By Joanne Harris
Sooner than the candy satisfaction of Chocolat, prior to the heady concoction that's Blackberry Wine, and earlier than the tart pleasures of 5 Quarters of the Orange, bestselling writer Joanne Harris wrote Sleep, light Sister -- a gothic tourde-force that remembers the powerfully darkish sensibility of her novel Holy Fools. initially released in 1994 -- and not earlier than to be had within the usa -- Sleep, light Sister is a hypnotically atmospheric tale set in 19th century London. whilst puritanical artist Henry Chester sees soft baby good looks Effie, he makes her his favourite version and, prior to lengthy, his bride. yet Henry, unstable and repressed, is in love with an incredible. Passive, docile, and asexual, the girl he initiatives onto Effie is way from the lady she rather is. And whilst Effie starts to find the murderous depths of Henry's hypocrisy, her latent ardour will upward push to the skin. Sleep, light Sister combines the airy great thing about a Pre-Raphaelite portray with a chilling excessive gothic story and is a testomony to Harris's brimming cornucopia of abilities. This P.S. version beneficial properties an additional sixteen pages of insights into the e-book, together with writer interviews, suggested analyzing, and extra.
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Extra info for Sleep, Pale Sister (P.S.)
I had no interest in painting men: I found more poetry in the female form, and a certain type of female form at that. I advertised in The Times, but found that from twenty or so applicants only one or two were even passably handsome, and that none of them could be termed ‘respectable’ women. As long as they didn’t open their vulgar mouths I did not complain, however, which is why, when I look back at some of my earlier works, I find it hard to trust my memory, recollecting that sweet-faced Juliet had an illegitimate child or innocent Cinderella an addiction to the gin-bottle.
What of the good Henry? )…maybe a true word spoken in jest at the expense of the pious Mr Chester. Suffice it to say there was a coldness, but a professional coldness. Mr Ruskin had taken a fancy to my Sodom and Gomorrah and had written favourably of me. There was a canvas! Three hundred bodies in rapturous, tortuous embrace! And every inch of female flesh conquered territory!
I had often wondered how such a stern, God-fearing man had come to marry such a delicate, worldly creature. That he might have passions I could not guess at made me uneasy, and I dismissed such thoughts. When I was twenty-five my father died. I was completing my Grand Tour at the time, and did not hear of it until all was over. It seemed that during the winter he had caught a cold, had neglected it—he hardly ever lit fires in the house except in the bitterest weather—had refused to take to his bed and, one day in church, had collapsed.