Read "The Talented Mr. Ripley" by Patricia Highsmith with Rakuten Kobo. Ripley is back. This new publication of Patricia Highsmith's classic inaugurates the. Another novel with homosexual characters was, of course, The Talented Mr. Ripley () that was perhaps one of the most discussed works of hers. The novel. Patricia Highsmith and The Talented Mr. Ripley: An Introduction. • Patricia Highsmith was born in Texas in • Her first novel, Strangers on a Train ( ).
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The Talented Mr Ripley - Free ebook download as PDF File .pdf), Text File .txt) or read book online for free. How far would you go to become someone else?. he Talented Mr Ripley by Patricia Highsmith is the first of five books featuring Her first book, Strangers on a Train, was published in and was made into a . The talented Mr Ripley by Patricia Highsmith; 1 edition; First published in ; Subjects: Accessible book, Protected DAISY, Fiction in English.
She's probably working a little late. Theoretical and Historical Concepts 1. He was invited to dinner tonight at the Greenleafs' apartment on Park Avenue. She was back in her bathing suit. Or else she had clothes at Dickie's house.
He looked like a businessman, somebody's father, well-dressed, well-fed, greying at the temples, an air of uncertainty about him. Was that the kind they sent on a job like this, maybe to start chatting with you in a bar, and then bang! Tom Ripley, you're under arrest. Tom watched the door. Here he came.
The man looked around, saw him and immediately looked away. He removed his straw hat, and took a place around the curve of the bar. My God, what did he want? He certainly wasn't a pervert, Tom thought for the second time, though now his tortured brain groped and produced the actual word, as if the word could protect him, because he would rather the man be a pervert than a policeman.
Tom slid back on the stool, bracing himself. Tom saw the man make a gesture of postponement to the barman, and come around the bar towards him. Here it was! Tom stared at him, paralysed. They couldn't give you more than ten years, Tom thought. Maybe fifteen, but with good conduct--In the instant the man's lips parted to speak, Tom had a pang of desperate, agonized regret. Richard Greenleaf's father.
The face was friendly, smiling and hopeful. Dickie Greenleaf. A tall blond fellow. He had quite a bit of money, Tom remembered. They're the ones who told me about you, that you might--uh--Do you think we could sit down at a table? He followed the man towards an empty table at the back of the little room.
Reprieved, he thought. Nobody was going to arrest him. This was about something else. No matter what it was, it wasn't grand larceny or tampering with the mails or whatever they called it.
Maybe Richard was in some kind of jam. Maybe Mr Greenleaf wanted help, or advice. Tom knew just what to say to a father like Mr Greenleaf. Didn't you come up to the house once with Richard?
We've all been trying to reach you, because the Schrievers wanted us to meet at their house. Somebody told them you went to the Green Cage bar now and then. This is the first night I've tried to find you, so I suppose I should consider myself lucky.
Damn him. Maybe there was a cheque there from Auntie Dottie. Tom remembered going to a cocktail party at the Schrievers' with Dickie Greenleaf. You see. Judging him from that night. Maybe the Greenleafs were more friendly with the Schrievers than he was.
Tm afraid I don't. Charley had thought he was a genius for having doped out his tax and made it lower than the one Charley had arrived at. He has responsibilities here--but just now he ignores anything that I or his mother try to tell him. Tom thought. And the last time.
Charley could have told Mr Greenleaf that he was intelligent. The Talented Mr Ripley week or so ago. I don't think I've seen Dickie for a couple of years. I see. There was Buddy Lankenau. I know so few of Richard's friends any more -' He glanced at Tom's glass. I suppose they took it for granted you were writing him all along. I didn't say much in my letter.
Charley was a TV director. It was a slight error. The Schrievers seemed to think you knew Richard quite well. Only that I'd like to see you and have a chat with you. Maybe that was what had prompted Charley's recommendation of him to Mr Greenleaf. I want him to come home. The Schrievers spoke very highly of you.
But his mother's quite ill right 4.
But he hated to leave the man sitting alone with his fresh drink. Mr Greenleaf looked at Tom apologetically. Tom smiled at Mr Greenleaf. Small sailing boats. The Talented Mr Ripley now--Well. You're not ready? He remembered now that Dickie's money came from a shipbuilding company. Tom wanted to leave. He's bought a house there. There's not even a library there.
He's got great talent for boat designing. Tom was on the edge of his chair. They all take the attitude that I'm trying to interfere with his life. No doubt his father wanted him to come home and take over the family firm. Divides his time between sailing and painting. Mr Greenleaf's eyes were fixed on him with a pathetic. Richard has his own income--nothing huge. There's no harm in that. I'm sorry to annoy you like this.
I -' But he didn't want to say he was working for the Department of Internal Revenue. Mr Ripley? What on earth could he say? Tom was sorry he had accepted the drink. I think I will. He had them sometimes at parties. He was bored. Why should he want to come home? Dickie's face was becoming clearer in his memory: But I remember Dickie talking that weekend about going to Europe. Dickie was lucky.
Dickie and I went out and gathered mussels. Tom knew the sensations. He had a talent for mathematics. An income. Dickie was probably having the time of his life over there. God-damned bloody bored. Why in hell didn't they pay him for it. Or his drawings? He wanted to be back at the bar. I think he told me about the mussels.
No bank account. Richard's got talent along those lines. What was he himself doing at twenty-five? Living from week to week. I'd be very glad to write to Dickie. That was the last weekend Richard was here. I remember. Dodging cops now for the first time in his life. Tom realized that all his muscles had tensed. Tom took a gulp of his drink. He must have left just -' 'I remember! We were at a weekend party once out on Long Island. Of course he did. Pen- and-ink drawings. His boredom had slipped into another gear.
He put on an expression of reflection. Last winter. I think it'd be worth more than my going over. Richard promised he'd come home when the winter began. How about a nice brandy? What boy of twenty-five listens to an old man sixty or more?
You'll probably succeed where the rest of us have failed!
I don't suppose you could possibly get a leave of absence from your present job. I'm not. I'm sorry I'm not quite free now or I'd be very glad to go over and see if I could persuade Richard myself.
Then the mere fact that you don't know him very well--If you put it to him strongly why you think he ought to come home. He wanted to leave New York. Do you really think you might be able to arrange it? Jim Burke and his wife--Jim's my partner -they went by Mongibello last year when they were on a cruise. If you or somebody like you who knew him could get a leave of absence. Something in him had smelt it out and leapt at it even before his brain.
I'd be glad to see Richard again-especially if you think I might be of some help. I think he'd listen to you. Now he could be maniacally polite for perhaps another whole hour. Jim's given him up. I'd be glad to take care of your expenses. I'd even send them over to talk to him. Present job: I don't know if you're planning a trip to Europe or not. He might have to leave town soon.
The Talented Mr Ripley evening got longer and longer. Tom stared at the gold signet ring with the nearly worn-away crest on Mr Greenleaf's little finger. Maybe I could have some influence on him. It was a possibility. Tom had been shocked at the sordidness of the place. He ran up the steps. Something always turned up. That was Tom's philosophy.
Tom had not asked any of his friends up to Bob's. Mr Greenleaf had offered to drop him off in a taxi. A lot the sordidness mattered now. Just before he climbed the brownstone steps. Bob was a freelance window decorator for shops and department stores. But the smelly john down the hall that didn't lock. And now Mr Greenleaf had turned up. Tom stopped and looked carefully in both directions. If there was any sensation he hated. For the last two and half weeks Tom had been living with Bob Delancey.
And lately he had it all the time. Nothing but an old woman airing her dog. The main advantage of Bob's place was that he could get his George McAlpin mail there with the minimum chance of detection. He'd do his very best with Dickie. Just as well Bob wasn't home this morning. Tom had almost forgotten such people existed. Waiters to bring him things when he pushed a button! Dressing for dinner. Mr Greenleaf couldn't possibly have had the impression that he had wangled the invitation to Europe.
Mr Greenleaf was such a decent fellow himself. All that crummy bum would see in it was a free trip. He put a hand into Bob's glutted closet and thrust the hangers aggressively to right and left to make room for his suit.. Tom began to whistle. When he woke up the next morning Bob was not there. He wouldn't let Mr Greenleaf down. It was one of the few times in his life that he felt pleased with himself.
He had behaved just right. Fifteen minutes later. Slowly he took off his jacket and untied his tie. As soon as he could get a passport. Just the opposite. He could congratulate himself on tonight. Do some research on Burke-Greenleaf Watercraft. The Talented Mr Ripley the room. The old rusty showerhead sent a jet against the shower curtain and another jet in an erratic spiral that he could hardly catch to wet himself.
What should he do this afternoon? Go to some art exhibits. Tom was strolling up and down the room with a cup of black coffee in his hand. After the mail. He wouldn't tell any of them. And Ed Martin. Tom jumped out of bed. He was invited to dinner tonight at the Greenleafs' apartment on Park Avenue.
Then he went into the bathroom. He didn't want to tell Bob about the European trip. Astonishing how much straighter he was standing now. Tom had a bank messenger's identification card that he had found somewhere with an old date on it that he could try to alter.
The Talented Mr Ripley The whack of the mailbox came faintly through the open window. Or that some idiot hadn't paid in cash yet. It was a good omen. Shouldn't he try just one more in these last ten days before he sailed?
Walking home last evening. Out came a cheque for one hundred and nineteen dollars and fifty-four cents. A pity that he couldn't cash them.
Tom thought--but Mrs Superaugh had been so easy. Good clean sport. This raised his total in cheques to one thousand eight hundred and sixty-three dollars and fourteen cents. Good old Mrs Edith W. Before he went to Europe.
He waited until the mailman was down the front steps and out of sight before he took the letter addressed to George McAlpin down from the edge of the mailbox frame where the mailman had stuck it. He wasn't stealing money from anybody. Mr de Sevilla hadn't paid up yet--he needed a good scare by telephone to put the fear of God into him.
There were seven more prospects on his list. In that bracket. There were a few sheets of stationery in the box. He went upstairs again. He put her cheque into a manila envelope in the inside pocket of one of his jackets in the closet.
Tom took a mauve-coloured stationery box from his suitcase in the closet. Tom ripped it open. So it amounted to no more than a practical joke. Paid without a whimper. On the very bottom was his list of prospects -carefully chosen people who lived in the Bronx or in Brooklyn and would not be too inclined to pay the New York office a personal visit.
Tom figured He had decided to give Mr Reddington a preliminary prod. Frances Karnegis--Tom had a hunch about Reddington. And we wouldn't like to slap a lien on the office you work for or your agent or whatever -' Here he chuckled. He was a comic-book artist. Mr Reddington was at home. Philip Robillard. I'm sorry the notice hasn't reached you before now. Dear Sir: Due to an overflow at our regular Lexington Avenue office. Ralph F. There's no mistake. New York. We've been a little rushed around here.
Balance due: Frieda Hoehn. There was William J. He probably didn't know whether he was coming or going. Thank you. Frederick Reddington. New York Fischer Gen. Joseph J. The Talented Mr Ripley that people seldom hired professional tax men to compute their taxes. Mr Reddington. We've been over your return very carefully.
He put the other forms away in case Bob should come in suddenly. He got Mr Reddington's number from information and called it. Tom explained the situation briefly. Tom signed it with a scrolly. Then he took a piece of typewriter paper stamped with the Department of Internal Revenue's Lexington Avenue address from his supply in his carbon folder.
A friendly. I'm just thinking of saving you your time. But if Mr Reddington were to ask him to explain what it was all about.
Tom sat there for a moment. Tom could hear it in the silence. You can come in if you want to. Mr Reddington was backing down. I'll read the notice when I get it tomorrow. So far. Then he jumped up. Tom had a lot of hash about net income versus accrued income. Mr Reddington wasn't going to ask him anything about records. He sounded like a genial old codger of sixty-odd. I don't believe I met you. I'm from Boston. Tom was very fond of it.
Fleming and Parker. The conversation was dull. In answer to a question of Mrs Greenleaf's. A pity you can't take him some. About thirty minutes later--just the right time later. Mrs Greenleaf? That was true. Fleming and Barter. She had told him she would like him to take Richard some black woollen socks from Brooks Brothers. Mr Greenleaf led them into the living-room. Mr Greenleaf didn't seem to notice the difference. The Talented Mr Ripley got too tired to go home.
He said so. Tom mentioned the firm's name a second time when he and Mr Greenleaf were alone in the living room after dinner. When he referred to it again.
Tom told her that he was working for an advertising firm called Rothenberg. The album was not interesting to him until Richard got to be sixteen or so. Richard in a ghastly full-page colour photograph dressed and posed as the Blue Boy. The picture was backgrounded by dry. The Talented Mr Ripley 'No. Tom felt as if he had gone there.
Tom had been very friendly last summer with a Princeton junior who had talked of nothing but Princeton. Tom could have discussed the system of teaching history. In several of them he was frowning. I went to Princeton for a while.
So far as Tom could see. Dickie on a beach. Tom could not help feeling that Richard was not very intelligent. She had taken him to Denver when he was sixteen. Mrs Greenleaf came in with a photograph album. Tom had told the Greenleafs that he had been raised by his Aunt Dottie in Boston. Richard taking his first step. Tom saw. Mr Greenleaf went out of the room with her.
Yet he had a feeling of guilt. Now he saw tears in her eyes. He was smiling. He wasn't trying to fool anybody. He felt himself beginning to sweat. Tom remained standing. Tom noticed that Mrs Greenleaf was staring down at the rug in front of her.. He remembered the moment at the table when she had said. Richard looked more poised in the European pictures.
That had been the only time tonight when he had felt uncomfortable. The girl was in a bathing suit on the beach. The Talented Mr Ripley American who lives there. He looked quickly away. Mr Greenleaf was getting up to come to her. I'll do everything I can. When he had said to Mrs Greenleaf just now. He was doing the right thing. In a large mirror on the wall he could sec himself: What was he so worried about?
He'd felt so well tonight! When he had said that about Aunt Dottie. He sat across the room. There was a good picture of Richard in shorts. Tom straightened.. I miss them. Tom stood up as Mrs Greenleaf did. Last Friday when he had answered the telephone. We've got the stuff for you. He gave it out as the phone number of the Adjustment Department where he could be reached only between three-thirty and four on Wednesday and Friday afternoons. Tom had started laughing. His figure seemed to pulsate and grow larger and larger.
The Talented Mr Ripley had been lying. Mr Greenleaf came into the room. I was raised by my aunt in Boston. When the druggist had looked at him suspiciously the second time he had been there. It's like a movie. A cold fear was running over Tom's body. To your house. We know where you live.. Mr Greenleaf or somebody else's voice would say.
My parents died when I was very small. Tom hung around the booth in the drugstore. Tom had said that he was waiting for a call from his girl friend. Tom blinked his eyes. At these times. In a minute. There was a drugstore on Second Avenue whose phone number he gave out to people who insisted on calling him again about their income tax.
He was thinking of the incident in the drugstore last week. By the way. She may not live a year. I didn't have to ask her. Tom accepted the glass Mr Greenleaf was holding out to him. That's very serious. Tom wanted to get out of the apartment. The Talented Mr Ripley because his legs were still weak from his own fear. Several times Tom got up with his drink and strolled to the fireplace and back. You don't look like a young man who'd throw money down the drain. The moments on the sofa were more agonising than the moments in the bar last night when he had been so bored.
If anything happened with the police in the next ten days. I was.
It was not in the least interesting. Does that suit you? The six hundred should see you through nearly two months. I hope you enjoy your trip. I'll write him about you--not telling him that you're an emissary from me. And yet he still wanted to go to Europe.
Mr Greenleaf was rollicking on about Richard and himself in Paris. Mr Greenleaf pulled a paper out of his pocket. I think the usual Cherbourg way is quickest. Now as to money -' Mr Greenleaf smiled his fatherly smile. I expect you and Richard'll hit it off all right. Emily likes you a lot. Richard ought to put you up. You'd take the boat train to Paris. She told me so. Only during your lunch hour. He felt he would faint if he stayed one minute longer in the dimly lighted foyer. It was as if something had gone out of New York--the realness or the importance of it--and the city was putting on a show just for him.
But the pained. If you give me half an hour's notice. Then they shook hands. I think I should be going. I think you should be able to tell Richard what the yards look like these days. I suppose. He leaned in the corner of the elevator in an exhausted way. Greenleaf that he'd sublet his apartment in a hurry. I'll have a man pick you up at your office and drive you out. The Talented Mr Ripley Tom thought. But I wanted to show you--Well.
Another time. Tom felt awful. We'll have a sandwich as we walk through. Mr Greenleaf would take him in. You've got my card with my private number. He could tell Mr. Tom had gone to Marc Priminger's house in East-Forty-fifth Street--he still had the keys--to pick up a couple of things he had forgotten.
The few times he had been on deck the sight of water had at first frightened him. It gave Tom a sick. Marc his given name was. The Talented Mr Ripley colossal show with its buses. They saw very little of each other at the Fifty-first Street place. He had never been seasick. He hated water. His parents had drowned in Boston Harbour. Bob did not seem interested. And it was particularly un-chic to be seasick. He had told Bob Delancey that he was moving in a week.
Marcellus was an ugly mug of a man with a private income and a hobby of helping out young men in temporary financial difficulties by putting them up in his two-storey. He had never been anywhere before on water. Or maybe he was afraid. As if when his boat left the pier on Saturday. Cleo always had the lights on. Whereupon Marc had thrown him out. The old tightwad! He should have been an old maid. Cleo always asked him up to her apartment.
Cleo lived in her own suite of rooms with a little bath and kitchen at the back of her parents' section of the apartment. The Talented Mr Ripley around the place and by giving them advice as to their lives and their jobs. The only one of his friends he felt like telling about his European trip was Cleo. They had taken to each other from the very first night.
Cleo Dobelle was a slim dark-haired girl who could have been anything from twenty-three to thirty. Tom was bitterly sorry he had ever laid eyes on Marc Priminger. Tom didn't know. Other painters have rooms and rooms to hold their canvases! Tom had seen Cleo only in close-fitting velvet slacks of various colours and gaily striped silk shirts.
Tom had stayed there three months. Except for the night when he had met her. She didn't expect him to bring her flowers or books or candy when he came for dinner or cocktails. The hair Tom said he felt pretty well prepared. It's just like out of Shakespeare or something!
Cleo was enthralled. After dinner. You have all the luck. The Talented Mr Ripley so. Her red lips parted in her long. Cleo sighed. Kleenexes and cold tablets and woollen socks because it started raining in Europe in the fall. I don't want to be seen off. How too. Men're so free! Cleo fussed around him all evening. Nothing like that could ever happen to a girl. He did. He showed the wrist-watch to Cleo. It often seemed to him that it was the other way around. He described the second dinner at Mr Greenleaf's house.
I think that's such fun! Will you write me everything that happens with Dickie? You're the only person I know who ever went to Europe for a reason. That was just what he had needed someone to say.
Cleo was the one person he could tell that he was going to Europe and why. They drank nearly two bottles of Medoc from her parents' liquor shelf. The next day he took care of Mrs Greenleaf's commissions at Brooks Brothers.
Tom followed the steward to his cabin congratulating himself that his firmness with Bob about not wanting to be seen off had taken effect. Suddenly he leaned forward and planted a firm. He saw a heavy linen sport shirt with wooden buttons that he liked very much. Mrs Greenleaf had not suggested a colour for the bathrobe. I should be back in about six weeks. She would leave that up to him. He put the socks and the robe on the Greenleafs' charge account.
It was not the best- looking robe of the lot. Tom chose a dark maroon flannel with a navy-blue belt and lapels.
He bought it with his own money. Cleo had a lot of brushes with just one hair in them. The Talented Mr Ripley of the little monkeys in the paintings was really astoundingly well done. It went on. He was sweating so heavily.
Bob had found out he was sailing. Bob or somebody produced a bottle of whisky. We're waiting! Are you sick? So what if they all hated him after this. It took self-control for Tom not to say in an icy voice. Thank God the Greenleafs hadn't come to see him off!
Mr Greenleaf had had to go to New Orleans on business. Tom refused to have a drink. There they all were. Bob came over and rammed a glass in his hand. He gave Bob a long. The Talented Mr Ripley entered the room when a bloodcurdling whoop went up.
Why don't you ask them for something decent? Tom thought self-justifyingly. There were very few things that got under his skin. Tom went over to Paul Hubbard. All visitors ashore! Tom could not remember how he had met Paul. Tom said. They stood at the rail near the stern. They surely wouldn't object to a Any old excuse! It's awfully nice of you to come down and see me off. The Talented Mr Ripley in somewhere and go with him.
Tom turned suddenly and ran up a narrow. Tom made up a fine story about an assignment he had been sent on. He made it sound rather secret. Let's see if we can find the bar. Tom glared at him. It was a sunless day. It sounds better in English Apr 22, at 8: Sri Harsha. Leave a comment Amanda Williamson pinned post 13 Jul Only English Jul 13, at 2: Amanda Williamson pinned post 12 Jul Psychologies UK - June Mystery, Novel Since his debut in , Tom Ripley has evolved into the ultimate bad boy sociopath.
Here, in this first Ripley novel, we are introduced to suave Tom Ripley, a young striver, newly arrived in the heady world of Manhattan. A product of a broken home, branded a "sissy" by his dismissive Aunt Dottie, Ripley meets a wealthy industrialist who hires him to bring his playboy son, Dickie Greenleaf, back from gallivanting in Italy.
Soon Ripley's fascination with Dickie's debonair lifestyle turns obsessive as he finds himself enraged by Dickie's ambivalent affections for Marge, a charming American dilettante.