The Yellow Crayon - Oppenheim, E. Phillips
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Purchase one of 1st World Library's Classic Books and help support our free internet library of downloadable eBooks. Visit us online at www.1stWorldLibrary.ORG - - It was late summer-time, and the perfume of flowers stole into the darkened room through the half-opened window. The sunlight forced its way through a chink in the blind, and stretched across the floor in strange zigzag fashion. From without came the pleasant murmur of bees and many lazier insects floating over the gorgeous flower beds, resting for a while on the clematis which had made the piazza a blaze of purple splendour. And…mehr

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Produktbeschreibung
Purchase one of 1st World Library's Classic Books and help support our free internet library of downloadable eBooks. Visit us online at www.1stWorldLibrary.ORG - - It was late summer-time, and the perfume of flowers stole into the darkened room through the half-opened window. The sunlight forced its way through a chink in the blind, and stretched across the floor in strange zigzag fashion. From without came the pleasant murmur of bees and many lazier insects floating over the gorgeous flower beds, resting for a while on the clematis which had made the piazza a blaze of purple splendour. And inside, in a high-backed chair, there sat a man, his arms folded, his eyes fixed steadily upon vacancy. As he sat then, so had he at for a whole day and a whole night. The faint sweet chorus of glad living things, which alone broke the deep silence of the house, seemed neither to disturb nor interest him. He sat there like a man turned to stone, his forehead riven by one deep line, his straight firm mouth set close and hard. His servant, the only living being who had approached him, had set food by his side, which now and then he had mechanically taken. Changeless as a sphinx, he had sat there in darkness and in light, whilst sunlight had changed to moonlight, and the songs of the birds had given place to the low murmuring of frogs from a lake below the lawns.
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Autorenporträt
Edward Phillips Oppenheim was an English author who lived from October 22, 1866, to February 3, 1946. He wrote a lot of best-selling genre fiction with glamorous characters, international drama, and fast-paced action. They were popular forms of fun because they were easy to read. In 1927, he was on the cover of Time magazine. Edward Phillips Oppenheim was born in Tottenham, London, on October 22, 1866. His parents were Henrietta Susannah Temperley Budd and a leather merchant named Edward John Oppenheim. He went to Wyggeston Grammar School until the sixth form in 1883, but had to quit because his family couldn't afford it. For almost twenty years, he worked in his father's business. His father helped pay for the release of his first book, which did just enough to cover its costs. It was under the name "Anthony Partridge" that he released five of his books from 1908 to 1912. To help Oppenheim's writing career, Julien Stevens Ulman (1865-1920), a rich New York leather merchant who liked Oppenheim's books, bought the leather works around 1900 and made him a paid director. He quickly came up with a method that worked and made a name for himself. John Buchan, who was just starting out as a suspense writer, called Oppenheim "my master in fiction" and "the greatest Jewish writer since Isaiah" in 1913.