Read The Life and Stories of O. Henry online
American novelist O. Henry (real name and surname William Sidney Porter) Born September 11, 1862 in Greensboro, North Carolina. He is the author of over two hundred and eighty stories, sketches, humoresques. William Porter's life has been bleak since childhood. At the age of three, he lost his mother, and his father, a provincial doctor, became a widower, began to drink and soon turned into a useless alcoholic.
After leaving school, fifteen-year-old Billy Porter stood behind the pharmacy counter. Working surrounded by cough medicine and flea powders had a detrimental effect on his already failing health.
In 1882, Billy went to Texas, lived on a ranch for two years, and then settled in Austin, served in the land office, a cashier and a bank accountant. Nothing good came of his banking career. Porter was accused of embezzling $1,150, a very serious sum at the time. The biographers of the writer still argue whether he was really guilty. On the one hand, he needed money for the treatment of his sick wife (and for the publication of "Rolling Stone"), on the other hand, the teller Porter quit the bank in December 1894, while the embezzlement was only discovered in 1895, and the bank's owners were on unclean hand. A criminal case was opened against Porter, and in February 1896 he fled in a panic to New Orleans, and from there to Honduras. In this country, fate brought Porter together with a pleasant gentleman - a professional bandit-robber Ell Jennings.
Much later, Jennings, putting down his revolver, took up a pen and wrote a memoir in which he recalled interesting episodes Latin American Adventures. Friends took part in the local Honduran coup, then fled to Mexico, where Jennings saved the future writer from certain death. Porter carelessly courted some married woman; the husband, who was somewhere nearby, a macho Mexican, took out a knife with a two-foot-long blade and wanted to defend his honor. The situation was settled by Jennings - he shot the jealous man in the head with a shot from the hip, after which he and William mounted horses, and the conflict was left behind.
In Mexico, Porter received a telegram announcing that his beloved wife, Atoll Estes, was dying. During the absence of her husband, she had no means of subsistence, she was starving, and when she fell ill, she could not buy medicine, but on the eve of Christmas she sold a lace cape for twenty-five dollars and sent a gift to Bill in Mexico City - a gold watch chain. Unfortunately, that's when Porter sold his watch to buy a train ticket. He managed to see and say goodbye to his wife. She died a few days later. Police agents with a plaintive bandage silently walked behind the coffin. Immediately after the funeral, they arrested the embezzler cashier, who did not say a single word in court and received five years in prison.
Porter spent three years and three months in exile. Released early (for exemplary behavior and Good work in the prison pharmacy) in the summer of 1901. He never remembered his prison years. The memories of Ella Jennings helped, that, ironically, he again found himself side by side with the writer in the penitentiary prison of Columbus, Ohio.
Sitting with Porter and Jennings was Wild Price, a twenty-year-old safecracker (safecracker). He did a good deed - he saved the little daughter of a wealthy businessman from a safe that suddenly closed. Cutting off his nails with a knife, Price opened the top-secret lock in twelve seconds. He was promised pardon, but deceived. According to this plot, Porter compiled his first story - about the cracker Jimmy Valentine, who rescued his fiancee's niece from a fireproof cabinet. The story, unlike the story of Dick Price, had a happy ending.
Before sending the story to the newspaper, Porter read it to the inmates. Elle Jennings recalled: “From the minute Porter began to read in his low, velvety, slightly stuttering voice, dead silence reigned. We absolutely froze, holding our breath. us." Reidler smiled and began to rub his eyes with his crippled hand. "Damn you, Porter, this is the first time in my life. God punish me if I knew what a tear looks like!" The stories were not immediately accepted for publication. The next three were published under a pseudonym.
While in prison, Porter was embarrassed to publish under his last name. In a pharmacy guide, he came across the name of the then-famous French pharmacist O. Henri. It is her in the same transcription, but in English pronunciation(O. Henry) the writer chose his pseudonym until the end of his life. Leaving the prison gates, he uttered a phrase that has been quoted for if not a century: "Prison could do a great service to society if society chose who to put there."
At the end of 1903, O. Henry signed a contract with the New York newspaper "World" for the weekly delivery of a short Sunday story - one hundred dollars per piece. This fee at that time was quite large. The writer's annual salary was equal to that of popular American novelists.
But the frantic pace of work could kill even more healthy person than O. Henry, who could not refuse others periodicals. During 1904, O. Henry published sixty-six stories, for 1905 - sixty-four. Sometimes, sitting in the editorial office, he finished writing two stories at once, and the editorial artist shifted next to him, waiting for the time to start illustrating.
Readers of the American newspaper could not master large texts, could not stand philosophizing and tragic stories. O. Henry began to lack plots, and in the future he often took, and even bought them from friends and acquaintances. Gradually he became tired and slowed down. However, 273 stories came out from under his pen - more than thirty stories in a year. The stories enriched newspapermen and publishers, but not O. Henry himself - an impractical man who was accustomed to a semi-bohemian life. He never bargained, never figured out anything. Silently received his money, thanked and walked: "I owe Mr. Gilman Hall, according to him, 175 dollars. I think I owe him no more than 30 dollars. But he knows how to count, but I don't ...".
He avoided the company of literary twins, strove for loneliness, shied away from secular receptions, and did not give interviews. For several days without good reason wandered around New York, then locked the door of the room and wrote.
In wanderings and aloofness, he recognized and "digested" Big city, Babylon-on-the-Hudson, Baghdad-above-underground - its sounds and lights, hope and tears, sensation and failures. He was a poet of the New York bottom and the lowest social strata, a dreamer and dreamer of brick nooks and crannies. In the dull quarters of Harlem and Coney Island, by the will of O. Henry, Cinderella and Don Quixote, Harun al-Rashida and Diogenes appeared, who were always ready to come to the rescue of those who are dying, in order to provide a realistic story with an unexpected denouement.
O. Henry spent the last week of his life alone, in a poor hotel room. He was sick, drank a lot, could no longer work. In the forty-eighth year of his life in a New York hospital, he passed into another world, unlike his heroes, without getting miraculous help.
The funeral of the writer resulted in a real Henrievsky plot. During the memorial service, a cheerful wedding company burst into the church, and did not immediately realize that they would have to wait at the entrance.
O. Henry could be called a kind of belated romantic, an American storyteller of the 20th century, but the nature of his unique short story creativity is wider than these definitions. Humanism, independent democracy, the vigilance of the artist, to the social conditions of his time, his humor and comedy prevail over satire, and "consoling" optimism - over bitterness and indignation. It was they who created a unique novelistic portrait of New York at the dawn of the era of monopoly - a multi-faceted, attractive, mysterious and cruel metropolis with its four million "little Americans". The interest and sympathy of the reader for the vicissitudes of life, clerks, saleswomen, barge haulers, unknown artists, poets, actresses, cowboys, petty adventurers, farmers, and the like, is considered a special gift, which is characteristic of O. Henry as a reteller. The image that appears as if before our eyes is frankly conditional, acquires a fleeting illusory authenticity - and remains forever in the memory. In the poetics of O. Henry's short story, there is a very important element of sharp theatricality, which is undoubtedly connected with his worldview of a fatalist who blindly believes in Chance or Fate. Freeing his heroes from "global" reflections and decisions, O. Henry never turns them away from moral guidelines: in his small world there are firm laws of ethics, humanity, - even for those characters whose actions do not always agree with the laws. Extremely rich, associative and inventive is the language of his short story, saturated with parodic passages, illusion, hidden quotation and all sorts of puns that put extremely difficult tasks in front of translators - after all, it is in the language of O. Henry that the "formative enzyme" of his style is laid. For all its originality, the short story by O. Henry is a purely American phenomenon that grew up on a national literary tradition(from E. Poe to B. Garth and M. Twain).
Letters and an unfinished manuscript testify that in last years O. Henry's life approached a new frontier. He longed for "simple honest prose", sought to free himself from certain stereotypes and the "pink endings" that the commercial press, oriented towards bourgeois tastes, expected from him.
Most of his stories, which were published in periodicals, were included in the collections that were issued during his lifetime: "Four Million" (1906), "A Flaming Lamp" (1907), "Heart of the West" (1907), "Voice of the City" ( 1908), "The Noble Rogue" (1908), "The Road of Fate" (1909), "A Choice" (1909), "Business People" (1910), "Broomrape" (1910). More than a dozen collections were issued posthumously. The novel "Kings and Cabbage" (1904) consists of conditionally plot-related adventurous humorous novels set in Latin America.
The fate of O. Henry's inheritance was no less difficult than the personal fate of V. S. Porter. After a decade of fame, it's time for a ruthless critical reassessment - a reaction to the "well done story" type. However, approximately from the end of the 50s of the last century in the United States, literary interest in the work and biography of the writer revived again. As for the reader's love for him, it is unchanged: O. Henry, as before, takes permanent place among the authors who are liked to be re-read in many countries of the world.
O. Henry (1862-1910) - American writer late 19th-early 20th centuries. He received recognition from readers thanks to his short stories - sensual, deep, poignant, surprising with unexpected outcomes. The writer is also called the master of the "short story". All O. Henry's books are written in the genre of classical prose.
The real name of the writer is William Sidney Porter. A native of Greensboro, North Carolina (state). A twenty-year-old guy came to Texas, where he stayed to live. In caring for their daily bread, I tried different professions- pharmacist, cowboy, salesman. Subsequently, this experience will play a positive role in his work. The author will write his unforgettable short stories about them, ordinary people different professions.
At the same time, Porter is interested in journalism. When he was a cashier at the National Bank, he is suspected of embezzlement and flees to Honduras. There he waits for his wife and little daughter, but his wife dies. The father has to return home to his daughter. The court finds him guilty, Porter is sent to serve five years in prison.
Imprisonment has become turning point in the work of the author. He has a lot of free time. In addition to fulfilling his duties as a pharmacist, he writes a lot. Begins to be published in various publications under the pseudonym O. Henry.
The first book was published in 1904 under the title "Kings and Cabbage". It was the author's first and only novel. The novel was filmed by the Soviet director Nikolai Rasheev in 1978 as a musical comedy.
But still best books recognized collections of short stories. Films based on these works began to be shot as early as 1933.
On our site you can read O. Henry's books online in fb2 (fb2), txt (txt), epub and rtf formats. Following the chronology of short stories and stories included in the collections "Gifts of the Magi" and "The Last Leaf", one can trace how the author's style of the writer improved.
There were days when O. Henry wrote and wrote down one story a day for the magazine that signed a contract with him. Judging by the sequence of books written at that time, the author then paid more attention to the entertainment of readers than artistic truth. The desire of the writer to earn more money was affected.
We offer to download e-books in Russian. So, for example, "The Last Leaf" is Touching story, telling about a seriously ill girl, deprived of any hope of recovery. But only last page on an old ivy inspires faith. When he falls, everything will be over. But will he fall?
O. Henry passed away quite early. According to eyewitnesses, in recent years he abused alcohol. For this reason, his second wife left him. He died in New York in 1910 leaving the world a wonderful legacy in the form of short stories carrying faith, hope and love.
Tale of the Dirty Ten
Money speaks. But you might think that in New York the voice of an old ten-dollar bill sounds like a barely audible whisper? Well, great, skip, if you like, past the ears told sotto voce autobiography of a stranger. If you love the roar of John D.'s checkbook erupting from a bullhorn roaming the streets, you're in business. Just do not forget that even a small coin sometimes does not go into your pocket for a word. The next time you slip an extra silver quarter to the grocer's clerk, so that he weighs out the owner's goods on the march, read the words above the lady's head first. A sharp retort, isn't it?
I am a 1901 ten-dollar note. You may have seen these in the hands of someone you know. On the front I have an American bison, erroneously called a buffalo by fifty or sixty million Americans. On the sides are the heads of Captain Lewis and Captain Clark. On the back side in the center of the stage stands, gracefully perched on a greenhouse plant, either Freedom, or Ceres, or Maxine Elliot.
For information about me, please contact: paragraph 3. 588, amended bylaws. If you decide to change me, Uncle Sam will lay out ten ringing full-weight coins for you on the counter - really, I don’t know if it’s silver, gold, lead or iron.
I'm talking a little confused, you really forgive - do you forgive? I knew it, thank you - after all, even a nameless bill causes a kind of servile awe, a desire to please, doesn't it? You see, we, dirty money, are almost completely deprived of the opportunity to polish our speech. I have never met an educated and well-mannered person whose ten would have been delayed for a longer period than it takes to run to the nearest culinary shop. For a six-year-old, I have a very refined and lively manner. I repay my debts as regularly as those who see off the dead in last way. How many masters I did not serve! But I once happened to admit my ignorance, and before whom? In front of an old, shabby and untidy five - a silver certificate. We met her in a fat, foul-smelling butcher's purse.
Hey you Indian chief's daughter, I say, stop groaning. Don't you understand that it's time to take you out of circulation and reprint? Only an 1899 issue, what do you look like?
You seem to be thinking, since you are a buffalo, you are supposed to crackle incessantly, ”the five answered. "And you'd be ripped apart if you were kept under a Fildepers and a garter all day, when the temperature in the shop never drops below eighty-five."
Never heard of those wallets, I said. - Who put you there?
Saleswoman.
What is a saleswoman? I had to ask.
Your sister will not know this until the golden age for their sister comes, - answered the five.
Look, lady! She doesn't like Fildepers. But they would have stuck you behind a cotton one, as they did with me, and pestered you all day with factory dust, so that this lady painted on me with a cornucopia even sneezed, what would you sing then?
This conversation took place the day after my arrival in New York. I was sent to a Brooklyn bank by one of their Pennsylvania branches in a pack of ten like me. Since then, I have not had to make acquaintance with the wallets that my five-dollar and two-dollar interlocutors visited. They hid me only behind silk ones.
I was lucky. I didn't sit still. Sometimes I changed hands twenty times a day. I knew the underside of every deal; I again took care of every pleasure of my hosts. On Saturdays, I was invariably shoved onto the bar. Dozens are always thrown, but dollar bills or twos are folded into a square and modestly pushed towards the bartender. Gradually, I got a taste of it and strove to either get drunk on whiskey or lick a martini or Manhattan that had spilled there from the counter. Once, a peddler who was driving a cart along the street put me in a plump, greasy bundle, which he carried in the pocket of his overalls. I thought I would have to forget about the real conversion, since the future general store owner lived on eight cents a day, limiting his menu to dog meat and onions. But then the peddler somehow made a mistake by placing his cart too close to the intersection, and I was saved. I am still grateful to the policeman who helped me out. He traded for me at a tobacconist near the Bowery, where there was a gambling. And the head of the police station took me out into the world, who himself was lucky that evening. A day later, he got me drunk in a restaurant on Broadway. I was also sincerely glad to be back in my native land, like one of the Astors when they see the lights of Charing Cross.
A dirty ten doesn't have to sit idle on Broadway. Once I was called alimony, and they folded me up and put me in a suede purse full of dimes. They boastfully recalled the stormy summer season in Osining, where the three daughters of the hostess now and then fished out one of them for ice cream. However, these childish revels are just storms in a teacup, if you compare them with the hurricanes that our denomination bills are subjected to in the terrible hour of increased demand for lobsters.
I first heard of dirty money when the adorable youngster Van Somebody dumped me and a few of my girlfriends in exchange for a handful of chips.
Around midnight, a rollicking and stout fellow with a fat monk's face and the eyes of a janitor who had just received a surcharge rolled me and many other banknotes into a tight roll - a "piece", as money polluters say.
Put down five hundred for me,” he said to the banker, “and see to it that everything is in order, Charlie. I want to walk along the wooded valley, while the light of the moon plays on the rocky cliff. If one of us gets stuck, keep in mind, in the upper left compartment of my safe are sixty thousand dollars, wrapped in a humorous magazine supplement. Keep your nose to the wind, but do not throw words into the wind. Bye.
I was between two twenties - gold certificates. One of them told me:
Hey you, "new" old lady, lucky you. You will see something interesting. Today Old Jack is going to turn the whole Beefsteak into crumbs.
