Winter's Tale by Mark HelprinWinter's Tale by Mark Helprin

Winter's Tale

byMark Helprin

Paperback | May 16, 2005

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Now a major motion pictureNew York Times bestsellerUtterly extraordinary . . . A piercing sense of the beautiful arising from narrative and emotional fantasy is everywhere alive in the novel . . . Not for some time have I read a work as funny, thoughtful, passionate or large-souled . . . I find myself nervous, to a degree I don't recall in my past as a reviewer, about failing the work, inadequately displaying its brilliance." - Benjamin DeMott, New York Times Book Review Mark Helprin's masterpiece will transport you to New York of the Belle Epoque, to a city clarified by a siege of unprecedented snows. One winter night, Peter Lake - master mechanic and second-storey man - attempts to rob a fortress-like mansion on the Upper West Side. Though he thinks it is empty, the daughter of the house is home. Thus begins the affair between a middle-aged Irish burglar and Beverly Penn, a young girl dying of consumption. It is a love so powerful that Peter Lake, a simple and uneducated man, will be driven to stop time and bring back the dead. His great struggle is one of the most beautiful and extraordinary stories of American literature."He creates tableaux of such beauty and clarity that the inner eye is stunned." - Publishers Weekly "This novel stretches the boundaries of contemporary literature. It is a gifted writer's love affair with the language." - Newsday "
MARK HELPRIN is the acclaimed author of Winter's Tale, A Soldier of the Great War, Freddy and Fredericka, The Pacific, Ellis Island, Memoir from Antproof Case, and numerous other works. His novels are read around the world, translated into over twenty languages.
Title:Winter's TaleFormat:PaperbackDimensions:768 pages, 8 × 5.31 × 1.76 inPublished:May 16, 2005Publisher:Houghton Mifflin HarcourtLanguage:English

The following ISBNs are associated with this title:

ISBN - 10:0156031191

ISBN - 13:9780156031196

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Rated 1 out of 5 by from Absolutely no idea what's happening I left it in the middle and just watched the movie. It's all over the place in a really bad way.
Date published: 2018-03-23
Rated 3 out of 5 by from ok The story is not all that easy to follow and your really aren't sure where things are going at some point. Nice ending but I found that some of the caracters were trone in to keep us off guard but they didn't really have anything to bring to the story.
Date published: 2017-08-23
Rated 1 out of 5 by from Watch The Movie, Rather Than Read the Book on This One Fortunately I saw the movie first which was brilliant and believing the book would be even better I picked up a copy of it. The book is a massive disappoint , gets bogged down in descriptive passages and is an utter bore. This is one book I would not recommend as a superior read.
Date published: 2017-03-23
Rated 1 out of 5 by from An astonishing slog Oh, I finished this book alright. I wasn't about to let it defeat me and it tried, believe me, it tried. Why did I stick with it? So I could justifiably say unkind things about it. It's an astonishing slog. It wants to be great, this novel, and it tries so hard but I'd sooner suggest you repeatedly knock yourself about the head with a large frozen fish than subject your brain to this terrible book.
Date published: 2016-11-24
Rated 4 out of 5 by from Read it for the escapism I found i had to seriously apply myself to get through this book, but once I got absorbed in it I much enjoyed reading it. The books is FAR better than the movie, but still i found it didn't flow well and it was a bit of work for me to stick to it to finish the whole book.
Date published: 2015-10-17
Rated 1 out of 5 by from Winter's Tale I'm sorry to say that this book was so awful that it took me nearly 4 months to read it. Not what I expected considering the cover... So illogical and confusing! It was certainly money wasted. This is the first book that made me feel like I never wanted to read again. And they made a movie out of this thing?!
Date published: 2015-02-23
Rated 4 out of 5 by from Worthwhile, even if it is a tome I rarely read fantasy, but the writing in this novel is wonderful. I was incredulous to how Helprin could make dense descriptions flow so beautifully. The underlying philosophies and thoughts that surface are beautiful too. However, I did find that it took too long for all of the disparate characters and stories to tie together.
Date published: 2014-11-01
Rated 4 out of 5 by from beautifully Written this book is not for everyone, but a beautifully written story. the way it was written reminded me of "Grapes of Wrath" Story is different but the way it makes you feel. Absolutly love this book will definetly re-read
Date published: 2014-07-18
Rated 2 out of 5 by from Winter tale Did not keep my interest. A hard read. Too wordy.
Date published: 2014-05-31
Rated 1 out of 5 by from Longest book everrrrrr Confusing and mind numbing! I kept expecting magical greatness that would make it all make never came. The focus was too great on creating a fantastical story, that it failed to deliver an actual, cohesive story.
Date published: 2014-05-26
Rated 1 out of 5 by from Winters bore I can't do it. This is torture. 15 pages and. Can't read more. I have never hated a book this much.
Date published: 2014-04-25
Rated 1 out of 5 by from Winter's Tale Couldn't finish this book. Waded through half way and decided it wasn't worth reading a book I didn't enjoy just to finish it. Only second time in over 35 years of reading the book is left unread.
Date published: 2014-03-18
Rated 3 out of 5 by from Winters tale by mark Helprin This story is about parallel universe time lines, the original story is about the white horse, who touches many lives, disappears into the fog (like the Bermuda Triangle) then reappears after many years to be just as strong as he ever was, the stories that surround him are linked by the people he is directly involved with and those who are related to them. Without the horse the story could have been several short stories about the newspaper families.
Date published: 2014-03-06
Rated 3 out of 5 by from Wendy Left me wanting to know more.
Date published: 2014-02-28
Rated 1 out of 5 by from SAVE YOURSELF! I have to agree with Janice. I am annoyed to think of how many reading hours I won't get back. I bought this for my husband and, when he said he couldn't get into it, I thought I'd give it a go. After all, I bought it based on a newspaper recommendation. I stuck it out until the bitter end! It is not that the book is not well written, it's that the plot is just impossible, convoluted and a weirdo type of fantasy. It just didn't grab us in the slightest. Sorry Mr. Helprin, not my cup of tea!
Date published: 2009-11-16
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Spellbinding This is a story about a city of legend, its magic, its mystery, and the wacky and brilliant characters who are all part of its great destiny. Peter Lake, a man of the most humble birth and upbringing, is an expert mechanic who loves the thrill of a well-executed robbery. One frosty night he stumbles upon love while robbing a mansion, and he is forever changed and driven by it. Despite moments of hilarity and comedic nonsense, Helprin's nutty characters all possess tiny, but bold, elements of truth, beauty, and purest justice. This is one of the most beautiful and dazzling stories I've ever read. Through Helprin, you'll be transported between the depths of New York's underground and realms of icy celestial cities. Winter's tale inspires you to see the potential in our world for miracles, and your winters will sparkle a little bit more too.
Date published: 2006-03-23

Read from the Book

A WHITE HORSE ESCAPESTHERE WAS a white horse, on a quiet winter morning when snow covered the streets gently and was not deep, and the sky was swept with vibrant stars, except in the east, where dawn was beginning in a light blue flood. The air was motionless, but would soon start to move as the sun came up and winds from Canada came charging down the Hudson. The horse had escaped from his master's small clapboard stable in Brooklyn. He trotted alone over the carriage road of the Williamsburg Bridge, before the light, while the toll keeper was sleeping by his stove and many stars were still blazing above the city. Fresh snow on the bridge muffled his hoofbeats, and he sometimes turned his head and looked behind him to see if he was being followed. He was warm from his own effort and he breathed steadily, having loped four or five miles through the dead of Brooklyn past silent churches and shuttered stores. Far to the south, in the black, ice-choked waters of the Narrows, a sparkling light marked the ferry on its way to Manhattan, where only market men were up, waiting for the fishing boats to glide down through Hell Gate and the night. The horse was crazy, but, still, he was able to worry about what he had done. He knew that shortly his master and mistress would arise and light the fire. Utterly humiliated, the cat would be tossed out the kitchen door, to fly backward into a snow-covered sawdust pile. The scent of blueberries and hot batter would mix with the sweet smell of a pine fire, and not too long afterward his master would stride across the yard to the stable to feed him and hitch him up to the milk wagon. But he would not be there. This was a good joke, this defiance which made his heart beat in terror, for he was sure his master would soon be after him. Though he realized that he might be subject to a painful beating, he sensed that the master was amused, pleased, and touched by rebellion as often as not-if it were in the proper form and done well, courageously. A shapeless, coarse revolt (such as kicking down the stable door) would occasion the whip. But not even then would the master always use it, because he prized a spirited animal, and he knew of and was grateful for the mysterious intelligence of this white horse, an intelligence that even he could not ignore except at his peril and to his sadness. Besides, he loved the horse and did not really mind the chase through Manhattan (where the horse always went), since it afforded him the chance to enlist old friends in the search, and the opportunity of visiting a great number of saloons where he would inquire, over a beer or two, if anyone had seen his enormous and beautiful white stallion rambling about in the nude, without bit, bridle, or blanket. The horse could not do without Manhattan. It drew him like a magnet, like a vacuum, like oats, or a mare, or an open, never-ending, tree-lined toad. He came off the bridge ramp and stopped short. A thousand streets lay before him, silent but for the sound of the gemlike wind. Driven with snow, white, and empty, they were a maze for his delight as the newly arisen wind whistled across still untouched drifts and rills. He passed empty theaters, countinghouses, and forested wharves where the snow-lined spars looked like long black groves of pine. He passed dark factories and deserted parks, and rows of little houses where wood just fired filled the air with sweet reassurance. He passed the frightening common cellars full of ragpickers and men without limbs. The door of a market bar was flung open momentarily for a torrent of boiling water that splashed all over the street in a cloud of steam. He passed (and shied from) dead men lying in the round ragged coffins of their own frozen bodies. Sleds and wagons began to radiate from the markets, alive with the pull of their stocky dray horses, racing up the main streets, ringing bells. But he kept away from the markets, because there it was noontime even at dawn, and he followed the silent tributaries of the main streets, passing the exposed steelwork of buildings in the intermission of feverish construction. And he was seldom out of sight of the new bridges, which had married beautiful womanly Brooklyn to her rich uncle, Manhattan; had put the city's hand out to the country; and were the end of the past because they spanned not only distance and deep water but dreams and time. The tail of the white horse swished back and forth as he trotted briskly down empty avenues and boulevards. He moved like a dancer, which is not surprising: a horse is a beautiful animal, but it is perhaps most remarkable because it moves as if it always hears music. With a certainty that perplexed him, the white horse moved south toward the Battery, which was visible down a long narrow street as a whitened field that was crossed by the long shadows of tall trees. By the Battery itself, the harbor took color with the new light, rocking in layers of green, silver, and blue. At the end of this polar rainbow, on the horizon, was a mass of white-the foil into which the entire city had been set-that was beginning to turn gold with the rising sun. The pale gold agitated in ascending waves of heat and refraction until it seemed to be a place of a thousand cities, or the border of heaven. The horse stopped to stare, his eyes filled with golden light. Steam issued from his nostrils as he stood in contemplation of the impossible and alluring distance. He stayed in the street as if he were a statue, while the gold strengthened and boiled before him in a bed of blue. It seemed to be a perfect place, and he determined to go there. He started forward but soon found that the street was blocked by a massy iron gate that closed off the Battery. He doubled back and went another way, only to find another gate of exactly the same design. Trying many streets, he came to many heavy gates, none of which was open. While he was stuck in this labyrinth, the gold grew in intensity and seemed to cover half the world. The empty white field was surely a way to that other, perfect world, and, though he had no idea of how he would cross the water, the horse wanted the Battery as if he had been born for it. He galloped desperately along the approachways, through the alleys, and over the snow-covered greens, always with an eye to the deepening gold. At the end of what seemed to be the last street leading to the open, he found yet another gate, locked with a simple latch. He was breathing hard, and the condensed breath rose around his face as he stared through the bars. That was it: he would never step onto the Battery, there somehow to launch himself over the blue and green ribbons of water, toward the golden clouds. He was just about to turn and retrace his steps through the city, perhaps to find the bridge again and the way back to Brooklyn, when, in the silence that made his own breathing seem like the breaking of distant surf, he heard a great many footsteps. At first they were faint, but they continued until they began to pound harder and harder and he could feel a slight trembling in the ground, as if another horse were going by. But this was no horse, these were men, who suddenly exploded into view. Through the black iron gate, he saw them running across the Battery. They took long high steps, because the wind had drifted the snow almost up to their knees. Though they ran with all their strength, they ran in slow motion. It took them a long time to get to the center of the field, and when they did the horse could see that one man was in front and that the others, perhaps a dozen, chased him. The man being chased breathed heavily, and would sometimes drive ahead in deliberate bursts of speed. Sometimes he fell and bolted right back up, casting himself forward. They, too, fell at times, and got up more slowly. Soon this spread them out in a ragged line. They waved their arms and shouted. He, on the other hand, was perfectly silent, and he seemed almost stiff in his running, except when he leapt snowbanks or low rails and spread his arms like wings. As the man got closer, the horse took a liking to him. He moved well, though not like a horse or a dancer or someone who always hears music, but with spirit. What was happening appeared to be, solely because of the way that this man moved, more profound than a simple chase across the snow. Nonetheless, they gained on him. It was difficult to understand how, since they were dressed in heavy coats and bowler hats, and he was hatless in a scarf and winter jacket. He had winter boots, and they had low street shoes which had undoubtedly filled with numbing snow. But they were just as fast or faster than he was, they were good at it, and they seemed to have had much practice.Copyright © 1983 by Mark HelprinAll rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrievalsystem, without permission in writing from the publisher.Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the work should be mailed to the following address: Permissions Department, Harcourt, Inc.,6277 Sea Harbor Drive, Orlando, Florida 32887-6777.

Table of Contents


A White Horse Escapes 3

The Ferry Burns in Morning Cold 10

Pearly Soames 20

Peter Lake Hangs from a Star 40

Beverly 95

A Goddess in the Bath 110

On the Marsh 130

Lake of the Coheeries 143

The Hospital in Printing House Square 173

Aceldama 191


Four Gates to the City 219

Lake of the Coheeries 221

In the Drifts 264

A New Life 347

Hell Gate 370


Nothing Is Random 401

Peter Lake Returns 403

The Sun... 418

...and The Ghost 438

An Early Summer Dinner at Petipas 445

The Machine Age 456


A Very Short History of the Clouds 505

Battery Bridge 507

White Horse and Dark Horse 544

The White Dog of Afghanistan 579

Abysmillard Redux 591

Ex Machina 606

For the Soldiers and Sailors of Chelsea 641

The City Alight 666

A Golden Age 697

epilogue 747

Editorial Reviews

"This novel is imaginatively engaging as well as entertaining, and it will find an eager audience among adults and older adolescents alike," predicted LJ's reviewer quite accurately (LJ 8/83) the book became a smash best seller. This magical story of the multiple lives of protagonist Peter Lake is now available in an oversized trade paper edition.