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Three Questions

by Leo Tolstoy

It once occurred to a certain king that if he always knew the right time to begin everything; if he knew who were the right people to listen to, and whom to avoid; and, above all, if he always knew what was the most important thing to do, he would never fail in anything he might undertake.

And this thought having occurred to him, he had it proclaimed throughout his kingdom that he would give a great reward to anyone who would teach him what was the right time for every action, and who were the most necessary people, and how he might know what was the most important thing to do.

And learned men came to the king, but they all answered his questions differently.

In reply to the first question, some said that to know the right time for every action, one must draw up in advance a table of days, months, and years, and must live strictly according to it. Only thus, said they, could everything be done at its proper time. Others declared that it was impossible to decide beforehand the right time for every action, but that, not letting oneself be absorbed in idle pastimes, one should always attend to all that was going on, and then do what was most needful. Others, again, said that however attentive the king might be to what was going on, it was impossible for one man to decide correctly the right time for every action, but that he should have a council of wise men who would help him to fix the proper time for everything.

But then again others said there were some things which could not wait to be laid before a council, but about which one had at once to decide whether to undertake them or not. But in order to decide that, one must know beforehand what was going to happen. It is only magicians who know that; and, therefore, in order to know the right time for every action, one must consult magicians.

Equally various were the answers to the second question. Some said the people the king most needed were his councilors; others, the priests; others, the doctors; while some said the warriors were the most necessary.

To the third question, as to what was the most important occupation, some replied that the most important thing in the world was science. Others said it was skill in warfare; and others, again, that it was religious worship.

All the answers being different, the king agreed with none of them, and gave the reward to none. But still wishing to find the right answers to his questions, he decided to consult a hermit, widely renowned for his wisdom.

The hermit lived in a wood which he never quitted, and he received none but common folk. So the king put on simple clothes and, before reaching the hermit’s cell, dismounted from his horse. Leaving his bodyguard behind, he went on alone.

When the king approached, the hermit was digging the ground in front of his hut. Seeing the king, he greeted him and went on digging. The hermit was frail and weak, and each time he stuck his spade into the ground and turned a little earth, he breathed heavily.

The king went up to him and said: “I have come to you, wise hermit, to ask you to answer three questions: How can I learn to do the right thing at the right time? Who are the people I most need, and to whom should I, therefore, pay more attention than to the rest? And, what affairs are the most important and need my first attention?”

The hermit listened to the king, but answered nothing. He just spat on his hand and recommenced digging.

“You are tired,” said the king, “let me take the spade and work awhile for you.”

“Thanks!” said the hermit, and, giving the spade to the king, he sat down on the ground.

When he had dug two beds, the king stopped and repeated his questions. The hermit again gave no answer, but rose, stretched out his hand for the spade, and said:

“Now rest awhile – and let me work a bit.”

But the king did not give him the spade, and continued to dig. One hour passed, and another. The sun began to sink behind the trees, and the king at last stuck the spade into the ground, and said:

“I came to you, wise man, for an answer to my questions. If you can give me none, tell me so, and I will return home.”

“Here comes someone running,” said the hermit. “Let us see who it is.”

The king turned round and saw a bearded man come running out of the wood. The man held his hands pressed against his stomach, and blood was flowing from under them. When he reached the king, he fell fainting on the ground, moaning feebly. The king and the hermit unfastened the man’s clothing. There was a large wound in his stomach. The king washed it as best he could, and bandaged it with his handkerchief and with a towel the hermit had. But the blood would not stop flowing, and the king again and again removed the bandage soaked with warm blood, and washed and re-bandaged the wound. When at last the blood ceased flowing, the man revived and asked for something to drink. The king brought fresh water and gave it to him. Meanwhile the sun had set, and it had become cool. So the king, with the hermit’s help, carried the wounded man into the hut and laid him on the bed. Lying on the bed, the man closed his eyes and was quiet; but the king was so tired from his walk and from the work he had done that he crouched down on the threshold, and also fell asleep – so soundly that he slept all through the short summer night.

When he awoke in the morning, it was long before he could remember where he was, or who was the strange bearded man lying on the bed and gazing intently at him with shining eyes.

“Forgive me!” said the bearded man in a weak voice, when he saw that the king was awake and was looking at him.

“I do not know you, and have nothing to forgive you for,” said the king.

“You do not know me, but I know you. I am that enemy of yours who swore to revenge himself on you, because you executed his brother and seized his property. I knew you had gone alone to see the hermit, and I resolved to kill you on your way back. But the day passed and you did not return. So I came out from my ambush to find you, and came upon your bodyguard, and they recognized me, and wounded me. I escaped from them, but should have bled to death had you not dressed my wound. I wished to kill you, and you have saved my life. Now, if I live, and if you wish it, I will serve you as your most faithful slave, and will bid my sons do the same. Forgive me!”

The king was very glad to have made peace with his enemy so easily, and to have gained him for a friend, and he not only forgave him, but said he would send his servants and his own physician to attend him, and promised to restore his property.

Having taken leave of the wounded man, the king went out into the porch and looked around for the hermit. Before going away he wished once more to beg an answer to the questions he had put. The hermit was outside, on his knees, sowing seeds in the beds that had been dug the day before.

The king approached him and said, “For the last time, I pray you to answer my questions, wise man.”

“You have already been answered!” said the hermit, still crouching on his thin legs, and looking up at the king, who stood before him.

“How answered? What do you mean?” asked the king.

“Do you not see?” replied the hermit. “If you had not pitied my weakness yesterday, and had not dug these beds for me, but had gone your way, that man would have attacked you, and you would have repented of not having stayed with me. So the most important time was when you were digging the beds; and I was the most important man; and to do me good was your most important business. Afterwards, when that man ran to us, the most important time was when you were attending to him, for if you had not bound up his wounds he would have died without having made peace with you. So he was the most important man, and what you did for him was your most important business. Remember then: there is only one time that is important – now! It is the most important time because it is the only time when we have any power. The most necessary person is the one with whom you are, for no man knows whether he will ever have dealings with anyone else: and the most important affair is to do that person good, because for that purpose alone was man sent into this life.”

Published 1885. Translated 1903 by Louise and Aylmer Maude.

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Three Questions by Leo Tolsoy - The Bibliofile

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Part of the Best Short Stories Reading Challenge Three Questions by Leo Tolstoy It once occurred to a certain king that if he always knew the right time to begin everything; if he knew who were the right people to listen to, and whom to avoid; and, above all, if he always knew what was ...

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The Most Dangerous Game

"OFF THERE to the right-somewhere-is a large island," said Whitney." It's rather a mystery-"

"What island is it?" Rainsford asked.

"The old charts call it `Ship-Trap Island,"' Whitney replied." A suggestive name, isn't it? Sailors have a curious dread of the place. I don't know why. Some superstition-"

"Can't see it," remarked Rainsford, trying to peer through the dank tropical night that was palpable as it pressed its thick warm blackness in upon the yacht.

"You've good eyes," said Whitney, with a laugh," and I've seen you pick off a moose moving in the brown fall bush at four hundred yards, but even you can't see four miles or so through a moonless Caribbean night."

"Nor four yards," admitted Rainsford. "Ugh! It's like moist black velvet."

"It will be light enough in Rio," promised Whitney. "We should make it in a few days. I hope the jaguar guns have come from Purdey's. We should have some good hunting up the Amazon. Great sport, hunting."

"The best sport in the world," agreed Rainsford.

"For the hunter," amended Whitney. "Not for the jaguar."

"Don't talk rot, Whitney," said Rainsford. "You're a big-game hunter, not a philosopher. Who cares how a jaguar feels?"

"Perhaps the jaguar does," observed Whitney.

"Bah! They've no understanding."

"Even so, I rather think they understand one thing-fear. The fear of pain and the fear of death."

"Nonsense," laughed Rainsford. "This hot weather is making you soft, Whitney. Be a realist. The world is made up of two classes-the hunters and the huntees. Luckily, you and I are hunters. Do you think we've passed that island yet?"

"I can't tell in the dark. I hope so."

"Why? " asked Rainsford.

"The place has a reputation-a bad one."

"Cannibals?" suggested Rainsford.

"Hardly. Even cannibals wouldn't live in such a God-forsaken place. But it's gotten into sailor lore, somehow. Didn't you notice that the crew's nerves seemed a bit jumpy today?"

"They were a bit strange, now you mention it. Even Captain Nielsen-"

"Yes, even that tough-minded old Swede, who'd go up to the devil himself and ask him for a light. Those fishy blue eyes held a look I never saw there before. All I could get out of him was `This place has an evil name among seafaring men, sir.' Then he said to me, very gravely, `Don't you feel anything?'-as if the air about us was actually poisonous. Now, you mustn't laugh when I tell you this-I did feel something like a sudden chill.

"There was no breeze. The sea was as flat as a plate-glass window. We were drawing near the island then. What I felt was a-a mental chill; a sort of sudden dread."

"Pure imagination," said Rainsford.

"One superstitious sailor can taint the whole ship's company with his fear."

"Maybe. But sometimes I think sailors have an extra sense that tells them when they are in danger. Sometimes I think evil is a tangible thing-with wave lengths, just as sound and light have. An evil place can, so to speak, broadcast vibrations of evil. Anyhow, I'm glad we're getting out of this zone. Well, I think I'll turn in now, Rainsford."

"I'm not sleepy," said Rainsford. "I'm going to smoke another pipe up on the afterdeck."

"Good night, then, Rainsford. See you at breakfast."

"Right. Good night, Whitney."

There was no sound in the night as Rainsford sat there but the muffled throb of the engine that drove the yacht swiftly through the darkness, and the swish and ripple of the wash of the propeller.

Rainsford, reclining in a steamer chair, indolently puffed on his favorite brier. The sensuous drowsiness of the night was on him." It's so dark," he thought, "that I could sleep without closing my eyes; the night would be my eyelids-"

An abrupt sound startled him. Off to the right he heard it, and his ears, expert in such matters, could not be mistaken. Again he heard the sound, and again. Somewhere, off in the blackness, someone had fired a gun three times.

Rainsford sprang up and moved quickly to the rail, mystified. He strained his eyes in the direction from which the reports had come, but it was like trying to see through a blanket. He leaped upon the rail and balanced himself there, to get greater elevation; his pipe, striking a rope, was knocked from his mouth. He lunged for it; a short, hoarse cry came from his lips as he realized he had reached too far and had lost his balance. The cry was pinched off short as the blood-warm waters of the Caribbean Sea dosed over his head.

He struggled up to the surface and tried to cry out, but the wash from the speeding yacht slapped him in the face and the salt water in his open mouth made him gag and strangle. Desperately he struck out with strong strokes after the receding lights of the yacht, but he stopped before he had swum fifty feet. A certain coolheadedness had come to him; it was not the first time he had been in a tight place. There was a chance that his cries could be heard by someone aboard the yacht, but that chance was slender and grew more slender as the yacht raced on. He wrestled himself out of his clothes and shouted with all his power. The lights of the yacht became faint and ever-vanishing fireflies; then they were blotted out entirely by the night.

Rainsford remembered the shots. They had come from the right, and doggedly he swam in that direction, swimming with slow, deliberate strokes, conserving his strength. For a seemingly endless time he fought the sea. He began to count his strokes; he could do possibly a hundred more and then-

Rainsford heard a sound. It came out of the darkness, a high screaming sound, the sound of an animal in an extremity of anguish and terror.

He did not recognize the animal that made the sound; he did not try to; with fresh vitality he swam toward the sound. He heard it again; then it was cut short by another noise, crisp, staccato.

"Pistol shot," muttered Rainsford, swimming on.

Ten minutes of determined effort brought another sound to his ears-the most welcome he had ever heard-the muttering and growling of the sea breaking on a rocky shore. He was almost on the rocks before he saw them; on a night less calm he would have been shattered against them. With his remaining strength he dragged himself from the swirling waters. Jagged crags appeared to jut up into the opaqueness; he forced himself upward, hand over hand. Gasping, his hands raw, he reached a flat place at the top. Dense jungle came down to the very edge of the cliffs. What perils that tangle of trees and underbrush might hold for him did not concern Rainsford just then. All he knew was that he was safe from his enemy, the sea, and that utter weariness was on him. He flung himself down at the jungle edge and tumbled headlong into the deepest sleep of his life.

When he opened his eyes he knew from the position of the sun that it was late in the afternoon. Sleep had given him new vigor; a sharp hunger was picking at him. He looked about him, almost cheerfully.

"Where there are pistol shots, there are men. Where there are men, there is food," he thought. But what kind of men, he wondered, in so forbidding a place? An unbroken front of snarled and ragged jungle fringed the shore.

He saw no sign of a trail through the closely knit web of weeds and trees; it was easier to go along the shore, and Rainsford floundered along by the water. Not far from where he landed, he stopped.

Some wounded thing-by the evidence, a large animal-had thrashed about in the underbrush; the jungle weeds were crushed down and the moss was lacerated; one patch of weeds was stained crimson. A small, glittering object not far away caught Rainsford's eye and he picked it up. It was an empty cartridge.

"A twenty-two," he remarked. "That's odd. It must have been a fairly large animal too. The hunter had his nerve with him to tackle it with a light gun. It's clear that the brute put up a fight. I suppose the first three shots I heard was when the hunter flushed his quarry and wounded it. The last shot was when he trailed it here and finished it."

He examined the ground closely and found what he had hoped to find-the print of hunting boots. They pointed along the cliff in the direction he had been going. Eagerly he hurried along, now slipping on a rotten log or a loose stone, but making headway; night was beginning to settle down on the island.

Bleak darkness was blacking out the sea and jungle when Rainsford sighted the lights. He came upon them as he turned a crook in the coast line; and his first thought was that be had come upon a village, for there were many lights. But as he forged along he saw to his great astonishment that all the lights were in one enormous building-a lofty structure with pointed towers plunging upward into the gloom. His eyes made out the shadowy outlines of a palatial chateau; it was set on a high bluff, and on three sides of it cliffs dived down to where the sea licked greedy lips in the shadows.

"Mirage," thought Rainsford. But it was no mirage, he found, when he opened the tall spiked iron gate. The stone steps were real enough; the massive door with a leering gargoyle for a knocker was real enough; yet above it all hung an air of unreality.

He lifted the knocker, and it creaked up stiffly, as if it had never before been used. He let it fall, and it startled him with its booming loudness. He thought he heard steps within; the door remained closed. Again Rainsford lifted the heavy knocker, and let it fall. The door opened then-opened as suddenly as if it were on a spring-and Rainsford stood blinking in the river of glaring gold light that poured out. The first thing Rainsford's eyes discerned was the largest man Rainsford had ever seen-a gigantic creature, solidly made and black bearded to the waist. In his hand the man held a long-barreled revolver, and he was pointing it straight at Rainsford's heart.

Out of the snarl of beard two small eyes regarded Rainsford.

"Don't be alarmed," said Rainsford, with a smile which he hoped was disarming. "I'm no robber. I fell off a yacht. My name is Sanger Rainsford of New York City."

The menacing look in the eyes did not change. The revolver pointing as rigidly as if the giant were a statue. He gave no sign that he understood Rainsford's words, or that he had even heard them. He was dressed in uniform-a black uniform trimmed with gray astrakhan.

"I'm Sanger Rainsford of New York," Rainsford began again. "I fell off a yacht. I am hungry."

The man's only answer was to raise with his thumb the hammer of his revolver. Then Rainsford saw the man's free hand go to his forehead in a military salute, and he saw him click his heels together and stand at attention. Another man was coming down the broad marble steps, an erect, slender man in evening clothes. He advanced to Rainsford and held out his hand.

In a cultivated voice marked by a slight accent that gave it added precision and deliberateness, he said, "It is a very great pleasure and honor to welcome Mr. Sanger Rainsford, the celebrated hunter, to my home."

Automatically Rainsford shook the man's hand.

"I've read your book about hunting snow leopards in Tibet, you see," explained the man. "I am General Zaroff."

Rainsford's first impression was that the man was singularly handsome; his second was that there was an original, almost bizarre quality about the general's face. He was a tall man past middle age, for his hair was a vivid white; but his thick eyebrows and pointed military mustache were as black as the night from which Rainsford had come. His eyes, too, were black and very bright. He had high cheekbones, a sharpcut nose, a spare, dark face-the face of a man used to giving orders, the face of an aristocrat. Turning to the giant in uniform, the general made a sign. The giant put away his pistol, saluted, withdrew.

"Ivan is an incredibly strong fellow," remarked the general, "but he has the misfortune to be deaf and dumb. A simple fellow, but, I'm afraid, like all his race, a bit of a savage."

"Is he Russian?"

"He is a Cossack," said the general, and his smile showed red lips and pointed teeth. "So am I."

"Come," he said, "we shouldn't be chatting here. We can talk later. Now you want clothes, food, rest. You shall have them. This is a most-restful spot."

Ivan had reappeared, and the general spoke to him with lips that moved but gave forth no sound.

"Follow Ivan, if you please, Mr. Rainsford," said the general. "I was about to have my dinner when you came. I'll wait for you. You'll find that my clothes will fit you, I think."

It was to a huge, beam-ceilinged bedroom with a canopied bed big enough for six men that Rainsford followed the silent giant. Ivan laid out an evening suit, and Rainsford, as he put it on, noticed that it came from a London tailor who ordinarily cut and sewed for none below the rank of duke.

The dining room to which Ivan conducted him was in many ways remarkable. There was a medieval magnificence about it; it suggested a baronial hall of feudal times with its oaken panels, its high ceiling, its vast refectory tables where twoscore men could sit down to eat. About the hall were mounted heads of many animals-lions, tigers, elephants, moose, bears; larger or more perfect specimens Rainsford had never seen. At the great table the general was sitting, alone.

"You'll have a cocktail, Mr. Rainsford," he suggested. The cocktail was surpassingly good; and, Rainsford noted, the table apointments were of the finest-the linen, the crystal, the silver, the china.

They were eating borsch, the rich, red soup with whipped cream so dear to Russian palates. Half apologetically General Zaroff said, "We do our best to preserve the amenities of civilization here. Please forgive any lapses. We are well off the beaten track, you know. Do you think the champagne has suffered from its long ocean trip?"

"Not in the least," declared Rainsford. He was finding the general a most thoughtful and affable host, a true cosmopolite. But there was one small trait of .the general's that made Rainsford uncomfortable. Whenever he looked up from his plate he found the general studying him, appraising him narrowly.

"Perhaps," said General Zaroff, "you were surprised that I recognized your name. You see, I read all books on hunting published in English, French, and Russian. I have but one passion in my life, Mr. Rains. ford, and it is the hunt."

"You have some wonderful heads here," said Rainsford as he ate a particularly well-cooked filet mignon. "That Cape buffalo is the largest I ever saw."

"Oh, that fellow. Yes, he was a monster."

"Did he charge you?"

"Hurled me against a tree," said the general. "Fractured my skull. But I got the brute."

"I've always thought," said Rains{ord, "that the Cape buffalo is the most dangerous of all big game."

For a moment the general did not reply; he was smiling his curious red-lipped smile. Then he said slowly, "No. You are wrong, sir. The Cape buffalo is not the most dangerous big game." He sipped his wine. "Here in my preserve on this island," he said in the same slow tone, "I hunt more dangerous game."

Rainsford expressed his surprise. "Is there big game on this island?"

The general nodded. "The biggest."

"Really?"

"Oh, it isn't here naturally, of course. I have to stock the island."

"What have you imported, general?" Rainsford asked. "Tigers?"

The general smiled. "No," he said. "Hunting tigers ceased to interest me some years ago. I exhausted their possibilities, you see. No thrill left in tigers, no real danger. I live for danger, Mr. Rainsford."

The general took from his pocket a gold cigarette case and offered his guest a long black cigarette with a silver tip; it was perfumed and gave off a smell like incense.

"We will have some capital hunting, you and I," said the general. "I shall be most glad to have your society."

"But what game-" began Rainsford.

"I'll tell you," said the general. "You will be amused, I know. I think I may say, in all modesty, that I have done a rare thing. I have invented a new sensation. May I pour you another glass of port?"

"Thank you, general."

The general filled both glasses, and said, "God makes some men poets. Some He makes kings, some beggars. Me He made a hunter. My hand was made for the trigger, my father said. He was a very rich man with a quarter of a million acres in the Crimea, and he was an ardent sportsman. When I was only five years old he gave me a little gun, specially made in Moscow for me, to shoot sparrows with. When I shot some of his prize turkeys with it, he did not punish me; he complimented me on my marksmanship. I killed my first bear in the Caucasus when I was ten. My whole life has been one prolonged hunt. I went into the army-it was expected of noblemen's sons-and for a time commanded a division of Cossack cavalry, but my real interest was always the hunt. I have hunted every kind of game in every land. It would be impossible for me to tell you how many animals I have killed."

The general puffed at his cigarette.

"After the debacle in Russia I left the country, for it was imprudent for an officer of the Czar to stay there. Many noble Russians lost everything. I, luckily, had invested heavily in American securities, so I shall never have to open a tearoom in Monte Carlo or drive a taxi in Paris. Naturally, I continued to hunt-grizzliest in your Rockies, crocodiles in the Ganges, rhinoceroses in East Africa. It was in Africa that the Cape buffalo hit me and laid me up for six months. As soon as I recovered I started for the Amazon to hunt jaguars, for I had heard they were unusually cunning. They weren't." The Cossack sighed. "They were no match at all for a hunter with his wits about him, and a high-powered rifle. I was bitterly disappointed. I was lying in my tent with a splitting headache one night when a terrible thought pushed its way into my mind. Hunting was beginning to bore me! And hunting, remember, had been my life. I have heard that in America businessmen often go to pieces when they give up the business that has been their life."

"Yes, that's so," said Rainsford.

The general smiled. "I had no wish to go to pieces," he said. "I must do something. Now, mine is an analytical mind, Mr. Rainsford. Doubtless that is why I enjoy the problems of the chase."

"No doubt, General Zaroff."

"So," continued the general, "I asked myself why the hunt no longer fascinated me. You are much younger than I am, Mr. Rainsford, and have not hunted as much, but you perhaps can guess the answer."

"What was it?"

"Simply this: hunting had ceased to be what you call `a sporting proposition.' It had become too easy. I always got my quarry. Always. There is no greater bore than perfection."

The general lit a fresh cigarette.

"No animal had a chance with me any more. That is no boast; it is a mathematical certainty. The animal had nothing but his legs and his instinct. Instinct is no match for reason. When I thought of this it was a tragic moment for me, I can tell you."

Rainsford leaned across the table, absorbed in what his host was saying.

"It came to me as an inspiration what I must do," the general went on.

"And that was?"

The general smiled the quiet smile of one who has faced an obstacle and surmounted it with success. "I had to invent a new animal to hunt," he said.

"A new animal? You're joking."

"Not at all," said the general. "I never joke about hunting. I needed a new animal. I found one. So I bought this island built this house, and here I do my hunting. The island is perfect for my purposes-there are jungles with a maze of traits in them, hills, swamps-"

"But the animal, General Zaroff?"

"Oh," said the general, "it supplies me with the most exciting hunting in the world. No other hunting compares with it for an instant. Every day I hunt, and I never grow bored now, for I have a quarry with which I can match my wits."

Rainsford's bewilderment showed in his face.

"I wanted the ideal animal to hunt," explained the general. "So I said, `What are the attributes of an ideal quarry?' And the answer was, of course, `It must have courage, cunning, and, above all, it must be able to reason."'

"But no animal can reason," objected Rainsford.

"My dear fellow," said the general, "there is one that can."

"But you can't mean-" gasped Rainsford.

"And why not?"

"I can't believe you are serious, General Zaroff. This is a grisly joke."

"Why should I not be serious? I am speaking of hunting."

"Hunting? Great Guns, General Zaroff, what you speak of is murder."

The general laughed with entire good nature. He regarded Rainsford quizzically. "I refuse to believe that so modern and civilized a young man as you seem to be harbors romantic ideas about the value of human life. Surely your experiences in the war-"

"Did not make me condone cold-blooded murder," finished Rainsford stiffly.

Laughter shook the general. "How extraordinarily droll you are!" he said. "One does not expect nowadays to find a young man of the educated class, even in America, with such a naive, and, if I may say so, mid-Victorian point of view. It's like finding a snuffbox in a limousine. Ah, well, doubtless you had Puritan ancestors. So many Americans appear to have had. I'll wager you'll forget your notions when you go hunting with me. You've a genuine new thrill in store for you, Mr. Rainsford."

"Thank you, I'm a hunter, not a murderer."

"Dear me," said the general, quite unruffled, "again that unpleasant word. But I think I can show you that your scruples are quite ill founded."

"Yes?"

"Life is for the strong, to be lived by the strong, and, if needs be, taken by the strong. The weak of the world were put here to give the strong pleasure. I am strong. Why should I not use my gift? If I wish to hunt, why should I not? I hunt the scum of the earth: sailors from tramp ships-lassars, blacks, Chinese, whites, mongrels-a thoroughbred horse or hound is worth more than a score of them."

"But they are men," said Rainsford hotly.

"Precisely," said the general. "That is why I use them. It gives me pleasure. They can reason, after a fashion. So they are dangerous."

"But where do you get them?"

The general's left eyelid fluttered down in a wink. "This island is called Ship Trap," he answered. "Sometimes an angry god of the high seas sends them to me. Sometimes, when Providence is not so kind, I help Providence a bit. Come to the window with me."

Rainsford went to the window and looked out toward the sea.

"Watch! Out there!" exclaimed the general, pointing into the night. Rainsford's eyes saw only blackness, and then, as the general pressed a button, far out to sea Rainsford saw the flash of lights.

The general chuckled. "They indicate a channel," he said, "where there's none; giant rocks with razor edges crouch like a sea monster with wide-open jaws. They can crush a ship as easily as I crush this nut." He dropped a walnut on the hardwood floor and brought his heel grinding down on it. "Oh, yes," he said, casually, as if in answer to a question, "I have electricity. We try to be civilized here."

"Civilized? And you shoot down men?"

A trace of anger was in the general's black eyes, but it was there for but a second; and he said, in his most pleasant manner, "Dear me, what a righteous young man you are! I assure you I do not do the thing you suggest. That would be barbarous. I treat these visitors with every consideration. They get plenty of good food and exercise. They get into splendid physical condition. You shall see for yourself tomorrow."

"What do you mean?"

"We'll visit my training school," smiled the general. "It's in the cellar. I have about a dozen pupils down there now. They're from the Spanish bark San Lucar that had the bad luck to go on the rocks out there. A very inferior lot, I regret to say. Poor specimens and more accustomed to the deck than to the jungle." He raised his hand, and Ivan, who served as waiter, brought thick Turkish coffee. Rainsford, with an effort, held his tongue in check.

"It's a game, you see," pursued the general blandly. "I suggest to one of them that we go hunting. I give him a supply of food and an excellent hunting knife. I give him three hours' start. I am to follow, armed only with a pistol of the smallest caliber and range. If my quarry eludes me for three whole days, he wins the game. If I find him "-the general smiled-" he loses."

"Suppose he refuses to be hunted?"

"Oh," said the general, "I give him his option, of course. He need not play that game if he doesn't wish to. If he does not wish to hunt, I turn him over to Ivan. Ivan once had the honor of serving as official knouter to the Great White Czar, and he has his own ideas of sport. Invariably, Mr. Rainsford, invariably they choose the hunt."

"And if they win?"

The smile on the general's face widened. "To date I have not lost," he said. Then he added, hastily: "I don't wish you to think me a braggart, Mr. Rainsford. Many of them afford only the most elementary sort of problem. Occasionally I strike a tartar. One almost did win. I eventually had to use the dogs."

"The dogs?"

"This way, please. I'll show you."

The general steered Rainsford to a window. The lights from the windows sent a flickering illumination that made grotesque patterns on the courtyard below, and Rainsford could see moving about there a dozen or so huge black shapes; as they turned toward him, their eyes glittered greenly.

"A rather good lot, I think," observed the general. "They are let out at seven every night. If anyone should try to get into my house-or out of it-something extremely regrettable would occur to him." He hummed a snatch of song from the Folies Bergere.

"And now," said the general, "I want to show you my new collection of heads. Will you come with me to the library?"

"I hope," said Rainsford, "that you will excuse me tonight, General Zaroff. I'm really not feeling well."

"Ah, indeed?" the general inquired solicitously. "Well, I suppose that's only natural, after your long swim. You need a good, restful night's sleep. Tomorrow you'll feel like a new man, I'll wager. Then we'll hunt, eh? I've one rather promising prospect-" Rainsford was hurrying from the room.

"Sorry you can't go with me tonight," called the general. "I expect rather fair sport-a big, strong, black. He looks resourceful-Well, good night, Mr. Rainsford; I hope you have a good night's rest."

The bed was good, and the pajamas of the softest silk, and he was tired in every fiber of his being, but nevertheless Rainsford could not quiet his brain with the opiate of sleep. He lay, eyes wide open. Once he thought he heard stealthy steps in the corridor outside his room. He sought to throw open the door; it would not open. He went to the window and looked out. His room was high up in one of the towers. The lights of the chateau were out now, and it was dark and silent; but there was a fragment of sallow moon, and by its wan light he could see, dimly, the courtyard. There, weaving in and out in the pattern of shadow, were black, noiseless forms; the hounds heard him at the window and looked up, expectantly, with their green eyes. Rainsford went back to the bed and lay down. By many methods he tried to put himself to sleep. He had achieved a doze when, just as morning began to come, he heard, far off in the jungle, the faint report of a pistol.

General Zaroff did not appear until luncheon. He was dressed faultlessly in the tweeds of a country squire. He was solicitous about the state of Rainsford's health.

"As for me," sighed the general, "I do not feel so well. I am worried, Mr. Rainsford. Last night I detected traces of my old complaint."

To Rainsford's questioning glance the general said, "Ennui. Boredom."

Then, taking a second helping of crêpes Suzette, the general explained: "The hunting was not good last night. The fellow lost his head. He made a straight trail that offered no problems at all. That's the trouble with these sailors; they have dull brains to begin with, and they do not know how to get about in the woods. They do excessively stupid and obvious things. It's most annoying. Will you have another glass of Chablis, Mr. Rainsford?"

"General," said Rainsford firmly, "I wish to leave this island at once."

The general raised his thickets of eyebrows; he seemed hurt. "But, my dear fellow," the general protested, "you've only just come. You've had no hunting-"

"I wish to go today," said Rainsford. He saw the dead black eyes of the general on him, studying him. General Zaroff's face suddenly brightened.

He filled Rainsford's glass with venerable Chablis from a dusty bottle.

"Tonight," said the general, "we will hunt-you and I."

Rainsford shook his head. "No, general," he said. "I will not hunt."

The general shrugged his shoulders and delicately ate a hothouse grape. "As you wish, my friend," he said. "The choice rests entirely with you. But may I not venture to suggest that you will find my idea of sport more diverting than Ivan's?"

He nodded toward the corner to where the giant stood, scowling, his thick arms crossed on his hogshead of chest.

"You don't mean-" cried Rainsford.

"My dear fellow," said the general, "have I not told you I always mean what I say about hunting? This is really an inspiration. I drink to a foeman worthy of my steel - at last." The general raised his glass, but Rainsford sat staring at him.

"You'll find this game worth playing," the general said enthusiastically." Your brain against mine. Your woodcraft against mine. Your strength and stamina against mine. Outdoor chess! And the stake is not without value, eh?"

"And if I win -" began Rainsford huskily.

"I'll cheerfully acknowledge myself defeat if I do not find you by midnight of the third day," said General Zaroff. "My sloop will place you on the mainland near a town." The general read what Rainsford was thinking.

"Oh, you can trust me," said the Cossack. "I will give you my word as a gentleman and a sportsman. Of course you, in turn, must agree to say nothing of your visit here."

"I'll agree to nothing of the kind," said Rainsford.

"Oh," said the general, "in that case... But why discuss that now? Three days hence we can discuss it over a bottle of Veuve Cliquot, unless..."

The general sipped his wine.

Then a businesslike air animated him. "Ivan," he said to Rainsford, "will supply you with hunting clothes, food, a knife. I suggest you wear moccasins; they leave a poorer trail. I suggest, too, that you avoid the big swamp in the southeast corner of the island. We call it Death Swamp. There's quicksand there. One foolish fellow tried it. The deplorable part of it was that Lazarus followed him. You can imagine my feelings, Mr. Rainsford. I loved Lazarus; he was the finest hound in my pack. Well, I must beg you to excuse me now. I always' take a siesta after lunch. You'll hardly have time for a nap, I fear. You'll want to start, no doubt. I shall not follow till dusk. Hunting at night is so much more exciting than by day, don't you think? Au revoir, Mr. Rainsford, au revoir." General Zaroff, with a deep, courtly bow, strolled from the room.

From another door came Ivan. Under one arm he carried khaki hunting clothes, a haversack of food, a leather sheath containing a long-bladed hunting knife; his right hand rested on a cocked revolver thrust in the crimson sash about his waist.

Rainsford had fought his way through the bush for two hours. "I must keep my nerve. I must keep my nerve," he said through tight teeth.

He had not been entirely clearheaded when the chateau gates snapped shut behind him. His whole idea at first was to put distance between himself and General Zaroff; and, to this end, he had plunged along, spurred on by the sharp rowers of something very like panic. Now he had got a grip on himself, had stopped, and was taking stock of himself and the situation. He saw that straight flight was futile; inevitably it would bring him face to face with the sea. He was in a picture with a frame of water, and his operations, clearly, must take place within that frame.

"I'll give him a trail to follow," muttered Rainsford, and he struck off from the rude path he had been following into the trackless wilderness. He executed a series of intricate loops; he doubled on his trail again and again, recalling all the lore of the fox hunt, and all the dodges of the fox. Night found him leg-weary, with hands and face lashed by the branches, on a thickly wooded ridge. He knew it would be insane to blunder on through the dark, even if he had the strength. His need for rest was imperative and he thought, "I have played the fox, now I must play the cat of the fable." A big tree with a thick trunk and outspread branches was near by, and, taking care to leave not the slightest mark, he climbed up into the crotch, and, stretching out on one of the broad limbs, after a fashion, rested. Rest brought him new confidence and almost a feeling of security. Even so zealous a hunter as General Zaroff could not trace him there, he told himself; only the devil himself could follow that complicated trail through the jungle after dark. But perhaps the general was a devil-

An apprehensive night crawled slowly by like a wounded snake and sleep did not visit Rainsford, although the silence of a dead world was on the jungle. Toward morning when a dingy gray was varnishing the sky, the cry of some startled bird focused Rainsford's attention in that direction. Something was coming through the bush, coming slowly, carefully, coming by the same winding way Rainsford had come. He flattened himself down on the limb and, through a screen of leaves almost as thick as tapestry, he watched. . . . That which was approaching was a man.

It was General Zaroff. He made his way along with his eyes fixed in utmost concentration on the ground before him. He paused, almost beneath the tree, dropped to his knees and studied the ground. Rainsford's impulse was to hurl himself down like a panther, but he saw that the general's right hand held something metallic-a small automatic pistol.

The hunter shook his head several times, as if he were puzzled. Then he straightened up and took from his case one of his black cigarettes; its pungent incenselike smoke floated up to Rainsford's nostrils.

Rainsford held his breath. The general's eyes had left the ground and were traveling inch by inch up the tree. Rainsford froze there, every muscle tensed for a spring. But the sharp eyes of the hunter stopped before they reached the limb where Rainsford lay; a smile spread over his brown face. Very deliberately he blew a smoke ring into the air; then he turned his back on the tree and walked carelessly away, back along the trail he had come. The swish of the underbrush against his hunting boots grew fainter and fainter.

The pent-up air burst hotly from Rainsford's lungs. His first thought made him feel sick and numb. The general could follow a trail through the woods at night; he could follow an extremely difficult trail; he must have uncanny powers; only by the merest chance had the Cossack failed to see his quarry.

Rainsford's second thought was even more terrible. It sent a shudder of cold horror through his whole being. Why had the general smiled? Why had he turned back?

Rainsford did not want to believe what his reason told him was true, but the truth was as evident as the sun that had by now pushed through the morning mists. The general was playing with him! The general was saving him for another day's sport! The Cossack was the cat; he was the mouse. Then it was that Rainsford knew the full meaning of terror.

"I will not lose my nerve. I will not."

He slid down from the tree, and struck off again into the woods. His face was set and he forced the machinery of his mind to function. Three hundred yards from his hiding place he stopped where a huge dead tree leaned precariously on a smaller, living one. Throwing off his sack of food, Rainsford took his knife from its sheath and began to work with all his energy.

The job was finished at last, and he threw himself down behind a fallen log a hundred feet away. He did not have to wait long. The cat was coming again to play with the mouse.

Following the trail with the sureness of a bloodhound came General Zaroff. Nothing escaped those searching black eyes, no crushed blade of grass, no bent twig, no mark, no matter how faint, in the moss. So intent was the Cossack on his stalking that he was upon the thing Rainsford had made before he saw it. His foot touched the protruding bough that was the trigger. Even as he touched it, the general sensed his danger and leaped back with the agility of an ape. But he was not quite quick enough; the dead tree, delicately adjusted to rest on the cut living one, crashed down and struck the general a glancing blow on the shoulder as it fell; but for his alertness, he must have been smashed beneath it. He staggered, but he did not fall; nor did he drop his revolver. He stood there, rubbing his injured shoulder, and Rainsford, with fear again gripping his heart, heard the general's mocking laugh ring through the jungle.

"Rainsford," called the general, "if you are within sound of my voice, as I suppose you are, let me congratulate you. Not many men know how to make a Malay mancatcher. Luckily for me I, too, have hunted in Malacca. You are proving interesting, Mr. Rainsford. I am going now to have my wound dressed; it's only a slight one. But I shall be back. I shall be back."

When the general, nursing his bruised shoulder, had gone, Rainsford took up his flight again. It was flight now, a desperate, hopeless flight, that carried him on for some hours. Dusk came, then darkness, and still he pressed on. The ground grew softer under his moccasins; the vegetation grew ranker, denser; insects bit him savagely.

Then, as he stepped forward, his foot sank into the ooze. He tried to wrench it back, but the muck sucked viciously at his foot as if it were a giant leech. With a violent effort, he tore his feet loose. He knew where he was now. Death Swamp and its quicksand.

His hands were tight closed as if his nerve were something tangible that someone in the darkness was trying to tear from his grip. The softness of the earth had given him an idea. He stepped back from the quicksand a dozen feet or so and, like some huge prehistoric beaver, he began to dig.

Rainsford had dug himself in in France when a second's delay meant death. That had been a placid pastime compared to his digging now. The pit grew deeper; when it was above his shoulders, he climbed out and from some hard saplings cut stakes and sharpened them to a fine point. These stakes he planted in the bottom of the pit with the points sticking up. With flying fingers he wove a rough carpet of weeds and branches and with it he covered the mouth of the pit. Then, wet with sweat and aching with tiredness, he crouched behind the stump of a lightning-charred tree.

He knew his pursuer was coming; he heard the padding sound of feet on the soft earth, and the night breeze brought him the perfume of the general's cigarette. It seemed to Rainsford that the general was coming with unusual swiftness; he was not feeling his way along, foot by foot. Rainsford, crouching there, could not see the general, nor could he see the pit. He lived a year in a minute. Then he felt an impulse to cry aloud with joy, for he heard the sharp crackle of the breaking branches as the cover of the pit gave way; he heard the sharp scream of pain as the pointed stakes found their mark. He leaped up from his place of concealment. Then he cowered back. Three feet from the pit a man was standing, with an electric torch in his hand.

"You've done well, Rainsford," the voice of the general called. "Your Burmese tiger pit has claimed one of my best dogs. Again you score. I think, Mr. Rainsford, Ill see what you can do against my whole pack. I'm going home for a rest now. Thank you for a most amusing evening."

At daybreak Rainsford, lying near the swamp, was awakened by a sound that made him know that he had new things to learn about fear. It was a distant sound, faint and wavering, but he knew it. It was the baying of a pack of hounds.

Rainsford knew he could do one of two things. He could stay where he was and wait. That was suicide. He could flee. That was postponing the inevitable. For a moment he stood there, thinking. An idea that held a wild chance came to him, and, tightening his belt, he headed away from the swamp.

The baying of the hounds drew nearer, then still nearer, nearer, ever nearer. On a ridge Rainsford climbed a tree. Down a watercourse, not a quarter of a mile away, he could see the bush moving. Straining his eyes, he saw the lean figure of General Zaroff; just ahead of him Rainsford made out another figure whose wide shoulders surged through the tall jungle weeds; it was the giant Ivan, and he seemed pulled forward by some unseen force; Rainsford knew that Ivan must be holding the pack in leash.

They would be on him any minute now. His mind worked frantically. He thought of a native trick he had learned in Uganda. He slid down the tree. He caught hold of a springy young sapling and to it he fastened his hunting knife, with the blade pointing down the trail; with a bit of wild grapevine he tied back the sapling. Then he ran for his life. The hounds raised their voices as they hit the fresh scent. Rainsford knew now how an animal at bay feels.

He had to stop to get his breath. The baying of the hounds stopped abruptly, and Rainsford's heart stopped too. They must have reached the knife.

He shinned excitedly up a tree and looked back. His pursuers had stopped. But the hope that was in Rainsford's brain when he climbed died, for he saw in the shallow valley that General Zaroff was still on his feet. But Ivan was not. The knife, driven by the recoil of the springing tree, had not wholly failed.

Rainsford had hardly tumbled to the ground when the pack took up the cry again.

"Nerve, nerve, nerve!" he panted, as he dashed along. A blue gap showed between the trees dead ahead. Ever nearer drew the hounds. Rainsford forced himself on toward that gap. He reached it. It was the shore of the sea. Across a cove he could see the gloomy gray stone of the chateau. Twenty feet below him the sea rumbled and hissed. Rainsford hesitated. He heard the hounds. Then he leaped far out into the sea. . . .

When the general and his pack reached the place by the sea, the Cossack stopped. For some minutes he stood regarding the blue-green expanse of water. He shrugged his shoulders. Then be sat down, took a drink of brandy from a silver flask, lit a cigarette, and hummed a bit from Madame Butterfly.

General Zaroff had an exceedingly good dinner in his great paneled dining hall that evening. With it he had a bottle of Pol Roger and half a bottle of Chambertin. Two slight annoyances kept him from perfect enjoyment. One was the thought that it would be difficult to replace Ivan; the other was that his quarry had escaped him; of course, the American hadn't played the game-so thought the general as he tasted his after-dinner liqueur. In his library he read, to soothe himself, from the works of Marcus Aurelius. At ten he went up to his bedroom. He was deliciously tired, he said to himself, as he locked himself in. There was a little moonlight, so, before turning on his light, he went to the window and looked down at the courtyard. He could see the great hounds, and he called, "Better luck another time," to them. Then he switched on the light.

A man, who had been hiding in the curtains of the bed, was standing there.

"Rainsford!" screamed the general. "How in God's name did you get here?"

"Swam," said Rainsford. "I found it quicker than walking through the jungle."

The general sucked in his breath and smiled. "I congratulate you," he said. "You have won the game."

Rainsford did not smile. "I am still a beast at bay," he said, in a low, hoarse voice. "Get ready, General Zaroff."

The general made one of his deepest bows. "I see," he said. "Splendid! One of us is to furnish a repast for the hounds. The other will sleep in this very excellent bed. On guard, Rainsford." . . .

He had never slept in a better bed, Rainsford decided.

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The Most Dangerous Game by Richard Connell - The Bibliofile

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Part of the Best Short Stories Reading Challenge The Most Dangerous Game by Richard Connell "OFF THERE to the right-somewhere-is a large island," said Whitney." It's rather a mystery-" "What island is it?" Rainsford asked. "The old charts call it `Ship-Trap Island,"' Whitney replied." A suggestive name, isn't it?

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The Tell-Tale Heart

by Edgar Allan Poe

TRUE! –nervous –very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses –not destroyed –not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily –how calmly I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture –a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees –very gradually –I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.

Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded –with what caution –with what foresight –with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it –oh so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly –very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man’s sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha! would a madman have been so wise as this, And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously-oh, so cautiously –cautiously (for the hinges creaked) –I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights –every night just at midnight –but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he has passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.

Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch’s minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers –of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back –but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness, (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers,) and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.

I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in bed, crying out –“Who’s there?”

I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed listening; –just as I have done, night after night, hearkening to the death watches in the wall.

Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief –oh, no! –it was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself –“It is nothing but the wind in the chimney –it is only a mouse crossing the floor,” or “It is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp.” Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions: but he had found all in vain. All in vain; because Death, in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him, and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel –although he neither saw nor heard –to feel the presence of my head within the room.

When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little –a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it –you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily –until, at length a simple dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell full upon the vulture eye.

It was open –wide, wide open –and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness –all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man’s face or person: for I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot.

And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the sense? –now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man’s heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.

But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eve. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man’s terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! –do you mark me well I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me –the sound would be heard by a neighbour! The old man’s hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once –once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eve would trouble me no more.

If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs.

I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye –not even his –could have detected any thing wrong. There was nothing to wash out –no stain of any kind –no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had caught all –ha! ha!

When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o’clock –still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart, –for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbour during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.

I smiled, –for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search –search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.

The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct: –It continued and became more distinct: I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definiteness –until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears.

No doubt I now grew very pale; –but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased –and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound –much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath –and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly –more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men –but the noise steadily increased. Oh God! what could I do? I foamed –I raved –I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder –louder –louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! –no, no! They heard! –they suspected! –they knew! –they were making a mockery of my horror!-this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! and now –again! –hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!

“Villains!” I shrieked, “dissemble no more! I admit the deed! –tear up the planks! here, here! –It is the beating of his hideous heart!”

-THE END-

Published 1843

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The Tell-Tale Heart by Edgar Allen Poe - The Bibliofile

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Part of the Best Short Stories Reading Challenge The Tell-Tale Heart by Edgar Allan Poe TRUE! –nervous –very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses –not destroyed –not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute.…

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Short stories are such a wonderful medium for telling stories and exploring interesting ideas, and I love encouraging people to read more of them. So, to celebrate the amazingness of short stories, here's my list of The Best Short Stories of All Time!

For anyone who wants to check these out, I've set it up as a shareable and printable reading challenge! See it, pin it and print it below!

Scroll down for links to the full text of these stories, commentary, etc. For some of the stories, I've included a tiny bit of commentary, but it's mostly meant as a jumping off point to think about the stories. There's definitely much, much more to analyze and ponder over.
These are my favorites, but I would love to hear about your favorite short stories, too! There's so many more I wanted to include, so I might do a Part II to this post later. Drop a message below if you have any ideas to share!
The Lottery is one of the most well known short stories of all time for good reason. It's got an eeriness that creeps up on you, but isn't clear entirely why until the very last paragraph. It received a ton of responses after its initial publication in The New Yorker, but Jackson declined to provide an explanation for the story.

The story opens with members of a small town gathering on June 27 for the annual lottery. The narration gives some clues about how the lottery works, noting that this town only has 300 people so it goes quickly, whereas for larger towns it takes longer.

The kids are out for the summer, so they gather stones in preparation. Mr. Summers and Mr. Graves, the postmaster, run the lottery. Each family stands together and a black box is brought out. The original box was lost a long time ago and now the town uses slips of paper instead of wood chips as was originally used.

They make a list of all the families in the village. Tessie Hutchinson joins late because she had forgotten today was the day of the lottery.

Mr. Summers reminds everyone of the rules. He'll read the names and the head of each family will come up and draw. No one should look at the slips until all the names are drawn.

Mrs. Adams talks about towns who have given up the lottery, but Old Man Warner thinks that'll lead to people living in caves and is nothing but trouble.

After the slips are drawn, the word gets around that Bill Hutchinson "got it," though Tess argues that he didn't have enough time to select a slip of paper. They confirm the number of children that Bill has, three, since his daughter draws with her husband's family.

Mr. Graves produces five slips of paper for the Hutchinson family (parents and three kids). Their names are called out, they each draw slips and then they look at them. Tessie has drawn the slip with a black dot. Mr. Graves urges the crowd to hurry up.

Tessie stands in the middle of a clearing as the villages rush towards her, and she is hit in the head with a stone. The rest of the village follows, with everyone throwing stones at her as well.

The Lottery is a story about tradition and adherence to tradition. It's not until the very end that you realize that in this world the towns all blindly follow the tradition of stoning one member of their village to death.

We know from the description of the box and of how things have changed over time that it's a ritual that they've always done. Old Man Warner represents the voice of the old generations, who seems to think that breaking from their tradition would be a descent into uncivilized behavior.

Jackson is questioning the ethics and the value of blindly following traditions.

I've always loved Poe's short stories, and The Tell-Tale Heart is probably my favorite. It's about a tormented, paranoid man who is racked with guilt.

The Necklace is a classic short story that's been adapted to stage and film many times. It's a story about vanity and honesty.

You may have seen or heard of the not-great movie adaptation of The Sound of Thunder that came out a while ago, but please don't let that dissuade you from reading this classic science fiction short story which deals with some of the same themes as the concept of Chaos Theory (more popularly known as the Butterfly Effect).

Confido by Kurt Vonnegut

A lot of people love the short story Harrison Bergeron by Kurt Vonnegut, but Confido is the one that has always stuck with me. Especially considering the way we consume news and information now and how easy it is to block out contrary opinions, I think this story is more relevant than ever.

If you think about all these people that go on toxic forums and feed their minds with garbage until they end up committing heinous crimes, you can see how Vonnegut saw it all coming way before his time. The ending of the story is especially relevant, too. For people who support platforms that allow toxic voices to proliferate for profit, I hope someone sends them this short story to read.

This is a survival story, of sorts.

The Monkey's Paw is a story about the supernatural. It involves a monkey's paw and three wishes. The uncertainty left over by the end is both unsettling and absolutely perfect for this story.

This is kind of a sweet, maybe a bit saccharine Christmas story. A lot of the short stories on this list are a bit errm...depressing for lack of a better word, so I wanted to include something a little bit more positive.

This is kind of a cute, fun short story that I've always really enjoyed. Once you start reading it, the title makes more sense.

The Yellow Wallpaper is a seminal work of Gothic and feminist literature. It's about a woman, Jane, who is moved into a room with yellow wallpaper.

In terms of format, Happy Endings is a little unconventional. It's a story with six possible endings. Or just one, depending on how you see it.

This is probably one of the most "literary" stories on this list, meaning that at first glance the story's meaning isn't as easily apparent. If you just skim through it, it probably feels very forgettable.

With Hemingway's short stories, a lot of the meaning is found in between the lines, in the things that are unsaid and the things that are implied.

This is a moral fable by Leo Tolstoy. There's also a lovely and beautifully illustrated children's book by Jon J. Muth based on this story.

A beautiful, tragic, hopeful story.

The Nightingale and the Rose is a fable-like story about true love and sometimes the lack thereof. It's a story about sacrifice, materialism, love and lust.

This is not your typical Haunted House story, but that's what makes it fun.

This is a relatively short but haunting story. It's about a peaceful and idyllic city, but its near-perfect existence comes at a steep price. Definitely a must-read that makes you think.

This is actually one of the few stories on this list I don't personally love, but so many people list this as one of their favorite short stories that I felt compelled to include it. It's about a man surviving in the extreme cold of the Yukon Territory along with his dog.

This is a story that's sad and quietly tragic. Given that it's Salinger, you can kind of anticipate the themes of alienation and focus on the innocence of children.

This story deals with a lot of failures to communicate, which ultimately results in the tragedy at the end.

As the story starts, Muriel and her mother converse but neither seems to really hear what the other person is saying, and they each feel like the other person isn't listening. Muriel's mother is concerned about the behavior of Muriel's husband, Seymore, but more with their possible effect on Muriel but Muriel is more focused on other things.

Meanwhile, Seymore is back from the war and it seems clear his odd behaviors are cries for help which aren't being heard. Seymore has given Muriel a book that has some type of importance to him, but it is in German so she can't understand it.

Sybil, a little girl, asks her mother about Seymore, but her mother thinks she is being silly by repeating "see more glass". Sybil runs off to find Seymore, who knows her dad. The two chat, but given that Sybil is a toddler, it's not exactly a meeting of minds.

Seymore explains whats going on with him to Sybil through a metaphor about bananafish, but she doesn't have the mental capacity to understand. He explains that the fish go into a hole to eat bananas and eat too much and get fat. Due to their behavior, they no longer fit through the hole to get outside and die. (Seymore was at war, and it's implied that due to the things he's done, he no longer fits outside of war and he can't get out of that place.)

It also seems like after the war the only things he really understands or trusts is simple things like to be kind to dogs and small children. He accosts a woman on the elevator and accuses her of staring at his feet.

Given the events of the story, it's unsurprising and yet surprising at the end when he kills himself.

I've loved this short story ever since I first came across it. It's about a black cat. A must for cat lovers.

The Veldt is a classic science fiction story as well as being a perfect blend of both horror and science fiction, two genres where Ray Bradbury shines. The Veldt is a cautionary tale about technology as well as the cruelty of children.

I included another creepy and fun Edgar Allen Poe tale on this list, but he has so many great ones I thought he was worth including twice. The Cask of Amontellado is a story of revenge.

The cellar of Il Buco restaurant in New York City is the location that people claim the story is based upon. I've been to the restaurant, and they allowed us to go down to the cellar, but it was more upscale and classy than scary, so who knows. I will say that the food at Il Buco is amazing, and the restaurant itself is gorgeous.

This is a great discussion story, as it's open ended to an extent. It's a story that presents a difficult, interesting question.

This is the response to every movie you've ever watched where a villain on the verge of death finally decides to do the right thing. One line in particular in A Good Man is Hard to Find is pure brilliance: "' She could have been a good woman,' The Misfit said, 'if it had been someone there to shoot her every minute of her life.'"

Lots to think about in this short story. Read it!

" He is not a bad man, and that, I realize suddenly, is the root of my hurt." This is a newer story, but it's one that stuck in my mind long after reading it. Also be sure to read a great discussion of it on Electric Lit.
Those are my picks, but if you didn't see your favorite short story, drop a comment below to share it with others! I'm contemplating doing a Part II since there are still so many great stories that I left off this list, so I'd love more ideas!

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25 Best Short Stories of All Time (Reading Challenge) - The Bibliofile

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Short stories are such a wonderful medium for telling stories and exploring interesting ideas, and I love encouraging people to read more of them. So, to celebrate the amazingness of short stories, here's my list of The Best Short Stories of All Time! For anyone who wants to check these out, I've set it up ...

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The Mask of the Red Death by Edgar Allan Poe

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The Murders in the Rue Morgue by Edgar Allan Poe, Part Two

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...Opening Spotify...

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...Opening Spotify...

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Listen to JULIO CORTAZAR - AUDIOCUENTOS on Spotify.

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Las cosas que perdimos en el fuego - Mariana Enríquez

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Las cosas que perdimos en el fuego - Mariana Enríquez

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Las cosas que perdimos en el fu - Mariana Enriquez

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Los mejores cuentos de fútbol - Fontanarrosa

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Los mejores cuentos de fútbol - Fontanarrosa

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Menu of Activities-Choose at least TWO and upload your work in padlet called Choose your Own Adventure

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Menu of Activities-Choose at least TWO and upload your work in padlet called Choose your Own Adventure

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1) Be a Booktuber for a day and recommend your favourite story by creating a video.

2) A partir de tu lectura, creá un cuento donde continúes la historia que leíste, como una especie de spinoff.

3) Being a DJ. Choose the right music that captures the essence of your favourite story.

4) Elige a un personaje de un cuento para realizarle una entrevista. Arma las preguntas para realizarle al personaje elegido, y luego ponte en la piel del personaje, para responderlas.

5) Seleccioná citas significativas para vos de algunos de lo s cuentos. Escribila en las ventanas con los marcadores para vidrio. ¡No olvides citar la fuente!

“Andábamos sin buscarnos, pero sabiendo que andábamos para encontrarnos” (Cortázar, 1963 Rayuela, cap. 1)

6) Rewrite the ending of one of the short-stories.

7) Summarize short-stories in one tweet (280 characters) – Post it

8) Después de haber escuchado los cuentos en las primeras horas de la mañana. Seleccióna un autor o autora que te haya llamado la atención, indagá sobre su obra, elegí otro cuento y contáselo a alguien. Podés subir un reel o igtv a Instagram arrobando a @seniorgodspell y usando el hashtag #welovestories.

9) En pequeños grupos escriban una historia corta del género que quieran. Antes de escribir piensen en detalle cuáles y cómo serán sus personajes, dónde se desarrollará la historia, cuál será el conflicto y cómo será el desenlace. Al finalizar, titúlenla creativamente.

10) Leé el texto de Dani sobre "Los Cangrejo Heike". Elegí alguna especie de cualquier reino biológico (animal, planta, hongo, etc.) y destacá una característica que te llame la atención o que sea distintiva de esa especie. Para esta característica, inventá una leyenda que "funcione" para explicar su origen. La característica elegida puede ser morfológica o conductual.

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Casiari

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Santa Evita

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Beginning of The Catcher in the Rye

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La palabra pintada, de Tom Wolfe
https://fdocuments.in/document/tom-wolfe-la-palabra-pintada.html?page=1

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The Liar [Short stories] (Wolff, Tobias)

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Un libro sobre neurociencia, genética y moral.

A través de un viaje que va desde los modernos descubrimientos de la genética y la biología del comportamiento humano a la investigación con gemelos separados al nacer o la fecundación in vitro, pasando por las aplicaciones de la neurobiología en educación y salud mental y las mediciones de rasgos de personalidad, Tabú busca promover un diálogo fundamental que no estamos teniendo.

¿Qué cosas pueden o podrían hacerse con estos conocimientos? ¿Cómo evaluamos los beneficios y los riesgos de sus posibles usos? ¿En qué vamos a basar nuestras decisiones al respecto? ¿Cómo se conectan la ciencia y la moral a la hora de pensar estos asuntos?

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Cuentos de amor de locura y de muerte - Horacio Quiroga

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Cuentos de amor de locura y de muerte - Horacio Quiroga

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8.30 - 10.10
¿Qué nos cuentan los teachers?

10.30 - 12.10
Choose your own adventure - Menu of Activities

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Los Simpson y las matematicas - Simon Singh

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Paradojas que te dejaran con la boca abierta!

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Paradojas que te dejaran con la boca abierta!

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¿Qué es Paradoja? Paradoja se refiere a un hecho o una frase que parece oponerse a los principios de la lógica. La palabra proviene del latín paradoxa, plural de paradoxon, que significa ‘lo contrario a la opinión común’; este a su vez viene del griego παράδοξα (parádoxa), plural de παράδοξον (parádoxon), que podría traducirse como ‘inesperado’, ‘increíble’ o ‘singular’. Aquí te decimos algunas paradojas y sus ejemplos más famosos.

1. Paradoja de los gemelos

Esta teoría fue propuesta por Albert Einstein al desarrollar lo que hoy se conoce como la teoría de la relatividad especial.

Dicha paradoja expone que si tenemos a dos gemelos y a uno de ellos lo montamos en una nave espacial que alcanza velocidades cercanas a la velocidad de la luz y otro lo dejamos en la Tierra, cuando el que fue al espacio regrese, vería que es más joven que el que se ha quedado en la Tierra.

Dicha teoría postula que la medida del tiempo no es absoluta. Además, siendo dos observadores, el tiempo medido entre dos eventos por estos observadores, en general, no coincide. La diferente medida de tiempos depende del estado de movimiento relativo entre ellos.

2. Paradoja del abuelo

Se trata de las paradojas más famosas, y dice que si una persona realiza un viaje a través del tiempo y mata al padre biológico de su padre/madre biológico (abuelo del viajero), antes de que este conozca a la abuela del viajero y puedan concebir, el padre/madre del viajero (y por extensión, ese viajero) nunca habrá sido concebido, de tal manera que no habrá podido viajar en el tiempo.

Por otro lado, y continuando con la hipótesis, al no viajar al pasado, el abuelo del viajero no sería asesinado, por lo que el hipotético viajero sí es concebido; entonces, sí puede viajar al pasado y asesinar a su abuelo, pero no sería concebido, y así indefinidamente.

La paradoja surge porque el estado actual del mundo está determinado por sus estados anteriores, de manera que cambiar uno de estos estados propaga incontroladamente efectos hacia el estado actual.

3. Paradoja del gato de Schrödinger

Otro de los ejemplos de paradojas, probablemente la más famosa de todas, expone una situación hipotética en la que ponemos a un gato en una caja, dentro de la cual hay un mecanismo conectado a un martillo con un 50% de probabilidades de romper un frasco de veneno que mataría al gato.

El escenario presenta que puede estar simultáneamente vivo y muerto, un estado conocido como superposición cuántica, como resultado de estar vinculado a un evento subatómico aleatorio que puede ocurrir o no.

4. Paradoja de Möbius

Desde hace 160 años existe un objeto que desafía las leyes de la física a las que estamos acostumbrados.

Se trata de la cinta Möbius o Moebius, creada por el matemático y astrónomo alemán August Ferdinand Möbius en 1858. La paradoja de la cinta de Möbius es una paradoja visual de una cinta con una sola cara y un solo borde. Tiene la propiedad matemática de ser un objeto no orientable.

Una de las características más fascinantes de la cinta de Moebius es que es lo que los matemáticos llaman un “objeto no orientable”.

Esta paradoja dice que Imaginemos que queremos construir el hotel más grande del mundo. Al principio, pensamos en hacer uno de 1.000 habitaciones, pero es posible que alguien lo supere. Lo mismo pasa con 20.000, 500.000, 1.000.000…

El matemático alemán David Hilbert propuso el Hotel Infinito como una forma de explicar estas curiosas paradojas del infinito, explicando cómo serían las cosas en un hotel con infinitas habitaciones si llegara un huésped más cuando todas estas estuvieran ocupadas, si llegaran infinitos huéspedes, o incluso si llegara un infinito número de grupos infinitos de turistas.

Por ello, se llega a la conclusión de que lo mejor es construir uno con habitaciones infinitas. El problema radica que en un hotel infinito que se llena de infinitos huéspedes, las matemáticas nos dicen que se llenaría por completo. ¿Se puede llegar al infinito +1?

¿Conoces otros ejemplos de paradojas?

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5 ejemplos de paradojas que te dejarán con la boca abierta

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¿Qué es Paradoja? Paradoja se refiere a un hecho o una frase que parece oponerse a los principios de la lógica. La palabra proviene del latín paradoxa, plural de paradoxon, que significa 'lo contrario a la opinión común'; este a su vez viene del griego παράδοξα (parádoxa), plural de παράδοξον (parádoxon), que podría traducirse como 'inesperado', 'increíble' o 'singular'.

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Por @Alvy - 2 de Mayo de 2022

Para presentar la archivoconocida paradoja del cumpleaños se suele hacer ver a la gente reunida en una clase cuántas personas hay -quizá 30 ó 40- y que un año tiene 365 días. Luego se pregunta si creen probable que dos personas cumplan años el mismo día; también se puede pedir estimar cuántas personas harían falta para que la probabilidad de que esto suceda sea más del 50%. Con un número de gente grande -pero tampoco hace falta que sea inmenso- hay quien incluso propone apostar dinero de verdad, sabiendo que tiene las leyes de la probabilidad a su favor, como demuestran algunos cálculos.

Y es que este efecto se denomina paradoja porque el resultado es contrario a la intuición: hacen falta tan solo 23 personas en un grupo para que esta probabilidad sea más del 50%. La clave es que el problema pide "que dos personas cumplan años el mismo día", no que haya alguien que cumpla el mismo día que otra persona en concreto. En primer caso, 23 personas pueden formar 253 parejas distintas, y todas son candidatas. Si nos refiriéramos sólo a una de las personas en concreto sería de 1/365 para cada una de las 22 personas, (22/365) = ~6% en total, que es mucho menos. (Nota: Se suelen ignorar los años bisiestos.)

Para que se vea más claro Brain Feast ha convertido todo esto en un Simulador de la Paradoja del Cumpleaños en Unity, donde hay botones para pulsar y modificar ciertas variables:

Se puede aumentar o disminuir el número de personas (People) en cada habitación, y pulsando en Generar habitación (Generate Room) se eligen las fechas para todas las personas, con número entre el 1 y 365 que simboliza todos los días del año.

Como resultados, los colores indican si las fechas no se repiten (rojo) o coinciden (verde); de hecho a veces coincide más de una pareja. Lo más interesante es que se pueden generar muestras aleatorias de 10 en 10, o de 100 en 100 o en múltiplos de 10 (botón Sample) para hacer pruebas más rápido. Los paneles de la parte inferior derecha acumulan y promedian los resultados para que se vea cómo de significativa es la estadística a medida que evoluciona (en el simulador esto se explica como "número de habitaciones visitadas").

Aumentando el número de personas en la habitación es fácil ver cómo cada vez es más difícil evitar que coincidan dos fechas; en el caso límite en una habitación con 365 personas sería prácticamente imposible que no hubiera coincidencias, porque cada persona tendría que haber nacido exactamente en un día distinto del año.

Además de comprobar cómo el famoso valor de 23 es numéricamente preciso en el caso de las fechas de cumpleaños para superar esa barrera del 50% (concretamente la probabilidad es 50,7%; en el caso de sólo 22 personas es sólo del 47,6%) lo más importante de esa paradoja es saber reconocerla en otras situaciones. Una vez asimilada, muchas de esas "coincidencias increíbles" que observamos en nuestra vida cotidiana dejan de ser tales, porque el número de "posibles coincidencias" es tan grande que a veces resultan ser sucesos más probables que improbables.

Relacionado:

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Un simulador de la "paradoja del cumpleaños" nos enseña que los humanos no somos muy buenos estimando probabilidades

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Para presentar la archivoconocida paradoja del cumpleaños se suele hacer ver a la gente reunida en una clase cuántas personas hay -quizá 30 ó 40- y que un año tiene 365 días. Luego se pregunta si creen probable que dos personas...

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Cosmos, el célebre libro que se desarrollo también en una serie de televisión, obra de Carl Sagan y Ann Druyan, trataba de dónde estamos en la inmensidad del espacio y del tiempo. Sombras de antepasados olvidados quiere responder a la pregunta de quiénes somos, cómo la aventura de la vida en este planeta nos ha [...]

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El mundo de las matemáticas, en su abstracción y complejidad, suele parecer inaccesible a los no iniciados. El original camino que se propone aquí es acercarnos a ese universo a partir de uno de los grandes fabuladores de todos los tiempos: Jorge Lui...

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No hay nada como una prueba de agudeza visual o un problema matemático difícil de resolver para conseguir atrapar la atención de todo el mundo. Seguro que durante tu infancia (también en la edad adulta, reconócelo) te han hecho la pregunta "¿Dónde está Wally?" al intentar buscar al personaje de vestimenta rayada en uno de los clásicos libros.

Uno de los retos que desafía a tu mente es el conocido como "el acertijo de Albert Einstein". Este desafío ha sido citado por la prestigiosa Universidad de Stanford y se supone que solo el 2% de la población es capaz de resolverlo.

Este es el enunciado del acertijo: En una calle hay cinco casas, cada una de un color distinto. En cada casa vive una persona de distinta nacionalidad. Cada dueño bebe un único tipo de bebida, fuma una sola marca de cigarrillos y tiene una mascota diferente a sus vecinos. A partir de las 15 pistas presentadas a continuación, la consigna que hay que responder es: "¿Quién es el dueño del pez?".

1. El británico vive en la casa roja.

2. El sueco tiene un perro como mascota.

3. El danés toma té.

4. El noruego vive en la primera casa.

5. El alemán fuma Prince.

6. La casa verde está inmediatamente a la izquierda de la blanca.

7. El dueño de la casa verde bebe café.

8. El propietario que fuma Pall Mall cría pájaros.

9. El dueño de la casa amarilla fuma Dunhill.

10. El hombre que vive en la casa del centro bebe leche.

11. El vecino que fuma Blends vive al lado del que tiene un gato.

12. El hombre que tiene un caballo vive al lado del que fuma Dunhill.

13. El propietario que fuma Bluemaster toma cerveza.

14. El vecino que fuma Blends viveal lado del que toma agua.

15. El noruego vive al lado de la casa azul.

La solución al acertijo

El matemático español Francisco Lorenzo publicó en su canal de YouTube la siguiente manera de resolver uno de los acertijos de lógica deductiva más famosos del mundo.

Si has seguido uno a uno los pasos (seguro que has completado la tabla con los colores de las casas, las bebidas, las marcas de cigarrillos y las mascotas) la respuesta es que el dueño del pez es el vecino alemán.

No hay nada como una prueba de agudeza visual o un problema matemático difícil de resolver para conseguir atrapar la atención de todo el mundo. Seguro que durante tu infancia (también en la edad adulta, reconócelo) te han hecho la pregunta "¿Dónde está Wally?" al intentar buscar al personaje de vestimenta rayada en uno de los clásicos libros.

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El acertijo de Albert Einstein que solo el 2% de la gente es capaz de resolver

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No hay nada como una prueba de agudeza visual o un problema matemático difícil de resolver para conseguir atrapar la atención de todo el mundo. Seguro que durante tu infancia (también en la edad adulta, reconócelo) te han hecho la pregunta "¿Dónde está Wally?"

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Pensamiento lateral

A toda velocidad

Un agente de policía estaba sentado en su motocicleta ante el semáforo en rojo cuando dos jóvenes en…

Una larga caída

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El día perfecto

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La hora indicada

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Un tranquilo suburbio

Un hombre conduce su auto a 16 km por hora por una tranquila calle de un suburbio neoyorquino…

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Acertijos

Misteriosa

Encuentre una palabra que sea sinónimo de una de las tres que damos aquí abajo, anagrama (mismas letras…

Música en series

¿Qué instrumento toca el personaje de Etsy en “Poco ortodoxa”? A. Viola. B. Violín. C. Violonchelo.

Lógica festiva

¿Cuál es el AUTO más imprudente? El INCAUTO. Con la misma lógica festiva, conteste la siguiente pregunta.  ¿Qué…

El dinero en el Vaticano

¿Cuál es la moneda corriente en el Estado Vaticano?  A. Vaticoin. B. Lira Italiana. C. Euro.

Flor escondida

En la frase “Nunca la he soportado” se ha escondido una flor, la cala: “NunCA LA he soportado”….

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Una breve historia de casi todo, Bill Bryson

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Una breve historia de casi todo, Bill Bryson

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Una breve historia de casi todo - Bill Bryson

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...Opening Spotify...

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Listen to Contemos Historias on Spotify.

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Expedición a las Historias de la Ciencia

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Expedición a las Historias de la Ciencia

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...Opening Spotify...

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Gay Lussac se atrevió a mucho, pero no a tanto. Si sos docente, están disponibles en nuestra página www.expedicionciencia.org.ar guías descargables para que puedas utilizarlas en el aula. Si te gustó el podcast y querés ayudarnos a financiar éste y otros proyectos, podés hacerlo acá. Narración: Ga…