Barry Lyndon (Annotated) (English Edition) [Kindle-editie] beoordelingen het boek quotes

-include biography of William Makepeace Thackeray, author of "Vanity Fair" Barry Lyndon or The Luck of Barry Lyndon is a picaresque novel by William Makepeace Thackeray, first published in serial form in 1844, about a member of the Irish gentry trying to become a member of the English aristocracy. Thackeray, who based the novel on the life and exploits of the Anglo-Irish rake and fortune-hunter Andrew Robinson Stoney, later reissued it under the title The Memoirs of Barry Lyndon, Esq.. Next to Catherine (1839-40), his first novel (in which he parodies Dickens's sympathy for criminals manifested in Oliver Twist), Barry Lyndon is Thackeray's most unsavory story, containing as it does both an anti-hero and sordid subjects. At the time of its initial publication it was much criticized for its harshness. However, it also offers his best-fashioned plot and his most adroit use of the first-person, reminiscent point-of-view. The finest brief analysis of the book is Robert A. Colby's "Barry Lyndon and the Irish Hero." Although the actual writing began in Paris, in June, 1844, Thackeray was in Ireland, presumably hunting for material for The Luck of Barry Lyndon, a satire of then-popular "Irish" novels. CHAPTER II. I SHOW MYSELF TO BE A MAN OF SPIRIT During this dispute, my cousin Nora did the only thing that a lady, under such circumstances, could do, and fainted in due form. I was in hot altercation with Mick at the time, or I should have, of course, flown to her assistance, but Captain Fagan (a dry sort of fellow this Fagan was) prevented me, saying, 'I advise you to leave the young lady to herself, Master Redmond, and be sure she will come to.' And so indeed, after a while, she did, which has shown me since that Fagan knew the world pretty well, for many's the lady I've seen in after times recover in a similar manner. Quin did not offer to help her, you may be sure, for, in the midst of the diversion, caused by her screaming, the faithless bully stole away. 'Which of us is Captain Quin to engage?' said I to Mick; for it was my first affair, and I was as proud of it as of a suit of laced velvet. 'Is it you or I, Cousin Mick, that is to have the honour of chastising this insolent Englishman?' And I held out my hand as I spoke, for my heart melted towards my cousin under the triumph of the moment. But he rejected the proffered offer of friendship. 'You—you!' said he, in a towering passion; 'hang you for a meddling brat: your hand is in everybody's pie. What business had you to come brawling and quarrelling here, with a gentleman who has fifteen hundred a year?' 'Oh,' gasped Nora, from the stone bench, 'I shall die: I know I shall. I shall never leave this spot.' 'The Captain's not gone yet,' whispered Fagan; on which Nora, giving him an indignant look, jumped up and walked towards the house. 'Meanwhile,' Mick continued, 'what business have you, you meddling rascal, to interfere with a daughter of this house?' 'Rascal yourself!' roared I: 'call me another such name, Mick Brady, and I'll drive my hanger into your weasand. Recollect, I stood to you when I was eleven years old. I'm your match now, and, by Jove, provoke me, and I'll beat you like—like your younger brother always did.' That was a home-cut, and I saw Mick turn blue with fury. 'This is a pretty way to recommend yourself to the family,' said Fagan, in a soothing tone. 'The girl's old enough to be his mother,' growled Mick. 'Old or not,' I replied: 'you listen to this, Mick Brady' (and I swore a tremendous oath, that need not be put down here): 'the man that marries Nora Brady must first kill me—do you mind that?' 'Pooh, sir,' said Mick, turning away, 'kill you—flog you, you mean! I'll send for Nick the huntsman to do it;' and so he went off.