❞ رواية Cold Mountain ❝ ⏤ Charles Frazier

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.

Cold Mountain    

At the first gesture of morning, flies began stirring. Inman's eyes and the long wound at his neck
drew them, and the sound of their wings and the touch of their feet were soon more potent than a
yardful of roosters in rousing a man to wake. So he came to yet one more day in the hospital ward.
He flapped the flies away with his hands and looked across the foot of his bed to an open triple-hung
window. Ordinarily he could see to the red road and the oak tree and the low brick wall. And beyond
them to a sweep of fields and flat piney woods that stretched to the western horizon. The view was a
long one for the flatlands, the hospital having been built on the only swell within eyeshot. But it was
too early yet for a vista. The window might as well have been painted grey.
Had it not been too dim, Inman would have read to pass the time until breakfast, for the book he was
reading had the effect of settling his mind. But he had burned up the last of his own candles reading
to bring sleep the night before, and lamp oil was too scarce to be striking the hospital's lights for
mere diversion. So he rose and dressed and sat in a ladderback chair, putting the gloomy room of
beds and their broken occupants behind him. He flapped again at the flies and looked out the window
at the first smear of foggy dawn and waited for the world to begin shaping up outside. 
 

Cold Mountain    

At the first gesture of morning, flies began stirring. Inman's eyes and the long wound at his neck
drew them, and the sound of their wings and the touch of their feet were soon more potent than a
yardful of roosters in rousing a man to wake. So he came to yet one more day in the hospital ward.
He flapped the flies away with his hands and looked across the foot of his bed to an open triple-hung
window. Ordinarily he could see to the red road and the oak tree and the low brick wall. And beyond
them to a sweep of fields and flat piney woods that stretched to the western horizon. The view was a
long one for the flatlands, the hospital having been built on the only swell within eyeshot. But it was
too early yet for a vista. The window might as well have been painted grey.
Had it not been too dim, Inman would have read to pass the time until breakfast, for the book he was
reading had the effect of settling his mind. But he had burned up the last of his own candles reading
to bring sleep the night before, and lamp oil was too scarce to be striking the hospital's lights for
mere diversion. So he rose and dressed and sat in a ladderback chair, putting the gloomy room of
beds and their broken occupants behind him. He flapped again at the flies and looked out the window
at the first smear of foggy dawn and waited for the world to begin shaping up outside. 
 

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