The woman in black quotes and analysis
Literary critics rarely use this last term, preferring to talk of the "narrator". But when it comes to hauntings this traditional description is fitting. Arthur Kipps is giving us a tale that he is condemned by his own memories to tell. When the novella opens, he is a man in late middle age, surrounded by adult stepchildren at Christmas. Naturally they begin to tell ghost stories: Christmas is the time for this, when the year is darkest and family or friends are gathered together to be entertained.SEE VIDEO BY TOPIC: The Woman in Black [2b]: Characters - Unit 1 (English Literature)
SEE VIDEO BY TOPIC: THE WOMAN IN BLACK (2012) Ending ExplainedContent:
Useful Quotes for the Woman In Black Themes
I had always known in my heart that the experience would never leave me, that it was now woven into my very fibers, an inextricable part of my past, but I had hoped never to have to recollect it, consciously, and in full, ever again.
Like an old wound, it gave off a faint twinge now and again, but less and less often, less and less painfully, as the years went on and my happiness, sanity and equilibrium were assured. Of late, it had been like the outermost ripple on a pool, merely the faint memory of a memory. Now, tonight, it again filled my mind to the exclusion of all else.
I knew that I should have no rest from it, that I should lie awake in a chill of sweat, going over that time, those events, those places.
So it had been night after night for years. Fog was outdoors, hanging over the river, creeping in and out of alleyways and passages, swirling thickly between the bare trees of all the parks and gardens of the city and indoors, too, seething through cracks and crannies like sour breath, gaining a sly entrance at every opening of a door. It was a yellow fog, a filthy, evil-smelling fog, a fog that choked and blinded, smeared and stained.
Sounds were deadened, shapes blurred. The business was beginning to sound like something from a Victorian novel, with a reclusive old woman having hidden a lot of ancient documents somewhere in the depths of her cluttered house. I was scarcely taking Mr. Bentley seriously. It was true that neither Mr. Daily nor the landlord of the inn seemed anything but sturdy men of good common-sense, just as I had to admit that neither of them had done more than fall silent and look at me hard and a little oddly, when the subject of Mrs.
Drablow had arisen. Nonetheless, I had been left in no doubt that there was some significance in what had been left unsaid. I can recall it still, that sensation of slipping down, down into the welcoming arms of sleep, surrounded by warmth and softness, happy and secure as a small child in the nursery […] Perhaps I recall those sensations the more vividly because of the contrast that presented with what was to come after.
Had I known that my untroubled night of good sleep was to be the last such that I was to enjoy for so many terrifying, racked and weary nights to come, perhaps I should not have jumped out of bed with such alacrity, eager to be down and have breakfast, and then to go out and begin the day.
For I see that then I was still all in a state of innocence, but that innocence, once lost, is lost forever. I am a solicitor looking after the affairs of the late Mrs. Alice Drablow of Eel Marsh House. It is quite possible that her estate will come up for sale in due course. For a moment, my companion still said nothing, only buttered a thick slice of bread and laid his chunks of cheese along it carefully.
I saw by the clock on the opposite wall that it was half past one, and I wanted to change my clothes before the arrival of Mr. Keckwick, so that I was about to make my excuses and go, when my neighbor spoke. No car appeared. Instead, there drew up outside the Gifford Arms a rather worn and shabby pony and trap. It was not at all out of place in the market square—I had noticed a number of such vehicles that morning and, assuming that this one belonged to some farmer or stockman, I took no notice, but continued to look around me, for a motor.
Then I heard my name called. The pony was a small, shaggy-looking creature, wearing blinkers, and the driver with a large cap pulled down low over his brow, and a long, hairy brown coat, looked not unlike it, and blended with the whole equipage.
Suddenly conscious of the cold and the extreme bleakness and eeriness of the spot and of the gathering dusk of the November afternoon, and not wanting my spirits to become so depressed that I might begin to be affected by all sorts of morbid fancies, I was about to leave […] But, as I turned away, I glanced once again round the burial ground and then I saw again the woman with the wasted face, who had been at Mrs.
Drablow's funeral. It was one of what I can only describe—and the words seem hopelessly inadequate to express what I saw—as a desperate, yearning malevolence; it was as though she were searching for something she wanted, needed— must have , more than life itself, and which had been taken from her.
And, toward whoever had taken it she directed the purest evil and hatred and loathing, with all the force that was available to her.
So I thought that night, as I laid my head on the soft pillow and fell eventually into a restless, shadowy sleep, across which figures came and went, troubling me, so that once or twice I half-woke myself, as I cried out or spoke a few incoherent words, I sweated, I turned and turned about, trying to free myself from the nightmares, to escape from my own semi-conscious sense of dread and foreboding, and all the time, piercing through the surface of my dreams, came the terrified whinnying of the pony and the crying and calling of that child over and over, while I stood, helpless in the mist, my feet held fast, my body pulled back, and while behind me, though I could not see, only sense her dark presence, hovered the woman.
Daily," I said, "that I have seen whatever ghost haunts Eel Marsh and that burial ground. A woman in black with a wasted face. Because I have no doubt at all that she was whatever people call a ghost, that she was not a real, living, breathing human being.
Well, she did me no harm. She neither spoke nor came near me. I did not like her look and I liked the… the power that seemed to emanate from her toward me even less, but I have convinced myself that it is a power that cannot do more than make me feel afraid. If I go there and see her again, I am prepared. I could not answer because, yes, that had been worse, far worse, more terrifying because it had been only heard not seen and because the cry of that child would never, I was sure, leave me for the rest of my life.
As soon as I awoke, a little before seven, I felt that the air had a dampness in it and that it was rather colder and, when I looked out of the window, I could hardly see the division between land and water, water and sky, all was a uniform gray, with thick cloud lying low over the marsh and a drizzle. It was not a day calculated to raise the spirits and I felt unrefreshed and nervous after the previous night. But Spider trotted down the stairs eagerly and cheerfully enough and I soon built up the fires again and stoked the boiler, had a bath and breakfast and began to feel more like my everyday self.
In Scotland, a son was born to her and she wrote of him at once with a desperate, clinging affection. For a few months the letters ceased, but when they began again it was at first in passionate outrage and protest, later, in quiet, resigned bitterness. Why should I not have what is mine? He shall not go to strangers. I shall kill us both before I let him go. Then the tone changed. I am quite helpless. If you and M are to have him I shall mind it less.
But at the end of the last letter of all was written in a very small, cramped hand: "Love him, take care of him as your own. But he is mine, mine, he can never be yours. Oh, forgive me. I think my heart will break. I picked things up, stroked them, even smelled them. They must have been here for half a century, yet they might have been played with this afternoon and tidied away tonight.
I was not afraid now. I was puzzled. I felt strange, unlike myself, I moved as if in a dream. But for the moment at least there was nothing here to frighten or harm me, there was only emptiness, an open door, a neatly made bed and a curious air of sadness, of something lost, missing, so that I myself felt a desolation, a grief in my own heart.
How can I explain? I cannot. But I remember it, as I felt it. But she was alive and so was I and, gradually, a little warmth from each of our bodies and the pause revived us and, cradling Spider like a child in my arms, I began to stumble back across the marshes toward the house.
As I did so and within a few yards of it, I glanced up. At one of the upper windows, the only window with bars across it, the window of the nursery, I caught a glimpse of someone standing. A woman. That woman. She was looking directly toward me. Spider was whimpering in my arms and making occasional little retching coughs. We were both trembling violently.
How I reached the grass in front of the house I shall never know but, as I did so, I heard a sound. It was coming from the far end of the causeway path which was just beginning to be visible as the tide began to recede. It was the sound of a pony trap. If I could uncover the truth, perhaps I might in some way put an end to it all forever. But what I couldn't endure more was the atmosphere surrounding the events: the sense of oppressive hatred and malevolence, of someone's evil and also of terrible grief and distress.
Drablow's papers. The door was ajar. I stood, feeling the anxiety that lay only just below the surface begin to rise up within me, making my heart beat fast. Below, I heard Mr. Daily's footsteps and the pitter-patter of the dog as it followed him about. And, reassured by their presence, I summoned up my courage and made my way cautiously toward that half-open door.
When I reached it I hesitated. She had been there. I had seen her. Whoever she was, this was the focus of her search or her attention or her grief—I could not tell which. This was the very heart of the haunting. I began to run crazily and then I heard it, the sickening crack and thud as the pony and its cart collided with one of the huge tree trunks. They lifted Stella gently from the cart. Her body was broken, her neck and legs fractured, though she was still conscious. Our baby son had been thrown clear, clear against another tree.
He lay crumpled on the grass below it, dead. This time, there was no merciful loss of consciousness, I was forced to live through it all, every minute and then every day thereafter, for ten long months, until Stella, too, died from her terrible injuries.
The Woman in Black. Plot Summary.
The Woman in Black Movie Quotes
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I had always known in my heart that the experience would never leave me, that it was now woven into my very fibers, an inextricable part of my past, but I had hoped never to have to recollect it, consciously, and in full, ever again. Like an old wound, it gave off a faint twinge now and again, but less and less often, less and less painfully, as the years went on and my happiness, sanity and equilibrium were assured. Of late, it had been like the outermost ripple on a pool, merely the faint memory of a memory. Now, tonight, it again filled my mind to the exclusion of all else.
The Woman in Black by Susan Hill
Arthur Kipps is the main character and narrator of the story. We see him as a contented man at the start of the novel, but he is haunted by memories of his past. As he narrates his own ghostly tale we are first presented with a rational, keen and positive young man. He is determined to complete his work at Eel Marsh House, no matter how strange or scary the place is. He maintains his optimistic streak even after being haunted to a state of fevered terror. He hopes that he will be the last person the Woman in Black will torment. At the end of the story his first wife and son are killed after he sees the ghost of Jennet Humfrye The Woman in Black one more time and finally we understand his unwillingness to share his tale on Christmas Eve. The novel follows a literary tradition of Gothic stories that typically include isolated houses or castles, hauntings and induce fear in the reader. Susan Hill explains that she set out to write a ghost story, inspired by her love for Henry James' novel, The Turn of the Screw. She read a range of ghost stories to inspire her and made a list of elements that a ghost story should contain.
The Woman in Black - Illustrating and Supporting Points
When you write essays for English literature, you are expected to support your points with convincing evidence. This evidence can be provided either by making specific reference to moments in the text, or it can appear in the form of direct quotations. Using the text to back up your argument is what makes your writing persuasive. Quoting and paraphrasing are techniques which also show how well you understand the text.
Answer the following questions carefully and be prepared to share your ideas with others in your class. There are a number of a good resources on this site and although written in a colloquial way, will provide you with some additional revision. We agreed that this is a landmark chapter as this is the first time that Arthur sees the Woman in Black.
The Woman in Black Quotes
Suddenly conscious of the cold and the extreme bleakness and eeriness of the spot and of the gathering dusk of the November afternoon, and not wanting my spirits to become so depressed that I might begin to be affected by all sorts of morbid fancies, I was about to leave […] But, as I turned away, I glanced once again round the burial ground and then I saw again the woman with the wasted face, who had been at Mrs. Drablow's funeral. It was one of what I can only describe—and the words seem hopelessly inadequate to express what I saw—as a desperate, yearning malevolence; it was as though she were searching for something she wanted, needed— must have , more than life itself, and which had been taken from her. And, toward whoever had taken it she directed the purest evil and hatred and loathing, with all the force that was available to her.
Fear is a human response to the threat of danger or harm. In this story there are different layers of fear and responses to it. In the first chapter, when Arthur Kipps is reminded of his ghost story, he runs to the garden, with his heart pounding. Susan Hill uses these physiological manifestations of fear throughout the book. When Arthur talks to Mr Jerome about seeing the woman in black in the graveyard, the man clutches at his wrist and seems about to collapse.
Daniel Radcliffe stars in 'The Woman in Black' as Arthur Kipps, an attorney who winds up smack in the middle of a terrifying mystery in a small town. Not surprisingly, some of the best quotes in 'The Woman in Black' come from Radcliffe. This list includes many of the most memorable lines from the film.
Arthur is the main character and the narrator. In the first and last chapters we see him as a man approaching old age. The youthful Arthur Kipps is a privileged, well-educated, ambitious, adventurous, impatient, arrogant, brave and foolhardy.
- Вы обещали, что они будут у меня сегодня до конца дня. - Произошло нечто непредвиденное. - Танкадо мертв. - Да, - сказал голос.
Разница равна трем. Он медленно потянул к себе микрофон. В то же самое мгновение Сьюзан опять бросила взгляд на руку Танкадо, на этот раз посмотрев не на кольцо… не на гравировку на золоте, а на… его пальцы. Три пальца. Дело было вовсе не и кольце, a в человеческой плоти. Танкадо не говорил, он показывал. Он открывал секрет, открывал ключ к шифру-убийце - умоляя, чтобы люди его поняли… моля Бога, чтобы его секрет вовремя достиг агентства.
У нее возникло ощущение, что она разговаривает с абсолютно незнакомым человеком. Коммандер послал ее жениха, преподавателя, с заданием от АНБ и даже не потрудился сообщить директору о самом серьезном кризисе в истории агентства. - Вы не поставили в известность Лиланда Фонтейна. Терпение Стратмора иссякло.