Reviews
I really loved it!!! So many great scary stories!! I took 1.25 points off because some stories (very few) didnβt connect with me and the language used was difficult to understand sometimes as a non native English speaker, but I really enjoyed and recommend reading it!!
Collected Ghost Stories is just that, a collection of all the ghost stories M. R. James (Montague Rhodes) published over the course of his writing career (roughly 1904-1935). When he wasn't writing, he was British mediaeval scholar and later the provost of King's College. His work in mediaeval studies comes through in his ghost stories. This 350 page volume contains thirty-one ghost stories written in a Gothic style. The ornate language and slow pacing of the stories requires extra time when reading. Many of the stories were written to be read out loud and they still work best when read at the slower pace of spoken text. My favorite story in the collection comes early in the book: "Number 13" which plays on the tradition of hotels not having a room #13. "Number 13" supposes the existence of such a room in a hotel that claims not to have a room. Where does this extra room come from?
favorites: The Ash-Tree, Number 13, The Stalls of Barchester Cathedral and 'Oh Whistle, and I'll Come to You My Lad'
I dnfβed it after 100 pages of trying. It put me in a such a huge reading slump. Very boring and not scary at all even though itβs about ghosts.
Highlights
He blew tentatively and stopped suddenly, startled and yet pleased at the note he had elicited. It had a quality of infinite distance in it, and, soft as it was, he somehow felt it must be audible for miles round. It was a sound, too, that seemed to have the power (which many scents possess) of forming pictures in the brain. He saw quite clearly for a moment a vision of a wide, dark expanse at night, with a fresh wind blowing, and in the midst a lonely figure - how employed, he could not tell. Perhaps he would have seen more had not the picture been broken by the sudden surge of a gust of wind against his casement, so sudden that it made him look up just in time to see the white glint of a seabirdβs wing somewhere outside the dark panes.
Few people can resist the temptation to try a little amateur research in a department quite outside their own, if only for the satisfaction of showing how successful they would have been had they only taken it up seriously.
There is very little light about the bedstead, but there is a strange movement there; it seems as if Sir Richard were moving his head rapidly to and fro with only the slightest possible sound. And now you would guess, so deceptive is the half-darkness, that he had several heads, round and brownish, which move back and forward, even as low as his chest. It is a horrible illusion. Is it nothing more? There! something drops off the bed with a soft plump, like a kitten, and is out of the window in a flash; another - four - and after that there is quiet again.
Thou shalt seek me in the morning, and I shall not be.
π
He lighted the candles, for it was now dark, made the tea, and supplied the friend with whom he had been playing golf (for I believe the authorities of the University I write of indulge in that pursuit by way of relaxation); and tea was taken to the accompaniment of a discussion which golfing persons can imagine for themselves, about which the conscientious writer has no right to inflict upon any non-golfing persons.
Tee hee!