Stephen Crane lived in the world for twenty-eight and a half years. He was born in 1871 and died of tuberculosis at the turn of the century, in 1900. And yet he managed to see war, to write a whole heap of strange poems and short, disconcertingly desperate stories—few are given the chance to use their life so courageously and concisely. Angel of mercy for American realistic prose, he was among the first to develop a barren plot of land—later, it turned out, gold-bearing; after him came the famous treasure hunters William Faulkner, Ernest Hemingway, and the like.
Stephen Crane’s book of stories “The Blue Hotel” was published by “Текст” Publishing House, and at first the stories seem simple and artless, but they leave a bitter, wormwood-like aftertaste on the lips, and haunting visions pursue the reader even after the reader closes the book. That’s what it means to be prose written by a poet: it has a mysterious inner rhythm that imprints it in the reader’s memory. Stephen Crane’s prose “ruins the blood”—you have to catch it like a disease; though, I don’t advise you to rush your recovery: this exquisite poison should be enjoyed.