bruchtal:

Patricia Highsmith - Carol (Penguin 1991) [x]
Painted in the style of Edward Hopper’s painting Nighthawks (1942)

The artist of this cover is Jane Harris. bruchtal:

Patricia Highsmith - Carol (Penguin 1991) [x]
Painted in the style of Edward Hopper’s painting Nighthawks (1942)

The artist of this cover is Jane Harris.

bruchtal:

Patricia Highsmith - Carol (Penguin 1991) [x]

Painted in the style of Edward Hopper’s painting Nighthawks (1942)

The artist of this cover is Jane Harris.

karenholmeswriter:

Autores vistos por ilustradores: Patricia Highsmith dibujada por Gabriel Hardman

karenholmeswriter:

Autores vistos por ilustradores: Patricia Highsmith dibujada por Gabriel Hardman

“I used to look at my face in the mirror in those days, more than ever before or after. The image of myself I remember best is from one evening when Verie and I were dressing to go out in Venice. I leaned toward the mirror to check my make-up: a nineteen year old face, the longish cheeks rounded still, the gray-blue eyes clear and sparkling without a wrinkle around them or a frown above them. Not pretty, I think, not by any means. But it was a nice mouth. And what am I saying in all this? Only that the world was right for me, and it showed in my face and in my expression…”

Excerpt from an “unpublished and loosely autobiographical” unfinished novel by PH. 

Source: Innermost Secrets by Kate Hart

Scan from Beautiful Shadow: A Life of Patricia Highsmith by Andrew Wilson

"It’s the indifference to morality that makes Ripley so disturbing and so instructive”

willywaldo:

And Happy Birthday to another master of the dark and strange: Patricia Highsmith, born January 19, 1921, in Fort Worth, Texas.

She was ambivalent and extreme in everything she thought, felt, and did—running the political gamut from communist to fascist to liberal to libertarian and back again, often in the same week. Love and death, or rather, love and murder were the motives for her metaphors: she died for love a thousand times in life and killed for it over and over again in her fiction. She approached her many lovers—beautiful, intelligent women but also a few interesting men—with a wedding bouquet in one hand and a headsman’s axe in the other. From the age of twelve, she thought of herself as a boy in a girl’s body, but was insulted when French waiters directed her to the men’s room.