ACCLAIM FOR
“Brookner’s powers of observation and psychological acuity continue, in novel after novel, to produce elegant, spectacularly perceptive writing about what just lurks beneath the facade. ”
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“Paragraph after paragraph shines with intelligence. … As beautiful as a perfectly executed 18th-century painting. ”
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“A particularly wise portrayal … a daring novel about the anxiety and alliances of old age. ”
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“Quietly true to life. … Her triumph is subtle. ”
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“Brookner, like Jane Austen before her, is a master of nuance, a wit of some repute, and a perfectionist in both plot and character. ”
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“Quietly resplendent. … You may want to cheer as Dorothea May goes from a life of quiet desperation to quiet triumph. ”
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“Another brilliantly quiet gem. The incomparably subtle Brookner puts soft, revealing touches on the face of loneliness as only the elderly know it. ”
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ALSO BY
FIRST VINTAGE CONTEMPORARIES EDITION, JANUARY 1999
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc. , New York. Originally published in hardback in the United States by Random House, Inc.
, New York, and in Great Britain by Jonathan Cape, a division of Random House UK, London, in 1998.The Library of Congress has cataloged the Random House edition as follows: Brookner, Anita. Visitors / Anita Brookner. p. cm. I. Title. PR 6052. R5816V57 1998 823’. 914—dc21 97–10494
eISBN: 978-0-307826329
v3. 1
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Towards evening the oppressive heat was tempered by a slight breeze, although this merely served to power drifts and eddies of a warmth almost tropical in its intensity. But this was England: somewhere in the atmosphere was a memory of damp. Truth to tell, the day had been almost uncomfortable: one was not used to such temperatures. The light, however, compensated for everything. Not quite crystal clear, but blinding in the absence of cloud, and gaining authority from the becalmed stillness of the garden, it put Mrs May in mind of novels and stories celebrating gardens other than her own, gardens which were part of estates, demesnes, where richly endowed families conversed in idleness, sat on terraces, or awaited visitors. ‘What meads, what