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Winter's Tale Paperback – June 1, 2005
| Mark Helprin (Author) Find all the books, read about the author, and more. See search results for this author |
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One winter night, Peter Lake—master mechanic and second-story man—attempts to rob a fortresslike 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, 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.
"Utterly 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
- Print length768 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherMariner Books
- Publication dateJune 1, 2005
- Dimensions5.31 x 1.76 x 8 inches
- ISBN-109780156031196
- ISBN-13978-0156031196
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From the Back Cover
Mark Helprin's magical 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 master 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 who is 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.
"This novel stretches the boundaries of contemporary literature. It is a gifted writer's love affair with the language." - Newsday
"Is it not astonishing that a work so rooted in fantasy, filled with narrative high jinks and comic flights, stands forth centrally as a moral discourse? It is indeed . . . . 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." - Front Page, The New York Times Book Review
A New York Times Bestseller
Educated at Harvard, Princeton, and Oxford, Mark Helprin served in the Israeli army, Israeli Air Force, and British Merchant Navy. He is the author of, among other titles, Refiner's Fire, Ellis Island and Other Stories, Winter's Tale, A Soldier of the Great War, Memoir from Antproof Case, The Pacific and Other Stories, and Freddy and Fredericka.
About the Author
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.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
THERE 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 Helprin
All 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 retrieval
system, 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.
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Product details
- ASIN : 0156031191
- Publisher : Mariner Books; First edition (June 1, 2005)
- Language : English
- Paperback : 768 pages
- ISBN-10 : 9780156031196
- ISBN-13 : 978-0156031196
- Item Weight : 1.3 pounds
- Dimensions : 5.31 x 1.76 x 8 inches
- Best Sellers Rank: #82,534 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #1,099 in Magical Realism
- #1,483 in Contemporary Literature & Fiction
- #2,050 in Short Stories (Books)
- Customer Reviews:
About the author

Educated at Harvard, Princeton, and Oxford, MARK HELPRIN served in the Israeli army, Israeli Air Force, and British Merchant Navy. He is the author of, among other titles, A Dove of the East and Other Stories, Refiner's Fire, Winter's Tale, and A Soldier of the Great War. He lives in Virginia.
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Winter's tale is hard to share and describe to others, simply because it's almost impossible to categorize. There really feels as if there is no precedent, no "starting point" to begin a description. Its a multi-age, historical fantasy, adventure, love story wrapped in allegory, examining our modern cultural conceits. See what I mean?
I wont go into the details of the story, other than its the story of the journey of Peter Lake, from childhood to adult, in multiple ages and dimensions (though the multi-age and dimensions aren't really fleshed out but left to the reader to interpret). His growth from a young Bayonne Bayou tribesman to Victorian cat burglar to hero of the downtrodden and love interest of the tragically doomed is so sweeping, so varied, it can't be described...so I'll stop here on that...
The one aspect I would bring to the potential readers' attention is the fantastical elements. At any given moment, some small miraculous or fantastical occurrence may happen - it may be intrinsic to the story arc, or it may just be a small "side scene". These are mostly included for gentle, subtle humor and are tremendously entertaining and effective, and help transport the reader to an almost magical place in their imagination. Its as if all the strange, goofy and impossible things that might flit across the mind during our daily grind, things that stimulate or give us pleasure but we know would never happen - these things DO happen in the world of Peter Lake. If this sort of writing frustrates you, if you are the type that likes a book for its "gritty, authentic realism"...run away from this book!
And now, for the disappointing thoughts - I don't know if I can recommend the book to the last two generations, Gen Y and Z. Why?
This book is one that DEPENDS upon you being able to be mentally, emotionally and spiritually whisked away to a world of beautiful, transporting "other-ness". Its a book you read alone, by a fireplace with a cup of tea, maybe late at night when the veil between the "mundane" world we live in and the similar but fantastical world created by Helprin is thinnest. It's here that the adventures of Peter Lake, the romance with Beverly Penn, his wars with the "Dead Rabbits" gang, his magical secret home behind the electric stars in the dome of Grand Central Station, all become believable and real, and are able to best pierce the head and heart.
Its NOT a book that can be taken in through headphones, being read to you as you commute to work or as you work out in the gym. Its not one you can skim on your phone's Kindle app app while waiting for you next meeting or taking a lunch break. Or, one you read in fits and starts, tiny slices at a time in between your other, super active social or work schedules. And unfortunately, that seems to be the only way the current under 30 generation is willing to take in information - in tiny slices, and though their smartphone :(
I know that is a gross generalization, and many of that generation DO manage to develop an understanding and love for taking in good literature. Its just not the majority, unfortunately. I shed tears for what is slowly being lost in our culture.
So...do you deserve the privilege of reading this fantastic novel? Do you want your perception of reality, of love and of a magical cold winter's day to be forever changed? Then do whatever it takes to take in this book, the right way and with the right frame of mind. I wish you a magical journey!
This book needs and deserves a quiet and comfortable place and a lot of time.
You’re going to want to put on a pot of tea, put your phone on Do Not Disturb, and get cozy.
It’s going to be worth every second.
Top reviews from other countries
Mostly set in a kind of mythical New York the story covers so many characters and interwoven tales that a plot summary is nearly impossible. However, the main two characters as far as I'm concerned (other people may find other characters grab their attention more) are Peter Lake - a kind hearted criminal on the run from one of his former gangs - and Beverly Penn - a consumptive girl who Peter meets and falls in love with while attempting to burgle her home.
The novel is one of the best examples of 'magical realism' I've encountered. The turn of the century New York in which most of the action takes place is evocatively described and many of the characters deal with very difficult and important issues in the real world and their thoughts and dilemmas are described by Helprin in very real terms. Almost everything, though, is shot through with magic and fantasy - from white guardian horses to after death returns of loved ones to physics defying pool shots - and so even the most realistic scenes are tinted by the background presence of magic.
Yes, it is rather long, and, yes, at times things get almost needlessly complicated and confusing, but stick with it and you'll find a very poignant and moving work that can be enjoyed on many levels.
The book ranges in time from the late 19th century to the eve of the 21st. It is set in a fantasy New York, heaving with the poor dying in their hovels and gangs of thugs, overseen by hugely powerful newspapers and their magnates, full of energy, hope and despair. As someone who has never been to New York and who is unlikely to go, I felt that I missed a lot of the book's richness. There is a rave review from the New York Times review link here which gives you a New Yorker's take on the book.
The description on Amazon (above) is misleading. Peter Lake may be the main character of the book, but he disappears for the central part of it, and the love story with Beverly although enchanting is actually a minor part of the book. With Peter Lake removed from the story, the focus shifts to a larger cast of characters. Don't expect subtle characterisation in this book. With the exception of Peter Lake and the elderly newspaper owner Harry Penn, Halprin's characters are symbols, vehicles for forces of love, truth etc. The good are good, the evil are evil and there isn't that much of a focus on the latter.
In some ways New York is the central character in the novel, whilst the storyline is the pursuit of the ideal city. "To enter a city intact it is necessary to pass through . . . gates far more difficult to find than gates of stone, for they are test mechanisms, devices, and implementations of justice.'' One gate is that of ''acceptance of responsibility,'' another is that of ''the desire to explore,'' still another that of ''devotion to beauty,'' and the last is the gate of ''selfless love.'' Does the ideal come at the end of the novel?
This book has been lauded as a great feat of magic realism, and compared to the wonderful One Hundred Years of Solitude. I have to differ - it is not as great as Marquez's masterpiece and I don't think there was a lot of realism in the book to make it a great magic realism book.
I found the book overly verbose. Like one of his characters the author uses all sorts of unusual words, which I found got in the way of understanding rather than illuminating. Halprin applies layer upon layer of description to the point where it was possible to skip several pages without missing any of the story. At first I really enjoyed his descriptions, but after a while found them tedious and at times not even very good.
It is nevertheless an impressive book, full of wonderful images, thoughts and imagination. The book reminded me of Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials trilogy and like Pullman's book had me loving it in parts and leaving me nevertheless unsatisfied.
This review first appeared on the Magic Realism blog
This is a challenging book to describe but the best I can do is to say that it takes me away to another dimension in which I can happily reside for hours at a time. It's fantastic but also brutally realistic, historically valid but also gloriously fanciful. The key character, Peter Lake, is one of the most likeable literary creations I have ever encountered. We grow to love his quirky personality and admire his unpretentious inner beauty. With the news that this book is about to be made into a movie, I am particularly nervous about the actor choice for Peter Lake. There are many other players in this large cast to grow fond of (my other particular favourite is, of course, Beverly) and even some truly funny interludes; in fact I could often imagine Helprin giggling quietly to himself as he had fun with his own creations. Perhaps, and for very different reasons, the true hero of the story is the horse Athansor, presented in all his glorious power but also, heartbreakingly, in a very different state ... but that would spoil the enjoyment, and this is starting to sound like a literary dissertation instead of a product review.
The sheer beauty of the writing would be reason enough to buy this book, but I really treasure its enveloping and transporting powers. A book to revisit often, to delve into layers that were not apparent the first time around. One final piece of advice: with nearly 700 pages, it might make sense to look for a hard-cover issue. I bought a used one in excellent condition.









