Dystopian Novels of H. G. Wells. H. G. Wells. Читать онлайн. Newlib. NEWLIB.NET

Автор: H. G. Wells
Издательство: Bookwire
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Жанр произведения: Языкознание
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isbn: 4064066384722
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      H. G. Wells

      Dystopian Novels of H. G. Wells

      The Dream, When the Sleeper Awakes & The Time Machine

      Published by

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      2020 OK Publishing

      EAN 4064066384722

      Table of Contents

       The Sleeper Awakes (Revised Edition)

       The Time Machine

       The Dream

      The Sleeper Awakes (Revised Edition)

       Table of Contents

       Preface

       I. Insomnia

       II. The Trance

       III. The Awakening

       IV. The Sound of a Tumult

       V. The Moving Ways

       VI. The Hall of the Atlas

       VII. In the Silent Rooms

       VIII. The Roof Spaces

       IX. The People March

       X. The Battle of the Darkness

       XI. The Old Man Who Knew Everything

       XII. Ostrog

       XIII. The End of the Old Order

       XIV. From the Crow’s Nest

       XV. Prominent People

       XVI. The Monoplane

       XVII. Three Days

       XVIII. Graham Remembers

       XIX. Ostrog’s Point of View

       XX. In the City Ways

       XXI. The Underside

       XXII. The Struggle in the Council House

       XXIII. Graham Speaks His Word

       XXIV. While the Aeroplanes Were Coming

       XXV. The Coming of the Aeroplanes

      Preface

       Table of Contents

      When the Sleeper Wakes, whose title I have now altered to The Sleeper Awakes, was first published as a book in 1899 after a serial appearance in the Graphic and one or two American and colonial periodicals. It is one of the most ambitious and least satisfactory of my books, and I have taken the opportunity afforded by this reprinting to make a number of excisions and alterations. Like most of my earlier work, it was written under considerable pressure; there are marks of haste not only in the writing of the latter part, but in the very construction of the story. Except for certain streaks of a slovenliness which seems to be an almost unavoidable defect in me, there is little to be ashamed of in the writing of the opening portion; but it will be fairly manifest to the critic that instead of being put aside and thought over through a leisurely interlude, the ill-conceived latter part was pushed to its end. I was at that time overworked, and badly in need of a holiday. In addition to various necessary journalistic tasks, I had in hand another book, Love and Mr. Lewisham, which had taken a very much stronger hold upon my affections than this present story. My circumstances demanded that one or other should be finished before I took any rest, and so I wound up the Sleeper sufficiently to make it a marketable work, hoping to be able to revise it before the book printers at any rate got hold of it. But fortune was against me. I came back to England from Italy only to fall dangerously ill, and I still remember the impotent rage and strain of my attempt to put some sort of finish to my story of Mr. Lewisham, with my temperature at a hundred and two. I couldn't endure the thought of leaving that book a fragment. I did afterwards contrive to save it from the consequences of that febrile spurt—Love and Mr. Lewisham is indeed one of my most carefully balanced books—but the Sleeper escaped me.

      It is twelve years now since the Sleeper was written, and that young man of thirty-one is already too remote for me to attempt any very drastic reconstruction of his work. I have played now merely the part of an editorial elder brother: cut out relentlessly a number of long tiresome passages that showed all too plainly the fagged, toiling brain, the heavy sluggish driven pen, and straightened out certain indecisions at the end. Except for that, I have done no more than hack here and there at clumsy phrases and repetitions. The worst thing in the earlier version, and the thing that rankled most in my mind, was the treatment of the relations of Helen Wotton and Graham. Haste in art is almost always vulgarisation, and I slipped into the obvious vulgarity of making what the newspaper syndicates call a "love interest" out of Helen. There was even a clumsy intimation that instead of going up in the flying-machine to fight, Graham might have given in to Ostrog, and married Helen. I have now removed the suggestion of these uncanny connubialities. Not the slightest intimation of any sexual interest could in truth have arisen between these two. They loved and kissed one another, but as a girl and her heroic grandfather might love, and in a crisis kiss. I have found it possible, without