rudyard Kipling and was inspired to begin writing. His first collection of ballads, The Mission that Failed! was enough of a success that in 1899 he paid his way out of the armed forces in order to turn to writing full time.By 1904 he had completed his first thriller, The Four Just Men. Since nobody would publish it he resorted to setting up his own publishing company which he called Tallis Press.In 1911 his Congolese stories were published in a collection called Sanders of the River, which became a bestseller. He also started his own racing papers, Bibury's and R. E. Walton's Weekly, eventually buying his own racehorses and losing thousands gambling. A life of exceptionally high income was also mirrored with exceptionally large spending and debts.Wallace now began to take his career as a fiction writer more seriously, signing with Hodder and Stoughton in 1921. He was marketed as the ‘King of Thrillers'and they gave him the trademark image of a trilby, a cigarette holder and a yellow Rolls Royce. He was truly prolific, capable not only of producing a 70,000 word novel in three days but of doing three novels in a row in such a manner. It was estimated that by 1928 one in four books being read was written by Wallace, for alongside his famous thrillers he wrote variously in other genres, including science fiction, non-fiction accounts of WWI which amounted to ten volumes and screen plays. Eventually he would reach the remarkable total of 170 novels, 18 stage plays and 957 short stories.Wallace became chairman of the Press Club which to this day holds an annual Edgar Wallace Award, rewarding ‘excellence in writing'. Diagnosed with diabetes his health deteriorated and he soon entered a coma and died of his condition and double pneumonia on the 7th of February 1932 in North Maple Drive, Beverly Hills. He was buried near his home in England at Chalklands, Bourne End, in Buckinghamshire.

Richard Horatio Edgar Wallace was born on the 1st April 1875 in Greenwich, London. Leaving school at 12 because of truancy, by the age of fifteen he had experience; selling newspapers, as a worker in a rubber factory, as a shoe shop assistant, as a milk delivery boy and as a ship's cook.By 1894 he was engaged but broke it off to join the Infantry being posted to South Africa. He also changed his name to Edgar Wallace which he took from Lew Wallace, the author of Ben-Hur.In Cape Town in 1898 he met Rudyard Kipling and was inspired to begin writing. His first collection of ballads, The Mission that Failed! was enough of a success that in 1899 he paid his way out of the armed forces in order to turn to writing full time.By 1904 he had completed his first thriller, The Four Just Men. Since nobody would publish it he resorted to setting up his own publishing company which he called Tallis Press.In 1911 his Congolese stories were published in a collection called Sanders of the River, which became a bestseller. He also started his own racing papers, Bibury's and R. E. Walton's Weekly, eventually buying his own racehorses and losing thousands gambling. A life of exceptionally high income was also mirrored with exceptionally large spending and debts.Wallace now began to take his career as a fiction writer more seriously, signing with Hodder and Stoughton in 1921. He was marketed as the ‘King of Thrillers'and they gave him the trademark image of a trilby, a cigarette holder and a yellow Rolls Royce. He was truly prolific, capable not only of producing a 70,000 word novel in three days but of doing three novels in a row in such a manner. It was estimated that by 1928 one in four books being read was written by Wallace, for alongside his famous thrillers he wrote variously in other genres, including science fiction, non-fiction accounts of WWI which amounted to ten volumes and screen plays. Eventually he would reach the remarkable total of 170 novels, 18 stage plays and 957 short stories.Wallace became chairman of the Press Club which to this day holds an annual Edgar Wallace Award, rewarding ‘excellence in writing'. Diagnosed with diabetes his health deteriorated and he soon entered a coma and died of his condition and double pneumonia on the 7th of February 1932 in North Maple Drive, Beverly Hills. He was buried near his home in England at Chalklands, Bourne End, in Buckinghamshire.

Richard Horatio Edgar Wallace was born on the 1st April 1875 in Greenwich, London. Leaving school at 12 because of truancy, by the age of fifteen he had experience; selling newspapers, as a worker in a rubber factory, as a shoe shop assistant, as a milk delivery boy and as a ship's cook.By 1894 he was engaged but broke it off to join the Infantry being posted to South Africa. He also changed his name to Edgar Wallace which he took from Lew Wallace, the author of Ben-Hur.In Cape Town in 1898 he met Rudyard Kipling and was inspired to begin writing. His first collection of ballads, The Mission that Failed! was enough of a success that in 1899 he paid his way out of the armed forces in order to turn to writing full time.By 1904 he had completed his first thriller, The Four Just Men. Since nobody would publish it he resorted to setting up his own publishing company which he called Tallis Press.In 1911 his Congolese stories were published in a collection called Sanders of the River, which became a bestseller. He also started his own racing papers, Bibury's and R. E. Walton's Weekly, eventually buying his own racehorses and losing thousands gambling. A life of exceptionally high income was also mirrored with exceptionally large spending and debts.Wallace now began to take his career as a fiction writer more seriously, signing with Hodder and Stoughton in 1921. He was marketed as the ‘King of Thrillers'and they gave him the trademark image of a trilby, a cigarette holder and a yellow Rolls Royce. He was truly prolific, capable not only of producing a 70,000 word novel in three days but of doing three novels in a row in such a manner. It was estimated that by 1928 one in four books being read was written by Wallace, for alongside his famous thrillers he wrote variously in other genres, including science fiction, non-fiction accounts of WWI which amounted to ten volumes and screen plays. Eventually he would reach the remarkable total of 170 novels, 18 stage plays and 957 short stories.Wallace became chairman of the Press Club which to this day holds an annual Edgar Wallace Award, rewarding ‘excellence in writing'. Diagnosed with diabetes his health deteriorated and he soon entered a coma and died of his condition and double pneumonia on the 7th of February 1932 in North Maple Drive, Beverly Hills. He was buried near his home in England at Chalklands, Bourne End, in Buckinghamshire.

Richard Horatio Edgar Wallace was born on the 1st April 1875 in Greenwich, London. Leaving school at 12 because of truancy, by the age of fifteen he had experience; selling newspapers, as a worker in a rubber factory, as a shoe shop assistant, as a milk delivery boy and as a ship's cook.By 1894 he was engaged but broke it off to join the Infantry being posted to South Africa. He also changed his name to Edgar Wallace which he took from Lew Wallace, the author of Ben-Hur.In Cape Town in 1898 he met Rudyard Kipling and was inspired to begin writing. His first collection of ballads, The Mission that Failed! was enough of a success that in 1899 he paid his way out of the armed forces in order to turn to writing full time.By 1904 he had completed his first thriller, The Four Just Men. Since nobody would publish it he resorted to setting up his own publishing company which he called Tallis Press.In 1911 his Congolese stories were published in a collection called Sanders of the River, which became a bestseller. He also started his own racing papers, Bibury's and R. E. Walton's Weekly, eventually buying his own racehorses and losing thousands gambling. A life of exceptionally high income was also mirrored with exceptionally large spending and debts.Wallace now began to take his career as a fiction writer more seriously, signing with Hodder and Stoughton in 1921. He was marketed as the ‘King of Thrillers'and they gave him the trademark image of a trilby, a cigarette holder and a yellow Rolls Royce. He was truly prolific, capable not only of producing a 70,000 word novel in three days but of doing three novels in a row in such a manner. It was estimated that by 1928 one in four books being read was written by Wallace, for alongside his famous thrillers he wrote variously in other genres, including science fiction, non-fiction accounts of WWI which amounted to ten volumes and screen plays. Eventually he would reach the remarkable total of 170 novels, 18 stage plays and 957 short stories.Wallace became chairman of the Press Club which to this day holds an annual Edgar Wallace Award, rewarding ‘excellence in writing'. Diagnosed with diabetes his health deteriorated and he soon entered a coma and died of his condition and double pneumonia on the 7th of February 1932 in North Maple Drive, Beverly Hills. He was buried near his home in England at Chalklands, Bourne End, in Buckinghamshire.

Richard Horatio Edgar Wallace was born on the 1st April 1875 in Greenwich, London. Leaving school at 12 because of truancy, by the age of fifteen he had experience; selling newspapers, as a worker in a rubber factory, as a shoe shop assistant, as a milk delivery boy and as a ship's cook.By 1894 he was engaged but broke it off to join the Infantry being posted to South Africa. He also changed his name to Edgar Wallace which he took from Lew Wallace, the author of Ben-Hur.In Cape Town in 1898 he met Rudyard Kipling and was inspired to begin writing. His first collection of ballads, The Mission that Failed! was enough of a success that in 1899 he paid his way out of the armed forces in order to turn to writing full time.By 1904 he had completed his first thriller, The Four Just Men. Since nobody would publish it he resorted to setting up his own publishing company which he called Tallis Press.In 1911 his Congolese stories were published in a collection called Sanders of the River, which became a bestseller. He also started his own racing papers, Bibury's and R. E. Walton's Weekly, eventually buying his own racehorses and losing thousands gambling. A life of exceptionally high income was also mirrored with exceptionally large spending and debts.Wallace now began to take his career as a fiction writer more seriously, signing with Hodder and Stoughton in 1921. He was marketed as the ‘King of Thrillers'and they gave him the trademark image of a trilby, a cigarette holder and a yellow Rolls Royce. He was truly prolific, capable not only of producing a 70,000 word novel in three days but of doing three novels in a row in such a manner. It was estimated that by 1928 one in four books being read was written by Wallace, for alongside his famous thrillers he wrote variously in other genres, including science fiction, non-fiction accounts of WWI which amounted to ten volumes and screen plays. Eventually he would reach the remarkable total of 170 novels, 18 stage plays and 957 short stories.Wallace became chairman of the Press Club which to this day holds an annual Edgar Wallace Award, rewarding ‘excellence in writing'. Diagnosed with diabetes his health deteriorated and he soon entered a coma and died of his condition and double pneumonia on the 7th of February 1932 in North Maple Drive, Beverly Hills. He was buried near his home in England at Chalklands, Bourne End, in Buckinghamshire.

Richard Horatio Edgar Wallace was born on the 1st April 1875 in Greenwich, London. Leaving school at 12 because of truancy, by the age of fifteen he had experience; selling newspapers, as a worker in a rubber factory, as a shoe shop assistant, as a milk delivery boy and as a ship's cook.By 1894 he was engaged but broke it off to join the Infantry being posted to South Africa. He also changed his name to Edgar Wallace which he took from Lew Wallace, the author of Ben-Hur.In Cape Town in 1898 he met Rudyard Kipling and was inspired to begin writing. His first collection of ballads, The Mission that Failed! was enough of a success that in 1899 he paid his way out of the armed forces in order to turn to writing full time.By 1904 he had completed his first thriller, The Four Just Men. Since nobody would publish it he resorted to setting up his own publishing company which he called Tallis Press.In 1911 his Congolese stories were published in a collection called Sanders of the River, which became a bestseller. He also started his own racing papers, Bibury's and R. E. Walton's Weekly, eventually buying his own racehorses and losing thousands gambling. A life of exceptionally high income was also mirrored with exceptionally large spending and debts.Wallace now began to take his career as a fiction writer more seriously, signing with Hodder and Stoughton in 1921. He was marketed as the ‘King of Thrillers'and they gave him the trademark image of a trilby, a cigarette holder and a yellow Rolls Royce. He was truly prolific, capable not only of producing a 70,000 word novel in three days but of doing three novels in a row in such a manner. It was estimated that by 1928 one in four books being read was written by Wallace, for alongside his famous thrillers he wrote variously in other genres, including science fiction, non-fiction accounts of WWI which amounted to ten volumes and screen plays. Eventually he would reach the remarkable total of 170 novels, 18 stage plays and 957 short stories.Wallace became chairman of the Press Club which to this day holds an annual Edgar Wallace Award, rewarding ‘excellence in writing'. Diagnosed with diabetes his health deteriorated and he soon entered a coma and died of his condition and double pneumonia on the 7th of February 1932 in North Maple Drive, Beverly Hills. He was buried near his home in England at Chalklands, Bourne End, in Buckinghamshire.