Showing results for "Hans Christian Andersen" in Short Stories

Truman Capote makes whisky-soaked fruitcake in Alabama; Laurie Lee slides across a frozen pond in Gloucestershire; and Shirley Jackson is outwitted by a wily Santa Claus at the bank. Ghosts haunt the Christmases of Muriel Spark and Elizabeth Bowen, while Dostoyevsky, Daphne du Maurier and Italo Calvino take a cynical view of the season and Selma Lagerlof and Angela Carter celebrate its miracles. Ranging from Cork to Lagos to the Wild West, and from Paris to San Paolo to outer space, this is Christmas as imagined by some of the greatest short-story writers of all time.

The Bell is one of Hans Christian Andersen’s most profound and contemplative tales: a spiritual allegory about longing, humility, and the courage to seek truth beyond appearances. Moving from crowded streets to silent woods, from social rank to shared humanity, the story unfolds as a quiet pilgrimage—where revelation comes not through explanation or authority, but through perseverance and openness of heart.

In Beauty of Form and Beauty of Mind, Hans Christian Andersen offers one of his most mature and quietly devastating tales—a reflective allegory about love, art, and the cost of mistaking appearance for substance.

A couple of large ships were sent up toward the North Pole to discover the boundaries of land and sea and how far it would be possible for the human race to penetrate in that direction.

Diese erste Episode der Hörbuchreihe "Es War Einmal Und Bleibt Für Immer - Musik Küsst Sprache" ist der Start eines neuen Kunstprojektes von Matthias Beitmann. Er verbindet das gesprochene Wort mit seiner Leidenschaft Musik und schafft eine cineastische, emotionale, sensible und abenteuerliche Atmosphäre, die über das normale Hörbuch hinausgeht.

Hans Christian Andersen’s The Old House tells the story of a dilapidated, centuries-old house in a street of modern homes. A curious boy befriends the lonely old man who lives there and explores the house, filled with relics and memories of the past. The house and its contents, including a lost tin soldier, are eventually sold and the house is demolished, yet its history and the friendship it fostered endure as memories in the boy’s mind, represented by the rediscovery of the tin soldier years later.

Schnee – knirscht unter den Schuhen, verwandelt Wiesen und Felder in weiße Winterlandschaften und lockt die Menschen mit den ersten rieselnden Flocken in die Natur. Dass Schnee aber durchaus auch ein geheimnisvolles und bedrohliches Element sein kann, beweist Jens Wawrczeck mit seinem Hörbuch Snowy Evening . In den drei ausgewählten Erzählungen von Conrad Aiken, Hans Christian Andersen und Alexander Puschkin ist Schnee kein bloßes Naturphänomen, er spielt Schicksal und greift in das Leben der Figuren ein.

I am a poor lad, and live in one of the narrowest of lanes; but I have plenty of light: my room is high up in the house, and there is a good prospect over the roofs of the opposite houses. During the first few days I lived in the town, I felt very lonely and low-spirited. Instead of the forest and the green hills of the country, I had nothing but black chimney-pots on the horizon of my view. And then I had not a single friend, nor one familiar face to greet me.

Es war so schön draußen auf dem Land, es war Sommer – die Weizenfelder waren golden, der Hafer war grün, und unten zwischen den grünen Wiesen stand das Heu aufgestapelt. Dort schritt der Storch auf seinen roten Beinen umher und klapperte auf Ägyptisch, was die Sprache war, die seine Mutter ihn gelehrt hatte. Rund um die Felder und Wiesenländer erhoben sich riesige Wälder, in denen verborgene tiefe Seen lagen. Ja, es war in der Tat wunderschön dort draußen auf dem Land.

There was once a young man who studied to become a poet. He wanted to be a poet by next Easter, so that he could marry and earn his living from poetry, which he knew was just a matter of making things up. But he had no imagination. He firmly believed he had been born too late. Every subject had been used up before he had a chance at it, and there was nothing in the world left to write about.

The country around the town of Kjöge is very bare. The town itself lies by the seashore, which is always beautiful, although it might be more beautiful than it is, because all around are flat fields, and a forest a long way off. But one always finds something beautiful in the spot that is one's own home, something for which one longs, even when one is in the most wonderful spot in the world.

Poor John was greatly troubled, because his father was very ill and could not recover. Except for these two, there was no one in their small room. The lamp on the table had almost burned out, for it was quite late at night.

There came a soldier marching down the high road-one, two! one, two! He had his knapsack on his back and his sword at his side as he came home from the wars. On the road he met a witch, an ugly old witch, a witch whose lower lip dangled right down on her chest.

There is an old fairy tale: "The Thorny Road of Honor was trodden by a marksman named Bryde, to whom came great honor and dignity, but not until after manifold adversities and peril of life." More than one of us had heard that tale in childhood, and perhaps read it in later years, and thought of his own unsung "thorny road" and "manifold adversities." Romance and reality are very nearly alike, but romance has its harmonious ending here on earth, while reality more often delays it and leads us to time and eternity.

A mother sat by her little child. She was so sad, so afraid he would die. The child's face was pallid. His little eyes were shut. His breath came faintly now, and then heavily as if he were sighing, and the mother looked more sadly at the dear little soul.

There was once a perfect gentleman whose whole household goods consisted of one bootjack and a comb. But he also had one of the most remarkable shirt collars in the world. I'll tell you a story about it.

Once upon a time there was an old poet, one of those right good old poets. One evening, as he was sitting at home, there was a terrible storm going on outside; the rain was pouring down, but the old poet sat comfortably in his chimney-corner, where the fire was burning and the apples were roasting.

The Emperor of China is a Chinaman, as you most likely know, and everyone around him is a Chinaman too. It's been a great many years since this story happened in China, but that's all the more reason for telling it before it gets forgotten.

There was once a king's son, no one had so many beautiful books as he. In them he could read of everything that had ever happened in this world, and he could see it all pictured in fine illustrations. He could find out about every race of people and every country, but there was not a single word about where to find the Garden of Paradise, and this, just this, was the very thing that he thought most about.

There is a street in Copenhagen with a very strange name. It is called "Hysken" street. Where the name came from, and what it means is very uncertain. It is said to be German, but this is unjust to the Germans, for it would then be called "Hauschen," and not "Hysken." "Hauschen," means a little house; and for many years it consisted only of a few small houses, which were scarcely larger than the wooden booths we see in the market places at a fair time.