❞ رواية Darkness at Noon ❝ ⏤ Arthur Koestler

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.

Darkness at Noon    

THE CELL DOOR SLAMMED BEHIND RUBASHOV. He remained leaning against the door for a few seconds, and
lit a cigarette. On the bed to his right lay two fairly clean blankets, and the straw mattress looked newly filled. The
wash-basin to his left had no plug, but the tap functioned. The can next to it had been freshly disinfected, it did not smell.
 The walls on both sides were of solid brick, which would stifle the sound of tapping, but where the heating and drain pipe
penetrated it, it had been plastered and resounded quite well; besides, the heating pipe itself seemed to be noise-conducting.
The window started at eye-level; one could see down into the courtyard without having to pull oneself up by the bars. So
far everything was in order.
He yawned, took his coat off, rolled it up and put it on the mattress as a pillow. He looked out into the yard. The snow
shimmered yellow in the double light of the moon and the electric lanterns. All round the yard, along the walls, a narrow
track had been cleared for the daily exercise. Dawn had not yet appeared; the stars still shone clear and frostily, in spite of
the lanterns. On the rampart of the outside wall, which lay opposite Rubashov’s cell, a soldier with slanted rifle was
marching the hundred steps up and down; he stamped at every step as if on parade. From time to time the yellow light of
the lanterns flashed on his bayonet.
Rubashov took his shoes off, still standing at the window. He put out his cigarette, laid the stump on the floor at the end of
his bedstead, and remained sitting on the mattress for a few minutes. He went back to the window once more. The
courtyard was still; the sentry was just turning; above the machine-gun tower he saw a streak of the Milky Way.
Rubashov stretched himself on the bunk and wrapped himself in the top blanket. It was five o’clock and it was unlikely
that one had to get up here before seven in winter. He was very sleepy and, thinking it over, decided that he would hardly
be brought up for examination for another three or four days. He took his pince-nez off, laid it on the stone-paved floor
next the cigarette stump, smiled and shut his eyes. He was warmly wrapped up in the blanket, and felt protected; for the
first time in months he was not afraid of his dreams. When a few minutes later the warder turned the light off from
outside, and looked through the spy-hole into his cell, Rubashov, ex-Commissar of the People, slept, his back turned to the
wall, with his head on his outstretched left arm, which stuck stiffly out of the bed; only the hand on the end of it hung
loosely and twitched in his sleep.

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