Narration Sample: The Collectors
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
British (General) North American (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
But the thing is, said Harley, they didn't know each other at all, never heard of each other. It wasn't about the makers, only about the works. How did you hear about it? Said Grinstead from the dealer who sold me the painting Falcon. Dale, Max Falcon. Dale Reliable Well, within limits, you know. But he'd made the sale anyway. He just wanted to tell the story. It was December of 1970 they were sitting in the senior common room of Holies College. After dinner, he was called, and the dinner had been meager and dull, culminating in some sort of nut pudding that closely resembled wet cement. A small fire in the SCR had just enough energy toe warm. The rug directly in front of it left the corners of the room to fend for themselves. There was more warps coming from the two standard lamps on either side of the heart. The company wasn't large. The librarian, the chaplain, couple of young fellows. No one seemed to know by name, a visiting professor of philology and Grinstead, Harley's guest for the evening, while the rest discussed European politics. Orleon Grinstead occupying the shadows at the end of the sofa on one of the deepest armchair, respectively, spoke quietly about a painting in holies possession. Grinstead sipped his brandy and said, Well, tell me what Falcon Dail said where he told me the story is heat. Heard it from the painter's daughter, Leonora, skipped in. Her father usually painted landscapes in a sort off second hand. Impressionist manner. Nothing especially original but agreeable enough. He very rarely did. Portrait. It's this one was quite out of his usual range Falcon. Dale had no idea who the sitter waas, a fair haired young woman with the most extraordinarily ambiguous expression. One moment she looks cold, disdainful, contemptuous even, and the next on fire with a sort of lost and hopeless yet somehow very sexy yearning. Ah, very strong picture. Oh, actually doing. She's standing in front of a sort of dusty pink curtain, her hands clasped in front, wearing a dark blue blouse thing and a cream colored scott. Very plain, very simple. It's all in the face. She wasn't the doctor. Leonora wasn't, said Grinstead. No daughter couldn't stand the picture, loathed it. She came into Falcon Nails gallery toe, confirm the identification and said she had wished it been burned the day it was painted. That was all she'd say. She some incredible age, must be nearly 100 0 and he should be a remarkable letter. What about the other piece? Our little bronze? About two foot high French, sort of symbolist. I suppose you call it a monkey on a P. I never remember. The difference is sitting up with one hand reaching out toward us or, you know, towards some fruit or something and expressions the thing here to absolute savage greed and brutality. Horrible thing to look at. I don't know. Anyone could bear to have it around, but beautifully sculpted, you know, every hair of a little finger nail in place. Perfect. And in the body, attention and energy. Any second and mites bringer to tear your eyes out. Ghastly thing. Really, but beautifully sculpted. And who made that mark on 20 back? Ever heard of him? Yes. Actually my No Symbolist, as you say. Was it a large edition? Just bronze. Lot of them about. Be surprised if there any others. There's just this particular one. Has it got a tail? Yes. I think it has cold around its feet then it's a monkey. Is that the difference? Well, a monkey, then the visiting professor of philology labor to his feet, swaying slightly. Good night, gentlemen, he said. Ah, highly enjoyable evening. I'm most grateful is so good. Be kind enough. It forget what is my room? Have this, I think for far guy. At least there's some indication of the direction. He nearly lost his balance for a moment and put his hand to the mental peace to regain it. One of the young fellow sprang up and offered out. The chaplain got up to shake the professor's hand. The librarian followed his example, and it took Connie's two minutes to get the old man out of the senior common room and into his overcoat. In a way, the librarian looked back at the fire is a weapon of the log. Do you think, he said, that he plainly thought it would be an intolerable expense whose logs were juniper? I believe, secret. Instead, they are so last of a large contingent from the colleges of forest, land and whales land now sold. I'm sorry to say no one spoke. The library inside almost silently and lifted the smallest log out of the basket and placed it at the edge of the fire. Well, must make sure the professor's founders rooms, he said. Good night, gentlemen. He left in a silence fell on the room. Excerpt from the collectors by Philip Pullman.