Henry James

Henry James's Books and Stories

The Pension Beaurepas

Literature

5.0

In this masterful tale from Henry James, an American student living in Switzerland serves as the lens through which James explores one of his most frequently revisited themes: the various ways that Americans react to European culture. In this story, the student encounters two different American families and contrasts their diverging views of continental life.

The Europeans

Literature

5.0

Henry James' comic short novel from 1878 follows the European siblings Eugenia Munster and Felix Young as they move to New England.

The American

Literature

5.0

Christopher Newman, an essentially good-hearted but rather gauche American businessman embarks on his first tour of Europe. As he falls in love with a young widow from an aristocratic Parisian family, he encounters both the beauty and the ugliness of Europe, and learns not to take either for granted.

Roderick Hudson

Literature

5.0

When impoverished American sculptor Roderick Hudson creates what is described as a work of genius, he is sent to Rome, where he becomes the talk of the city. But Roderick soon loses his inspiration and falls in love with a woman he'll never be with. Now on a path to self-destruction, can he be saved from himself?One of Henry James' first novels, Roderick Hudson is a compelling depiction of an artist whose inflated ambition and temperament gets the better of him.

Eugene Pickering

Literature

5.0

One of Henry James' specialties is the longish short story that delves into philosophical questions via detailed character studies, and Eugene Pickering is a perfect example of this. In it, James compares and contrasts two archetypes: a bookish scholar who has remained largely sheltered for most of his life and a streetwise "doer" who is deeply engaged with the world around him. Which of these approaches represents the best way to live? As always, James entrusts the final judgment to his readers.

Confidence

Literature

5.0

It was in the early days of April; Bernard Longueville had been spending the winter in Rome. He had travelled northward with the consciousness of several social duties that appealed to him from the further side of the Alps, but he was under the charm of the Italian spring, and he made a pretext for lingering. He had spent five days at Siena, where he had intended to spend but two, and still it was impossible to continue his journey. He was a young man of a contemplative and speculative turn, and this was his first visit to Italy, so that if he dallied by the way he should not be harshly judged. He had a fancy for sketching, and it was on his conscience to take a few pictorial notes. There were two old inns at Siena, both of them very shabby and very dirty. The one at which Longueville had taken up his abode was entered by a dark, pestiferous arch-way, surmounted by a sign which at a distance might have been read by the travellers as the Dantean injunction to renounce all hope. The other was not far off, and the day after his arrival, as he passed it, he saw two ladies going in who evidently belonged to the large fraternity of Anglo-Saxon tourists, and one of whom was young and carried herself very well.

The Figure in the Carpet

Adventure

5.0

I had done a few things and earned a few pence — I had perhaps even had time to begin to think I was finer than was perceived by the patronising; but when I take the little measure of my course (a fidgety habit, for it’s none of the longest yet) I count my real start from the evening George Corvick, breathless and worried, came in to ask me a service. He had done more things than I, and earned more pence, though there were chances for cleverness I thought he sometimes missed. I could only however that evening declare to him that he never missed one for kindness. There was almost rapture in hearing it proposed to me to prepare for The Middle, the organ of our lucubrations, so called from the position in the week of its day of appearance, an article for which he had made himself responsible and of which, tied up with a stout string, he laid on my table the subject. I pounced upon my opportunity — that is on the first volume of it — and paid scant attention to my friend’s explanation of his appeal. What explanation could be more to the point than my obvious fitness for the task? I had written on Hugh Vereker, but never a word in The Middle, where my dealings were mainly with the ladies and the minor poets. This was his new novel, an advance copy, and whatever much or little it should do for his reputation I was clear on the spot as to what it should do for mine. Moreover if I always read him as soon as I could get hold of him I had a particular reason for wishing to read him now: I had accepted an invitation to Bridges for the following Sunday, and it had been mentioned in Lady Jane’s note that Mr. Vereker was to be there. I was young enough for a flutter at meeting a man of his renown, and innocent enough to believe the occasion would demand the display of an acquaintance with his “last.”