Read 13 fairy tales online on one page. The Thirteenth Tale

Diana Satterfield

Pages: 448

Estimated reading time: 5 hours

Year of publication: 2013

Russian language

Started reading: 70740

Description:

“The Thirteenth Tale” by Diana Setterfield is a recognized masterpiece of modern English prose, a book that opened the “neo-Gothic” genre to the general public and made Anglo-American critics talk about the return of the golden age of the British novel, covered with the names of Charlotte and Emily Brontë and Daphne Du Maurier. The debut novel of a modest teacher, the rights to which were bought for money unprecedented for a beginning author (800 thousand pounds for the British edition, a million dollars for the American edition), has outsold bestsellers recent years, was instantly translated into several dozen languages ​​and received the honorary title of “the new Jane Eyre” from reviewers. Margaret Lee works in her father's second-hand bookstore. She prefers Dickens and the Bronte sisters to modern times. Margaret is even more surprised when she receives an offer from the most famous writer of our days, Vida Winter, to become her biographer. After all, no less than for her books, Miss Winter is famous for the fact that she has not yet told a single word of the truth to any interviewer. And so Margaret, who finds herself within the walls of a gloomy mansion inhabited by ghosts of the past, unfolds in literally words gothic story twin sisters, which strangely resonates with her personal story and gradually leads to the solution to the mystery that has driven many generations of readers crazy - the mystery of the “Thirteenth Tale”...

Diana Setterfield is a literature teacher who wrote the magnificent novel The Thirteenth Tale. This was her first work. However, it was written so amazingly that it received recognition from many and brought fame to the author.

Margaret Lee is a literary scholar and prefers classic literature modern. A girl works in an antique bookshop. One day she receives an unexpected offer from the famous contemporary writer Vida Winter: to help with the creation of a biography. This was also surprising because over the years of her work, the writer never let anyone into the secrets of her life.

Margaret finds herself in an old mansion that holds many family secrets and skeletons in the closet. She learns a story about two twin girls, one of whom she believes is Vida Winter. They lived in an abandoned house on the outskirts of the city. Their mother was a promiscuous woman and abandoned them. The old housekeeper looked after the girls. The sisters are related to each other, although they are complete opposites in character. They cannot do anything separately from each other, communicate in their own language and do not accept other people. And people are not eager to get to know these strange and wild children better.

One day, one of the girls starts a fire in the house where their uncle's daughter and employees also live. The uncle's daughter is not recognized and is forced to hide from everyone. Vida manages to save only one girl from the fire, now her face is disfigured. Only she doesn’t know who she saved: the good sister or the one who started the fire. Now she has to keep this secret all her life, posing as one of the twins.

The narrative is told from the perspective of different characters, sometimes jumping from beginning to end, and then back. Not only the plot itself is unusual, but also the manner of narration. Sometimes it is not entirely clear why certain descriptions are needed, but after reading to the end, you can see the whole magnificent pattern of intricate plot threads.

On our website you can download the book “The Thirteenth Tale” by Diana Setterfield for free and without registration in fb2, rtf, epub, pdf, txt format, read the book online or buy the book in the online store.

Title: The Thirteenth Tale
Writer: Diana Setterfield
Year: 2013
Publisher: Azbuka-Atticus
Age limit: 16+
Volume: 480 pages.
Genres: Contemporary foreign literature

Diana Setterfield is a famous English writer, for the publication of her debut novel “The Thirteenth Tale” various publishing houses competed at auction. As a result, this manuscript was sold to two publishers, one for a million dollars, the other for 800 thousand sterling. Those were enough large sums money to evaluate the work of a newcomer to the literary field.

The plot of this novel tells the story of a young woman who loves to read books and has published several literary works. She receives an offer to write a biography of the writer Vida Winter. During the writing process, Margaret becomes aware of some facts from the writer’s life, for example, that Vida’s father has a rather strange book called “The Thirteenth Tale,” but for some reason there is no fairy tale with that number in it. There are also secrets in Margaret's past that haunt her... she often thinks about her early deceased sister, a Siamese twin who died during the operation to separate them.

The atmosphere of foggy, rainy England will immerse you in a different, gothic world of a strange, gloomy mansion, where family secrets and ghosts of the past keep those who live here in fear. Despite the fact that the book is written in the genre of realism, there is a certain mystical shade in the novel that will make your heart tremble slightly...

“The Thirteenth Tale” is also a story about jealousy, despair, anger, wrong and painful love, and the dire consequences of where all this can lead. Diana Setterfield's novel is scary tale about how crazy we can be, even if each in our own way. The author shows well how strong, even telepathic, the psychological connection between twins can be, looks into inner world schizophrenic, describing the painful passion and motives that drive them when committing their inadequate, evil and truly terrible actions.

Reading this book, it’s hard not to sympathize with the main characters of this subtle, psychological novel. I also feel sorry for Margaret, who never knew parental love and felt inferior, and I feel sorry for Vida Winter, who carried feelings of loss, guilt and the pain of loneliness throughout her life. You will definitely be immersed in the chilling family history of the Anjepfield family, where behind the beautiful external façade hide truly shocking events and secrets that are far from a thing of the past...

On our literary website you can download the book “The Thirteenth Tale” by Diana Setterfield for free in formats suitable for different devices - epub, fb2, txt, rtf. Do you like to read books and always keep up with new releases? We have a large selection of books of various genres: classics, modern fiction, psychological literature and children's publications. In addition, we offer interesting and educational articles for aspiring writers and all those who want to learn how to write beautifully. Each of our visitors will be able to find something useful and exciting for themselves.

Dedicated

Ivy Dore and Fred Harold Morris

Corina Ethel and Ambrose Charles Setterfield

With thanks to Joe Anson, Gaia Banks, Martin Bedford, Emily Bestler, Paula Catley, Ross and Colin Catley, Jim Crace, Penny Dolan, Marianne Downey, Mandy Franklin, Anna and Nathan Franklin, Vivienne Green, Douglas Guerre, Jenny Jacobs, Caroline Le Marechal, Pauline and Jeffrey Setterfield, Christina Shingler, Janet and Bill Whittell, John Wilkes and Jane Wood.

I would especially like to thank Owen Staley for his friendly support from the very beginning of this book, and also Peter Whittell, to whom The Thirteenth Tale owes its title and much more.

All children mythologize their birth. That's how we are made. Do you want to better understand a person, see his true essence? Ask him to talk about his own birth. What you hear in response will not be true; it will be a fantastic story. But it is from stories like these that we learn the most important things.

Vida Winter. Tales of change and loss

© V. Dorogokuplya, translation, 2007

© Publishing Group “Azbuka-Atticus” LLC, 2013 Publishing house AZBUKA®

Diane Setterfield. The Thirteenth Tale

Copyright © Diane Setterfield, 2006

This edition published by arrangement with Sheil Land Associates and Synopsis Literary Agency

“The Thirteenth Tale” opened the “neo-Gothic” genre to the general public and made people talk about the return of the golden age of the British novel, covered with the names of the Bronte sisters and Daphne Du Maurier. It seems that this is exactly the kind of literature, full of secrets and mysteries, that people want to read in our time. Many books that rise to the top of the bestseller lists quickly lose their positions, but this novel is guaranteed to have long-term success among readers.

Publishers Weekly

“The Thirteenth Tale” is reminiscent of classic examples of the English novel. It contains tragedy and great love, ghosts of the past and mysteries of the present, mysterious disappearances and dark nights, thunderstorms, lightning and mortal danger. As the heroine becomes entangled in one story, the reader falls into the trap of another...

The Thirteenth Tale is a stunning debut and at the same time a magical key to the reasons that explain why we read at all.

Partners & Crime Inc.

Brilliantly! I haven't had this much fun reading a debut novel in a long time.

Kate Moss

Having opened this book, even the most sophisticated and skeptical critic turns into a young naive reader who has forgotten about the world around him.

Le Figaro Litt?raire

The beginning

Letter

It was November.

The day was just beginning to fade into evening, but when I reached the turn into the alley, darkness was already gathering in the sky. My father finished with today's business, lowered the blinds and turned off the lights in the store, but - knowing that I would appear late - he left the light bulb in the hallway on. From the viewing window in the door, the light fell on the wet asphalt like a whitish rectangular spot in landscape format. Having stepped on this spot, I inserted the key into the keyhole and at the same moment I saw through the glass another white rectangle - a letter lying on the fifth step from the bottom of the stairs, where I could not pass it without noticing.

When I entered, I locked the door and, as usual, placed the key on the bookshelf for Bailey's volume "Geometry for the Connoisseur." Poor Bailey. For thirty years, not a single connoisseur has been tempted by his thick work in mouse-colored binding. Sometimes I wonder how he must feel as the keeper of the keys to a second-hand bookstore. It is unlikely that he could have imagined such a fate for the masterpiece, the creation of which he devoted two decades of his life.

Letter. Addressed to me. This is already something out of the ordinary. The thick envelope, with uncreased corners and voluminous-looking contents, was written in a handwriting that was sure to cause a couple of unpleasant minutes for the postman who was sorting out the address. Although the graphics were old-fashioned, with frilly capital letters and curlicues, at first I thought it was written by a child. The words seemed carefully written by an inept hand, the pressure was uneven - in some places the line almost disappeared, and in others the pen was pressed deeply into the paper. All the letters of my name were written separately - M A R G A R E T L I - which indicated the difficulty with which the author overcame words that were unusual for him. However, I did not know any children, and therefore I came up with the idea of ​​a disabled sender.

The feeling that arose in this regard was not a pleasant one. It turned out that yesterday, or maybe the day before yesterday, when I was calmly doing everyday things, a person unknown to me - someone- made a certain effort to mark this envelope with my name. Who could this someone be, thinking about me at that moment when I did not even suspect his existence?

Without taking off my coat and hat, I sat down right on the stairs to read the letter. (I never start reading without first taking a secure position. I started this habit from the age of seven, after one day, sitting on a stone fence and reading “Children of the Waters” 1
« Children of the waters" - a fairy tale (1863) by the English writer Charles Kingsley, main character in which little chimney sweep Tom, having fallen into the river, meets the “children of the waters” and travels across the seas and oceans. The first Russian translation was published in 1874 under the title “The Adventures of Fomushka the Chimney Sweep on Earth and Under Water” and without indicating the author. – Here and further approx. translation

I was too carried away by the pictures of the underwater world and unconsciously relaxed my muscles, but instead of freely floating in the flowing element, which I imagined so vividly, I free-falled upside down and was knocked out by hitting the ground. In memory of this, I have a scar on my forehead, usually covered by bangs. Reading is not safe.)

I opened the envelope and took out half a dozen pieces of paper, covered in the same large, clumsy handwriting. Fortunately, in my line of work, I have extensive experience reading illegible manuscripts. It's not as difficult as it may seem; it just takes patience and practice. The main thing here is to use your inner vision correctly. When deciphering manuscripts that have been damaged by moisture, fire, sunlight, or simply aged by time, you should pay attention not only to the text itself, but also to accompanying details: the speed of the pen and its pressure, hesitations on a particular word, long pauses between phrases, etc. . n. First of all, you must relax and not think about anything until you are overtaken by a semblance of a waking dream, in which you feel like a pen running across parchment and at the same time this very parchment, on whose surface fresh ink marks appear one after another. After this you can start reading. Feeling and understanding the author, his thoughts, anxieties and desires, you will read the text with such ease, as if you were looking over the writer’s shoulder with a candle in your hand.

At the right approach to the point, deciphering this message did not present any particular difficulties. It began with the curt address "Miss Li." Then the scribbles and curlicues quickly began to form into letters, and those into words and phrases. Here's what I read:

A long time ago I gave an interview to the Bunbury Herald. I'm going to look for it in my archive in the coming days. They sent me a strange type that time. Boy. As tall as a grown man, but as soft and plump as a baby. He was clearly uncomfortable in the baggy brown suit, more appropriate on a much older man. The cut, the collar, the material - everything was wrong. It was a suit from the category of things for growth, which a mother buys for her son who, after finishing school, enters the adult life. However, boys do not stop being boys as soon as they get rid of their school uniform.

He behaved very tensely. I immediately noted this, thinking: “What does he want from me?”

I have nothing against truth-seekers, although their interlocutors are worse than ever, especially when they indulge in discussions about truth and lies that are so dear to their hearts. I hate this kind of chatter, but if these people leave me alone, I don’t bother them either.

What really irritates me is not truth-tellers, but the truth as such. Why do others fuss over her like that? Has anyone found in it the support and consolation that fiction gives us? Will the truth help you at midnight, in the dark, when the wind howls like a hungry beast in the chimney, lightning plays shadows on the walls of your bedroom, and long nails does the rain knock out pellets on the window glass? No. When cold and fear turn you into a mummy frozen in bed, do not hope that the truth, devoid of blood and flesh, will rush to your aid. What you need in a moment like this is a comforting fiction. Sweet, nice, good old lie.

Some writers don't like giving interviews. “Always the same questions,” they complain. What do they actually expect to hear? Reporters are hired workers whose work is put on stream, while a writer produces a piece product. But if they ask us the same questions, this does not mean that we are obliged to repeat the answers. I'm talking about fiction - after all, this is our daily bread. I give dozens of interviews a year, and throughout my life I have accumulated several hundred of them. I believe that talent should not fence itself off from the world, driving itself into hothouse conditions. In any case, my talent is not such a delicate thing that it withers and shrinks at the touch of the dirty fingers of boulevard hacks.

In the past, they tried to trap me more than once. Journalists who had unearthed a small fraction of the truth came to me with the intention of laying out this trump card at an opportune moment and, taking me by surprise, to learn something else from the same series. I had to be on my guard all the time to throw them off the scent. Usually I used fresh bait and carefully led them away from the original goal - the desired truth - to another made-up story. A passionate fire gradually flared up in their eyes, and, captivated by the fiction, they loosened their grip, allowing the real prey, that very bit of truth, to slip out of the greedy hands of reporters and safely sink into oblivion. This technique worked flawlessly. Nice fairy tale always prevails over the pathetic pieces of truth.

Later, when I became truly famous, the “interview with Vida Winter” became something of a rite of passage for journalists. They already knew roughly what to expect and would be disappointed if they left me without new history. Starting the interview by going through the standard questions (Where do you get your inspiration from? Your characters are based on real people? What do you have in the main character?), they were quite satisfied with short answers - the shorter the better (From their own head. No. Nothing.) and moved on to what they came here for. A dreamy, anticipatory expression appeared on their faces, like little children waiting for a bedtime story. “Tell me something about yourself, Miss Winter,” they asked.

And I told you. Short, simple stories, not God knows what. Two or three intertwined storylines, a memorable leitmotif here, a few catchy details there. All sorts of things from my trash bin, where there is an abundance of such goodness. Rejected fragments of novels and short stories, rejected plot lines, stillborn characters, figurative descriptions that had no place in the books, and other chaff that was eliminated during editing. It’s enough to take a few of these scraps, quickly sew them together, trim the edges - and you’re done. Another fresh biography.

They left happy and contented, clutching their notebooks in their hands, like children clutching a bag of sweets at the end of a festive evening. Then they will tell their grandchildren: “Once I met Vida Winter herself, and she told me an amazing story...”

But back to the boy from the Bunbury Herald. He immediately asked: “Miss Winter, tell me the truth.” What's it like? I forced people to go to the most incredible tricks in the hope of extracting at least one word of truth from me (I can smell such tricksters a mile away), but here... It was just ridiculous. What did he expect?

By the way, good question. What could he count on? A searching, intensely attentive gaze. He needed something special, and I understood that. His eyes shone feverishly, beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. Perhaps he was sick. “Tell me the truth,” he asked.

I had a strange feeling: as if the ancient past was coming back to life. Somewhere in the depths, memories swirled like a whirlpool, creating a tidal wave that swept up through my veins and turned into a cold swell, knocking on my temples. It's an eerie feeling. "Tell me the truth."

I considered his request. I looked at it from different angles and weighed it possible consequences. He unsettled me, this boy with a pale face and burning eyes.

“Okay,” I said.

He left me an hour later. He mumbled the words of farewell absentmindedly and, leaving, never looked back.

I didn't tell him the truth. How is it possible? I regaled him with another story. A skinny, pitiful, anemic tale without bright details and graceful twists: faded scraps, swept onto a living thread, with fringe along uneven edges. One of those stories that are so similar to real life. More precisely, on what appears to people real life, but this is not the same thing at all. It is not easy for a person of my type, endowed with a vivid imagination, to invent stories like this.

I watched him from the window. He walked away with a shuffling gait, hunched over and head down; it seemed that every step was difficult for him. All his energy and liveliness, all his original impulse disappeared. I killed it in him. However, I do not intend to take all the blame. He had to know who he was dealing with and not take what he was told for granted.

I never saw him again.

That same feeling - a deep excitement rising in a swell to my temples - remained with me still for a long time. It then subsided, then intensified again at the mere memory of the words of the boy reporter. "Tell me the truth." “No,” I repeated again and again. No. However, the feeling did not disappear. It gave me no rest. Moreover, it became a real threat to me. And then I made a deal. "Not now". It became wary, hesitated, but eventually calmed down. It calmed down so much that after some time I completely forgot about it.

How long ago was this? Thirty years ago? Fourty? Maybe more. Time passes faster than we can notice.

And the other day I suddenly remembered that boy. "Tell me the truth." Then the strange feeling returned. Something is growing inside me, rapidly dividing and multiplying. I feel it physically - somewhere in the stomach area, hard and round, the size of a grapefruit. It sucks the air from my lungs and eats away at my bone marrow. The long stay in hibernation changed him greatly. Now I am dealing with an aggressive creature, not amenable to persuasion, not inclined to negotiations and discussions, stubbornly insisting on its right. It does not recognize the word “no.” “Tell the truth,” it demands after the boy, looking at his retreating back. Then it turns to me and with an iron grip squeezes and twists my insides. "Don't forget, we made a deal."

That time has come.

I'm waiting for you on Monday. I'll send a car for you to the train arriving in Harrogate at half past four.

Vida Winter

How long did I sit on the steps after I finished reading the letter? I have no idea. It was as if I had fallen under a spell. The magic of words undoubtedly exists. And if they are manipulated by a skilled and knowledgeable person, these words can easily take you prisoner. They will entangle you like a silky web, and when you turn into a helpless cocoon, they will pierce your skin, penetrate your blood, and take over your thoughts. Their magical effect will continue within you. When I finally came to my senses, I could only guess about the processes that had taken place minutes earlier in the dark depths of my consciousness. So what did this letter do to me?

I knew very little about Vida Winter, if we discard all the high-profile titles that the press generously awarded her: the favorite author of English readers, a modern Dickens, the greatest living classic, and so on in the same spirit. I, of course, knew about its worldwide popularity, and yet the statistical calculations, when I got to them, made a stunning impression on me. In fifty-six years, she published fifty-six books, which were translated into forty-nine languages; summary reports English public libraries named Miss Winter the most widely read author of the year twenty-seven times; Nineteen feature films have been made based on her novels. In this regard, the question was animatedly debated: has it surpassed the Bible in the total number of copies sold, or has it not yet surpassed it? The difficulty lay not so much in determining Miss Winter's total circulation (constantly changing multimillion-dollar numbers) as in obtaining reliable data on the Bible: for all possible reverence for the Word of God, its sales statistics did not deserve any confidence. In this list, I was particularly interested in one number, namely twenty-two - so many times attempts were made to write a full-fledged biographical book about Miss Winter, but all the efforts of truth-seekers were frustrated by a lack of information, the writer’s categorical reluctance to cooperate with biographers, and even threats of legal prosecution from her sides. I learned about all this for the first time. In fact, the only statistical indicator known to me a priori was the number of books by Vida Winter that I personally read, Margaret Lee. This number was zero.

I shuddered, yawned and stretched, still sitting on the staircase step. Returning to reality, I discovered that during the period of oblivion my thoughts were reorganized into new way– from the pile of incoherent scraps and debris that was my memories, two episodes suddenly came to the fore.

The first was a skit with the participation of my father. The action takes place in our store. We unpack a box of books purchased at a private library sale and find, among other things, several Vida Winter novels. However, our establishment does not sell modern literature. “I’ll take them to the charity after lunch,” I say and put the books on the edge of the counter. But before the lunch break, three out of four books leave the store. Sold. One for a priest, the second for a cartographer, and the third for a specialist in military history. The faces of our clients—palely detached, with a twinkling light inside them, the faces of inveterate bibliophiles—suddenly perk up at the sight of the bright covers of Vida Winter's bestsellers. In the afternoon we finish sorting the books, cataloging them and placing them on the shelves, and then, in the absence of visitors, we indulge in the usual activity in such cases: we sit down and read. It’s late autumn, it’s raining, the windows are fogged up. In the depths of the room there is a quiet hissing gas heater; we hear the sound without listening to it, we are close and at the same time far from each other, each immersed in his own book.

"Brew tea?" – I ask finally, looking up from reading.

No answer.

Nevertheless, I make tea and place the cup on his table.

An hour passes. His untouched tea had long since cooled. I brew a new one and bring my father a steaming cup. He doesn't react to my actions in any way.

Then I carefully lift the book he's staring at to look at the cover. This is the fourth and last Vida Winter novel we have left. I return the book to its original position and look into his face. He can't hear me. He doesn't see me. He is now in another world, and for him I am nothing more than an ethereal shadow.

This was the first episode.

The second was visual image. Woman's face with a three-quarter turn, as if carved out of massive layers of light and shadow, it looms over a crowd of small and insignificant people in comparison with it. This is just a many times enlarged photograph on a billboard above the station platform, but my mind’s eye discerns in this image the dispassionate grandeur of long-forgotten queens and pagan goddesses, embodied in stone by masters of some ancient civilization. Contemplating the proud arch of the eyebrows, the smoothly defined high cheekbones, the impeccable lines and proportions of the nose, one cannot help but be surprised that random variations of the human race are capable of producing such supernatural perfection. If such a skull is found by archaeologists of the distant future, they may regard it as an artifact created not by the blunt chisel of Mother Nature, but by the skillful hand of an unknown, brilliant artist. The skin of her face radiates a soft alabaster light; she seems even whiter in contrast to the graceful curls of copper-red hair, fancifully falling onto her temples and onto her strong, slender neck.

This striking beauty, as if it were not enough, is effectively complemented by the eyes. Probably illuminated by the efforts of the photographer to an inhumanly green sheen - the green of church stained glass windows, candy canes or emeralds - they look over the crowd with a detached gaze, expressing absolutely nothing.

I don’t know what feelings this picture evoked in other people who were at the station; many of them had read Miss Winter's books, and this must have affected their perceptions. As for me, I involuntarily remembered the expression “eyes are the gates of the soul” and, peering into the green, cold, unseeing eyes in the portrait, I thought that the woman depicted here could not have any soul.

This is all the information about Vida Winter that I had at the time of receiving the letter. Not too much. However, if you think about it, it’s unlikely that other people knew more about her. For although her name, her face and her books were known to everyone, no one truly knew Vida Winter. As famous for its secrets as for its creativity, it was the perfect enigma.

Diana Setterfield

The Thirteenth Tale

Dedicated

Ivy Dore and Fred Harold Morris

Corina Ethel and Ambrose Charles Setterfield

With thanks to Joe Anson, Gaia Banks, Martin Bedford, Emily Bestler, Paula Catley, Ross and Colin Catley, Jim Crace, Penny Dolan, Marianne Downey, Mandy Franklin, Anna and Nathan Franklin, Vivienne Green, Douglas Guerre, Jenny Jacobs, Caroline Le Marechal, Pauline and Jeffrey Setterfield, Christina Shingler, Janet and Bill Whittell, John Wilkes and Jane Wood.

I would especially like to thank Owen Staley for his friendly support from the very beginning of this book, and also Peter Whittell, to whom The Thirteenth Tale owes its title and much more.

All children mythologize their birth. That's how we are made. Do you want to better understand a person, see his true essence? Ask him to talk about his own birth. What you hear in response will not be true; it will be a fantastic story. But it is from stories like these that we learn the most important things.

Vida Winter. Tales of change and loss

It was November. The day was just beginning to fade into evening, but when I reached the turn into the alley, darkness was already gathering in the sky. Father finished with today's business, lowered the blinds and turned off the lights in the store, but - knowing that I would appear late - left the light bulb in the hallway on. From the viewing window in the door, the light fell on the wet asphalt like a whitish rectangular spot in landscape format. Having stepped on this spot, I inserted the key into the keyhole and at the same moment I saw through the glass another white rectangle - a letter lying on the fifth step from the bottom of the stairs, where I could not pass it without noticing.

When I entered, I locked the door and, as usual, placed the key on the bookshelf behind Bailey's Geometry for the Expert. Poor Bailey. For thirty years, not a single connoisseur has been tempted by his thick work in mouse-colored binding. Sometimes I wonder how he must feel as the keeper of the keys to a second-hand bookstore. It is unlikely that he could have imagined such a fate for the masterpiece, the creation of which he devoted two decades of his life.

Letter. Addressed to me. This is already something out of the ordinary. The thick envelope, with uncreased corners and voluminous-looking contents, was written in a handwriting that was sure to cause a couple of unpleasant minutes for the postman who was sorting out the address. Although the graphics were old-fashioned, with frilly capital letters and curlicues, at first I thought it was written by a child. The words seemed carefully written by an inept hand, the pressure was uneven - in some places the line almost disappeared, and in others the pen was pressed deeply into the paper. All the letters of my name were written separately - M A R G A R E T L I - which indicated the difficulty with which the author overcame words that were unusual for him. However, I did not know any children, and therefore I came up with the idea of ​​a disabled sender.

The feeling that arose in this regard was not a pleasant one. It turned out that yesterday, or maybe the day before yesterday, when I was calmly doing everyday things, a person unknown to me - someone- made a certain effort to mark this envelope with my name. Who could this someone be, thinking about me at that moment when I did not even suspect his existence?

Without taking off my coat and hat, I sat down right on the stairs to read the letter. (I never start reading without first taking a secure position. I started this habit from the age of seven, after one day, sitting on a stone fence and reading “Children of the Waters” [“ Children of the waters" - a fairy tale (1863) by the English writer Charles Kingsley, the main character of which, the little chimney sweep Tom, having fallen into the river, meets the “children of the waters” and travels across the seas and oceans. The first Russian translation was published in 1874 under the title “The Adventures of Fomushka the Chimney Sweep on Earth and Under Water” and without indicating the author. - Here and further approx. translation], got too carried away by the pictures of the underwater world and unconsciously relaxed my muscles, but instead of freely floating in the fluid element, which I imagined so vividly, I free-falled upside down and was knocked out by hitting the ground. In memory of this, I have a scar on my forehead, usually covered by bangs. Reading is not safe.)

I opened the envelope and took out half a dozen pieces of paper, covered in the same large, clumsy handwriting. Fortunately, in my line of work, I have extensive experience reading illegible manuscripts. It's not as difficult as it may seem; it just takes patience and practice. The main thing here is to use your inner vision correctly. When deciphering manuscripts that have been damaged by moisture, fire, sunlight, or simply aged by time, you should pay attention not only to the text itself, but also to accompanying details: the speed of the pen and its pressure, hesitations on a particular word, long pauses between phrases, etc. . n. First of all, you must relax and not think about anything until you are overtaken by a semblance of a waking dream, in which you feel like a pen running across parchment and at the same time this very parchment, on whose surface fresh ink marks appear one after another. After this you can start reading. Feeling and understanding the author, his thoughts, anxieties and desires, you will read the text with such ease, as if you were looking over the writer’s shoulder with a candle in your hand.

With the right approach to the matter, deciphering this message did not present any particular difficulties. It began with the curt address "Miss Li." Then the scribbles and curlicues quickly began to form into letters, and those into words and phrases. Here's what I read:

A long time ago I gave an interview to the Bunbury Herald. I'm going to look for it in my archive in the coming days. They sent me a strange type that time. Boy. As tall as a grown man, but as soft and plump as a baby. He was clearly uncomfortable in the baggy brown suit, more appropriate on a much older man. The cut, the collar, the material - everything was wrong. It was a suit from the category of things for growth, which a mother buys for her son who, after graduating from school, enters adulthood. However, boys do not stop being boys as soon as they get rid of their school uniform.

He behaved very tensely. I immediately noted this, thinking: “What does he want from me?”

I have nothing against truth-seekers, although their interlocutors are worse than ever, especially when they indulge in discussions about truth and lies that are so dear to their hearts. I hate this kind of chatter, but if these people leave me alone, I don’t bother them either.

What really irritates me is not truth-tellers, but the truth as such. Why do others fuss over her like that? Has anyone found in it the support and consolation that fiction gives us? Will the truth help you in the midnight hour, in the dark, when the wind howls like a hungry beast in the chimney, lightning plays shadows on the walls of your bedroom, and the long nails of rain knock out shot on the window glass? No. When cold and fear turn you into a mummy frozen in bed, do not hope that the truth, devoid of blood and flesh, will rush to your aid. What you need in a moment like this is a comforting fiction. Sweet, nice, good old lie.

Some writers don't like giving interviews. “Always the same questions,” they complain. What do they actually expect to hear? Reporters are hired workers whose work is put on stream, while a writer produces a piece product. But if they ask us the same questions, this does not mean that we are obliged to repeat the answers. I'm talking about fiction - after all, this is our daily bread. I give dozens of interviews a year, and throughout my life I have accumulated several hundred of them. I believe that talent should not fence itself off from the world, driving itself into hothouse conditions. In any case, my talent is not such a delicate thing that it withers and shrinks at the touch of the dirty fingers of boulevard hacks.

In the past, they tried to trap me more than once. Journalists who had unearthed a small fraction of the truth came to me with the intention of laying out this trump card at an opportune moment and, taking me by surprise, to learn something else from the same series. I had to be on my guard all the time to throw them off the scent. Usually I used fresh bait and carefully led them away from the original goal - the coveted truth - to another made-up story. A passionate fire gradually flared up in their eyes, and, captivated by the fiction, they loosened their grip, allowing the real prey, that very bit of truth, to slip out of the greedy hands of reporters and safely sink into oblivion. This technique worked flawlessly. A good fairy tale always prevails over pitiful pieces of truth.

Later, when I became truly famous, the “interview with Vida Winter” became something of a rite of passage for journalists. They already knew roughly what to expect and would have been disappointed to leave me without a new story. Starting the interview with a run-through of standard questions (Where do you get your inspiration? Are your characters based on real people? What is part of yourself in the main character?), they were quite satisfied with short answers - the shorter the better (From your own head. No. Nothing .) and moved on to what they came here for. A dreamy, anticipatory expression appeared on their faces, like little children waiting for a bedtime story. “Tell me something about yourself, Miss Winter,” they asked.