A Suspension of Mercy
Patricia Highsmith
Language: English
Pages: 235
ISBN: 0393321975
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
A major new reissue of the work of a classic noir novelist.
With the acclaim for The Talented Mr. Ripley, more film projects in production, and two biographies forthcoming, expatriate legend Patricia Highsmith would be shocked to see that she has finally arrived in her homeland. Throughout her career, Highsmith brought a keen literary eye and a genius for plumbing the psychopathic mind to more than thirty works of fiction, unparalleled in their placid deviousness and sardonic humor. With deadpan accuracy, she delighted in creating true sociopaths in the guise of the everyday man or woman. Now, one of her finest works is again in print: A Suspension of Mercy, a masterpiece of noir fantasy. With this novel, Highsmith revels in eliciting the unsettling psychological forces that lurk beneath the surface of everyday contemporary life. "For eliciting the menace that lurks in familiar surroundings, there's no one like Patricia Highsmith."―Time "Highsmith's novels are peerlessly disturbing ....bad dreams that keep us thrashing for the rest of the night."―The New Yorker
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through. If you’re going to work on it for a while, why not try putting some plot in all the way through?” “And why not stick to your painting and let me do the writing?” “All right, but something’s the matter with The Planners, or it’d sell. Isn’t there?” she asked, unable to stop herself now. “Oh, for God’s sake,” Sydney said, speeding up a little. “Not too fast, Syd.” “First it’s a pep talk about the best of novels getting kicked around for years, then it’s
ideas.” “Oh. I thought you were hammering out one today.” Sydney sighed, vaguely irritated, yet it was the only subject he wanted to talk about. “We were going to. I had an idea. It just didn’t get off the ground.” He shrugged. The third serial that he and Alex had doped out—mostly he had doped out, Alex simply wrote it in television form—had been rejected last week by the third and last possible purchaser in London. Three or four weeks of sweat, at least four sessions in London with
o’clock, Sydney heard the telephone from the backyard, where he was mucking about in the compost heap, and went running into the house to get it. “Hello, Sydney. This is Elspeth Cragge. How are you?” “Oh. All right, thanks. And you?” “Any news from Alicia? . . .” And so it went for five minutes or so. Elspeth Cragge had rung once before. She had just had a baby. She and her husband lived in Woodbridge, and they were rather boring people. Her questions and remarks were boring,
streets?” “More or less.” Their conversation trickled off and they hung up with no further words about Edward Tilbury. Sydney patiently waited for a bus to Sumner Downs for ten minutes, still in a kind of fog, then realized he had another fifteen minutes to wait, and that he was supposed to ring Brighton police headquarters for his usual check-in. He went to a kiosk. “I’m still at Sumner Downs,” he said, and almost said he’d be going back home tomorrow, but didn’t. “Did
Tilbury didn’t know what to make of it. He stepped to one side as Sydney advanced. “Where are they? In the bathroom? Get them,” Sydney said. “Yes.” Tilbury walked obediently toward a door that led off from the living room. “I don’t really need them now.” “Yes, you do,” said Sydney, following him. In the bathroom, Tilbury opened the medicine cabinet door, hesitated, and said, “Looks as if I took the last one last night.” He closed the cabinet. Sydney opened it, and saw
