❞ رواية The Time Traveler's Wife ❝ ⏤ Audrey Niffenegger

هذا القسم يحتوي علي العديد من القصص والروايات باللغة الإنجليزية

(Stories and novels) القصص والروايات
الرواية هي سرد نثري طويل يصف شخصيات خيالية أو واقعية وأحداثاً على شكل قصة متسلسلة، كما أنها أكبر الأجناس القصصية من حيث الحجم وتعدد الشخصيات وتنوع الأحداث، وقد ظهرت في أوروبا بوصفها جنساً أدبياً مؤثراً في القرن الثامن عشر، والرواية حكاية تعتمد السرد بما فيه من وصف وحوار وصراع بين الشخصيات وما ينطوي عليه ذلك من تأزم وجدل وتغذيه الأحداث
A novel is a relatively long work of narrative fiction, normally written in prose form, and which is typically published as a book. The present English word for a long work of prose fiction derives from the Italian novella for "new", "news", or "short story of something new", itself from the Latin novella, a singular noun use of the neuter plural of novellus, diminutive of novus, meaning "new". Walter Scott made a distinction between the novel, in which (as he saw it) "events are accommodated to the ordinary train of human events and the modern state of society" and the romance, which he defined as "a fictitious narrative in prose or verse; the interest of which turns upon marvellous and uncommon incidents". However, many such romances, including the historical romances of Scott, Emily Brontë's Wuthering Heights and Herman Melville's Moby-Dick, are also frequently called novels, and Scott describes romance as a "kindred term". This sort of romance is in turn different from the genre fiction love romance or romance novel
A short story is a piece of prose fiction that typically can be read in one sitting and focuses on a self-contained incident or series of linked incidents, with the intent of evoking a "single effect" or mood.

A dictionary definition is "an invented prose narrative shorter than a novel usually dealing with a few characters and aiming at unity of effect and often concentrating on the creation of mood rather than plot."

The short story is a crafted form in its own right. Short stories make use of plot, resonance, and other dynamic components as in a novel, but typically to a lesser degree. While the short story is largely distinct from the novel or novella (a shorter novel), authors generally draw from a common pool of literary techniques.

The Time Traveler's Wife    

CLARE: The library is cool and smells like carpet cleaner, although all I can see is marble. I sign the Visitors’ Log: Clare
Abshire, 11:15 10-26-91 Special Collections. I have never been in the Newberry Library before, and now that I’ve gotten
past the dark, foreboding entrance I am excited. I have a sort of Christmas-morning sense of the library as a big box full of
beautiful books. The elevator is dimly lit, almost silent. I stop on the third floor and fill out an application for a Reader’s
Card, then I go upstairs to Special Collections. My boot heels rap the wooden floor. The room is quiet and crowded, full of
solid, heavy tables piled with books and surrounded by readers. Chicago autumn morning light shines through the tall
windows. I approach the desk and collect a stack of call slips. I’m writing a paper for an art history class. My research
topic is the Kelmscott Press Chaucer. I look up the book itself and fill out a call slip for it. But I also want to read about
papermaking at Kelmscott. The catalog is confusing. I go back to the desk to ask for help. As I explain to the woman what
I am trying to find, she glances over my shoulder at someone passing behind me. “Perhaps Mr. DeTamble can help you,”
she says. I turn, prepared to start explaining again, and find myself face to face with Henry. 
I am speechless. Here is Henry, calm, clothed, younger than I have ever seen him. Henry is working at the Newberry
Library, standing in front of me, in the present. Here and now. I am jubilant. Henry is looking at me patiently, uncertain but
polite.
“Is there something I can help you with?” he asks.
“Henry!” I can barely refrain from throwing my arms around him. It is obvious that he has never seen me before in his
life.
“Have we met? I’m sorry, I don’t...” Henry is glancing around us, worrying that readers, co-workers are noticing us,
searching his memory and realizing that some future self of his has met this radiantly happy girl standing in front of him.
The last time I saw him he was sucking my toes in the Meadow.
I try to explain. “I’m Clare Abshire. I knew you when I was a little girl.,.” I’m at a loss because I am in love with a man
who is standing before me with no memories of me at all. Everything is in the future for him. I want to laugh at the
weirdness of the whole thing. I’m flooded with years of knowledge of Henry, while he’s looking at me perplexed and
fearful. Henry wearing my dad’s old fishing trousers, patiently quizzing me on multiplication tables, French verbs, all the
state capitals; Henry laughing at some peculiar lunch my seven-year-old self has brought to the Meadow; Henry wearing
a tuxedo, undoing the studs of his shirt with shaking hands on my eighteenth birthday. Here! Now! “Come and have
coffee with me, or dinner or something...” Surely he has to say yes, this Henry who loves me in the past and the future
must love me now in some bat-squeak echo of other time. To my immense relief he does say yes. We plan to meet
tonight at a nearby Thai restaurant, all the while under the amazed gaze of the woman behind the desk, and I leave,
forgetting about Kelmscott and Chaucer and floating down the marble stairs, through the lobby and out into the October
Chicago sun, running across the park scattering small dogs and squirrels, whooping and rejoicing. 

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