The Red Badge of Courage: Bantam Classics

Autor Stephen Crane Alfred Kazin
en Limba Engleză Paperback – mar 1981 – vârsta de la 10 până la 13 ani
First published in 1895, America's greatest novel  of the Civil War was written before 21-year-old  Stephen Crane had "smelled even the powder of a  sham battle." But this powerful psychological  study of a young soldier's struggle with the  horrors, both within and without, that war strikes the  reader with its undeniable realism and with its  masterful descriptions of the moment-by-moment riot  of emotions felt by me under fire. Ernest  Hemingway called the novel an American classic, and  Crane's genius is as much apparent in his sharp,  colorful prose as in his ironic portrayal of an episode  of war so intense, so immediate, so real that the  terror of battle becomes our own ... in a  masterpiece so unique that many believe modern American  fiction began with Stephen Crane.
Citește tot Restrânge

Toate formatele și edițiile

Toate formatele și edițiile Preț Express
Paperback (85) 2439 lei  3-5 săpt.
  Bantam Classics – mar 1981 2439 lei  3-5 săpt.
  e-artnow – 14 dec 2018 3128 lei  3-5 săpt.
  Simon&Schuster – mai 2005 3453 lei  3-5 săpt.
  CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform – 3530 lei  3-5 săpt.
  CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform – 3530 lei  3-5 săpt.
  ALMA BOOKS – 24 sep 2020 3560 lei  3-5 săpt. +521 lei  4-10 zile
  CREATESPACE – 3677 lei  3-5 săpt.
  3734 lei  3-5 săpt.
  3786 lei  3-5 săpt.
  CREATESPACE – 3932 lei  3-5 săpt.
  CREATESPACE – 4090 lei  3-5 săpt.
  CREATESPACE – 4095 lei  3-5 săpt.
  CREATESPACE – 4200 lei  3-5 săpt.
  CREATESPACE – 4205 lei  3-5 săpt.
  CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform – 4293 lei  3-5 săpt.
  CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform – 4335 lei  3-5 săpt.
  CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform – 4372 lei  3-5 săpt.
  CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform – 4372 lei  3-5 săpt.
  CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform – 4444 lei  3-5 săpt.
  CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform – 4554 lei  3-5 săpt.
  CREATESPACE – 4554 lei  3-5 săpt.
  4663 lei  3-5 săpt.
  – 6 iul 2023 4699 lei  3-5 săpt. +522 lei  4-10 zile
  Penguin Books – 6 aug 2009 4769 lei  3-5 săpt. +784 lei  4-10 zile
  CREATESPACE – 4843 lei  3-5 săpt.
  VINTAGE BOOKS – 25 feb 2014 4952 lei  3-5 săpt.
  CREATESPACE – 5014 lei  3-5 săpt.
  EMPIRE BOOKS – dec 2011 5066 lei  3-5 săpt.
  CREATESPACE – 5118 lei  3-5 săpt.
  5173 lei  3-5 săpt.
  5188 lei  3-5 săpt.
  CREATESPACE – 5223 lei  3-5 săpt.
  CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform – 5305 lei  3-5 săpt.
  CREATESPACE – 10 ian 2013 5371 lei  3-5 săpt.
  5397 lei  3-5 săpt.
  5505 lei  3-5 săpt.
  CREATESPACE – 5854 lei  3-5 săpt.
  6309 lei  3-5 săpt.
  CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform – 6791 lei  3-5 săpt.
  CREATESPACE – 7180 lei  3-5 săpt.
  CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform – 7613 lei  3-5 săpt.
  CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform – 7797 lei  3-5 săpt.
  7815 lei  3-5 săpt.
  8402 lei  3-5 săpt.
  CREATESPACE – 8455 lei  3-5 săpt.
  Large Print Press – mar 2010 8948 lei  3-5 săpt.
  Harvard University Press – 14 apr 2009 17645 lei  3-5 săpt.
  CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform – 4217 lei  6-8 săpt.
  4618 lei  6-8 săpt.
  5012 lei  6-8 săpt.
  SMK Books – 27 ian 2011 5108 lei  6-8 săpt.
  5146 lei  6-8 săpt.
  5200 lei  6-8 săpt.
  5278 lei  6-8 săpt.
  Lulu.Com – 25 iun 2017 5369 lei  6-8 săpt.
  5483 lei  6-8 săpt.
  BLURB INC – 22 mar 2019 6957 lei  17-23 zile
  Suzeteo Enterprises – 6 sep 2017 7012 lei  6-8 săpt.
  General Press – 15 sep 2021 7148 lei  6-8 săpt.
  Classic Books Library – iul 2008 7245 lei  6-8 săpt.
  1st World Library – 7273 lei  6-8 săpt.
  MiraVista Interactive – 15 feb 2019 7629 lei  38-44 zile
  Martino Fine Books – 6 dec 2020 7640 lei  38-44 zile
  Repro India Limited – 19 oct 2013 7850 lei  6-8 săpt.
  Blurb – 6 feb 2019 7866 lei  38-44 zile
  Blurb – 10 feb 2019 7866 lei  38-44 zile
  Blurb – 2 oct 2019 8036 lei  6-8 săpt.
  Alpha Editions – 30 mar 2019 9009 lei  6-8 săpt.
  Maple Press – 2014 9131 lei  6-8 săpt.
  LEGARE STREET PR – 26 oct 2022 10208 lei  6-8 săpt. +3946 lei  4-10 zile
  Simon & Brown – noi 2010 10402 lei  38-44 zile
  Simon & Brown – 27 sep 2018 10421 lei  38-44 zile
  Simon & Brown – 28 oct 2018 10421 lei  38-44 zile
  Echo Library – 31 iul 2003 10445 lei  38-44 zile
  Book Jungle – 8 mai 2008 10464 lei  6-8 săpt.
  Simon & Brown – 13 noi 2018 10537 lei  38-44 zile
  Simon & Brown – noi 2011 10763 lei  38-44 zile
  Sovereign – 28 iul 2018 11206 lei  6-8 săpt.
  LIGHTNING SOURCE INC – 28 mai 2018 11237 lei  17-23 zile
  LIGHTNING SOURCE INC – 28 mai 2018 11887 lei  17-23 zile
  TREDITION CLASSICS – noi 2011 13029 lei  6-8 săpt.
  TREDITION CLASSICS – noi 2011 13029 lei  6-8 săpt.
  Echo Library – mai 2006 16034 lei  38-44 zile
  Blurb – 11 feb 2019 17221 lei  38-44 zile
  Vij Books India Private Limited – 20 apr 2023 17884 lei  6-8 săpt.
Hardback (11) 11933 lei  6-8 săpt.
  SMK Books – 3 apr 2018 11933 lei  6-8 săpt.
  Suzeteo Enterprises – 6 sep 2017 12104 lei  6-8 săpt.
  15412 lei  38-44 zile
  Simon & Brown – 28 oct 2018 15414 lei  38-44 zile
  Simon & Brown – 27 sep 2018 15414 lei  38-44 zile
  15478 lei  6-8 săpt.
  1st World Library – 15547 lei  6-8 săpt.
  15771 lei  38-44 zile
  Prince Classics – 30 iul 2019 15969 lei  38-44 zile
  Simon & Brown – 13 noi 2018 16298 lei  38-44 zile
  Throne Classics – 19 aug 2019 22614 lei  38-44 zile

Din seria Bantam Classics

Preț: 2439 lei

Puncte Express: 37

Preț estimativ în valută:
467 499$ 394£

Carte disponibilă

Livrare economică 16-30 iulie

Preluare comenzi: 021 569.72.76


ISBN-13: 9780553210118
ISBN-10: 0553210114
Pagini: 160
Dimensiuni: 105 x 179 x 11 mm
Greutate: 0.08 kg
Editura: Bantam Classics
Seria Bantam Classics


"The Red Badge Of Courage has long been considered the first great 'modern' novel of war by an American—the first novel of literary distinction to present war without heroics and this in a spirit of total irony and skepticism."—Alfred Kazin

Notă biografică

Stephen Crane was born in Newark, NJ in 1871, the son of a Methodist minister. Before he reached twenty-five, Crane had made his mark on the American literary scene by writing two major works: Maggie: a Girl of the Streets (1893) and The Red Badge of Courage (1895). He failed a theme-writing course in college at the same time he was writing articles for newspapers, among them the New York Herald Tribune. Maggie, drawn from firsthand observations in the slums of New York, was praised and condemned for its sordid realism. By contrast, The Red Badge of Courage, also praised for its realism, was drawn entirely from newspaper accounts and research, as Crane himself never went to war. Crane's adventurous spirit drove him to Cuba in 1896, providing the experience for his most famous short story, The Open Boat, a tale of sufferings endured by Crane and his three companions aboard a lifeboat after their ship sank. He traveled to Greece as a correspondent, and returned to Cuba to cover the Spanish-American war. At the age of twenty-eight, in failing health, he traveled from England to Germany to recuperate in the healing atmosphere of the Black Forest. While working on a humorous novel, The O'Ruddy, he died in Germany of tuberculosis in June of 1900.


Chapter 1

The cold passed reluctantly from the earth, and the retiring fogs revealed an army stretched out on the hills, resting. As the landscape changed from brown to green, the army awakened, and began to tremble with eagerness at the noise of rumors. It cast its eyes upon the roads, which were growing from long troughs of liquid mud to proper thoroughfares. A river, amber-tinted in the shadow of its banks, purled at the army's feet; and at night, when the stream had become of a sorrowful blackness, one could see across it the red, eyelike gleam of hostile camp fires set in the low brows of distant hills.

Once a certain tall soldier developed virtues and went resolutely to wash a shirt. He came flying back from a brook waving his garment bannerlike. He was swelled with a tale he had heard from a reliable friend, who had heard it from a truthful cavalryman, who had heard it from his trustworthy brother, one of the orderlies at division headquarters. He adopted the important air of a herald in red and gold.

"We're goin' t' move t' morrah--sure," he said pompously to a group in the company street. "We're goin' 'way up the river, cut across, an' come around in behint 'em."

To his attentive audience he drew a loud and elaborate plan of a very brilliant campaign. When he had finished, the blue-clothed men scattered into small arguing groups between the rows of squat brown huts. A negro teamster who had been dancing upon a cracker box with the hilarious encouragement of two-score soldiers was deserted. He sat mournfully down. Smoke drifted lazily from a multitude of quaint chimneys.

"It's a lie! that's all it is--a thunderin' lie!" said another private loudly. His smooth face was flushed, and his hands were thrust sulkily into his trousers' pockets. He took the matter as an affront to him. "I don't believe the derned old army's ever going to move. We're set. I've got ready to move eight times in the last two weeks, and we ain't moved yet."

The tall soldier felt called upon to defend the truth of a rumor he himself had introduced. He and the loud one came near to fighting over it.

A corporal began to swear before the assemblage. He had just put a costly board floor in his house, he said. During the early spring he had refrained from adding extensively to the comfort of his environment because he had felt that the army might start on the march at any moment. Of late, however, he had been impressed that they were in a sort of eternal camp.

Many of the men engaged in a spirited debate. One outlined in a peculiarly lucid manner all the plans of the commanding general. He was opposed by men who advocated that there were other plans of campaign. They clamored at each other, numbers making futile bids for the popular attention. Meanwhile, the soldier who had fetched the rumor bustled about with much importance. He was continually assailed by questions.

"What's up, Jim?"

"Th' army's goin' t' move."

"Ah, what yeh talkin' about. How yeh know it is?"

"Well, yeh kin b'lieve me er not, jest as yeh like. I don't care a hang."

There was much food for thought in the manner in which he replied. He came near to convincing them by disdaining to produce proofs. They grew much excited over it.

There was a youthful private who listened with eager ears to the words of the tall soldier and to the varied comments of his comrades. After receiving a fill of discussions concerning marches and attacks, he went to his hut and crawled through an intricate hole that served it as a door. He wished to be alone with some new thoughts that had lately come to him.

He lay down on a wide bunk that stretched across the end of the room. In the other end, cracker boxes were made to serve as furniture. They were grouped about the fireplace. A picture from an illustrated weekly was upon the log walls, and three rifles were paralleled on pegs. Equipments hung on handy projections, and some tin dishes lay upon a small pile of firewood. A folded tent was serving as a roof. The sunlight, without, beating upon it, made it glow a light yellow shade. A small window shot an oblique square of whiter light upon the cluttered floor. The smoke from the fire at times neglected the clay chimney and wreathed into the room, and this flimsy chimney of clay and sticks made endless threats to set ablaze the whole establishment.

The youth was in a little trance of astonishment. So they were at last going to fight. On the morrow, perhaps, there would be a battle, and he would be in it. For a time he was obliged to labor to make himself believe. He could not accept with assurance an omen that he was about to mingle in one of those great affairs of the earth.

He had, of course, dreamed of battles all his life--of vague and bloody conflicts that had thrilled him with their sweep and fire. In visions he had seen himself in many struggles. He had imagined peoples secure in the shadow of his eagle-eyed prowess. But awake he had regarded battles as crimson blotches on the pages of the past. He had put them as things of the bygone with his thought-images of heavy crowns and high castles. There was a portion of the world's history which he had regarded as the time of wars, but it, he thought, had been long gone over the horizon and had disappeared forever.

From his home his youthful eyes had looked upon the war in his own country with distrust. It must be some sort of a play affair. He had long despaired of witnessing a Greeklike struggle. Such would be no more, he had said. Men were better, or more timid. Secular and religious education had effaced the throat-grappling instinct, or else firm finance held in check the passions.

He had burned several times to enlist. Tales of great movements shook the land. They might not be distinctly Homeric, but there seemed to be much glory in them. He had read of marches, sieges, conflicts, and he had longed to see it all. His busy mind had drawn for him large pictures extravagant in color, lurid with breathless deeds.

But his mother had discouraged him. She had affected to look with some contempt upon the quality of his war ardor and patriotism. She could calmly seat herself and with no apparent difficulty give him many hundreds of reasons why he was of vastly more importance on the farm than on the field of battle. She had had certain ways of expression that told him that her statements on the subject came from a deep conviction. Moreover, on her side, was his belief that her ethical motive in the argument was impregnable.

At last, however, he had made firm rebellion against this yellow light thrown upon the color of his ambitions. The newspapers, the gossip of the village, his own picturings, had aroused him to an uncheckable degree. They were in truth fighting finely down there. Almost every day the newspapers printed accounts of a decisive victory.

One night, as he lay in bed, the winds had carried to him the clangoring of the church bell as some enthusiast jerked the rope frantically to tell the twisted news of a great battle. This voice of the people rejoicing in the night had made him shiver in a prolonged ecstasy of excitement. Later, he had gone down to his mother's room and had spoken thus: "Ma, I'm going to enlist."

"Henry, don't you be a fool," his mother had replied. She had then covered her face with the quilt. There was an end to the matter for that night.

Nevertheless, the next morning he had gone to a town that was near his mother's farm and had enlisted in a company that was forming there. When he had returned home his mother was milking the brindle cow. Four others stood waiting. "Ma, I've enlisted," he had said to her diffidently. There was a short silence. "The Lord's will be done, Henry," she had finally replied, and had then continued to milk the brindle cow.

When he had stood in the doorway with his soldier's clothes on his back, and with the light of excitement and expectancy in his eyes almost defeating the glow of regret for the home bonds, he had seen two tears leaving their trails on his mother's scarred cheeks.

Still, she had disappointed him by saying nothing whatever about returning with his shield or on it. He had privately primed himself for a beautiful scene. He had prepared certain sentences which he thought could be used with touching effect. But her words destroyed his plans. She had doggedly peeled potatoes and addressed him as follows: "You watch out, Henry, an' take good care of yerself in this here fighting business--you watch out, an' take good care of yerself. Don't go a-thinkin' you can lick the hull rebel army at the start, because yeh can't. Yer jest one little feller amongst a hull lot of others, and yeh've got to keep quiet an' do what they tell yeh. I know how you are, Henry.

"I've knet yeh eight pair of socks, Henry, and I've put in all yer best shirts, because I want my boy to be jest as warm and comf'able as anybody in the army. Whenever they get holes in 'em, I want yeh to send 'em rightaway back to me, so's I kin dern 'em.

"An' allus be careful an' choose yer comp'ny. There's lots of bad men in the army, Henry. The army makes 'em wild, and they like nothing better than the job of leading off a young feller like you, as ain't never been away from home much and has allus had a mother, an' a-learning 'em to drink and swear. Keep clear of them folks, Henry. I don't want yeh to ever do anything, Henry, that yeh would be 'shamed to let me know about. Jest think as if I was a-watchin' yeh. If yeh keep that in yer mind allus, I guess yeh'll come out about right.

"Yeh must allus remember yer father, too, child, an' remember he never drunk a drop of licker in his life, and seldom swore a cross oath.

"I don't know what else to tell yeh, Henry, excepting that yeh must never do no shirking, child, on my account. If so be a time comes when yeh have to be kilt or do a mean thing, why, Henry, don't think of anything 'cept what's right, because there's many a woman has to bear up 'ginst sech things these times, and the Lord 'll take keer of us all.

"Don't forgit about the socks and the shirts, child; and I've put a cup of blackberry jam with yer bundle, because I know yeh like it above all things. Good-by, Henry. Watch out, and be a good boy."

He had, of course, been impatient under the ordeal of this speech. It had not been quite what he expected, and he had borne it with an air of irritation. He departed feeling vague relief.

Still, when he had looked back from the gate, he had seen his mother kneeling among the potato parings. Her brown face, upraised, was stained with tears, and her spare form was quivering. He bowed his head and went on, feeling suddenly ashamed of his purposes.

From his home he had gone to the seminary to bid adieu to many schoolmates. They had thronged about him with wonder and admiration. He had felt the gulf now between them and had swelled with calm pride. He and some of his fellows who had donned blue were quite overwhelmed with privileges for all of one afternoon, and it had been a very delicious thing. They had strutted.

A certain light-haired girl had made vivacious fun at his martial spirit, but there was another and darker girl whom he had gazed at steadfastly, and he thought she grew demure and sad at sight of his blue and brass. As he had walked down the path between the rows of oaks, he had turned his head and detected her at a window watching his departure. As he perceived her, she had immediately begun to stare up through the high tree branches at the sky. He had seen a good deal of flurry and haste in her movement as she changed her attitude. He often thought of it.

On the way to Washington his spirit had soared. The regiment was fed and caressed at station after station until the youth had believed that he must be a hero. There was a lavish expenditure of bread and cold meats, coffee, and pickles and cheese. As he basked in the smiles of the girls and was patted and complimented by the old men, he had felt growing within him the strength to do mighty deeds of arms.

After complicated journeyings with many pauses, there had come months of monotonous life in a camp. He had had the belief that real war was a series of death struggles with small time in between for sleep and meals; but since his regiment had come to the field the army had done little but sit still and try to keep warm.

He was brought then gradually back to his old ideas. Greeklike struggles would be no more. Men were better, or more timid. Secular and religious education had effaced the throat-grappling instinct, or else firm finance held in check the passions.

He had grown to regard himself merely as a part of a vast blue demonstration. His province was to look out, as far as he could, for his personal comfort. For recreation he could twiddle his thumbs and speculate on the thoughts which must agitate the minds of the generals. Also, he was drilled and drilled and reviewed, and drilled and drilled and reviewed.

The only foes he had seen were some pickets along the river bank. They were a sun-tanned, philosophical lot, who sometimes shot reflectively at the blue pickets. When reproached for this afterward, they usually expressed sorrow, and swore by their gods that the guns had exploded without their permission. The youth, on guard duty one night, conversed across the stream with one of them. He was a slightly ragged man, who spat skillfully between his shoes and possessed a great fund of bland and infantile assurance. The youth liked him personally.

"Yank," the other had informed him, "yer a right dum good feller." This sentiment, floating to him upon the still air, had made him temporarily regret war.

Various veterans had told him tales. Some talked of gray, bewhiskered hordes who were advancing with relentless curses and chewing tobacco with unspeakable valor; tremendous bodies of fierce soldiery who were sweeping along like the Huns. Others spoke of tattered and eternally hungry men who fired despondent powders. "They'll charge through hell's fire an' brimstone t' git a holt on a haversack, an' sech stomachs ain't a-lastin' long," he was told. From the stories, the youth imagined the red, live bones, sticking out through slits in the faded uniforms.


Long considered the first great modern novel of war by an American author, this classic work is set in the time of the Civil War and tells a powerful, psychological story of a young soldier's struggle with the horrors--both within and without the war.