새책 입니다.새책 입니다.

Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children / Hollow City / Library of Souls [ Paperback]

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Miss Peregrine's Peculiar Children #1 : Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children 미스 페레그린과 이상한 아이들의 집 [ Paperback]

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랜섬 릭스 (지은이)Quirk Books2016-08-02

384쪽132*208mm
언어 : English

국가 : 미국 

ISBN : 9781594749025

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The #1 New York Times best-selling series An abandoned orphanage on a mysterious island holds the key to supernatural secrets in this unusual and original first book in the one-of-a-kind Miss Peregrine’s Peculiar Children series A captivating blend of horror, dark fantasy, paranormal mystery, and time travel brought to life with more than 50 haunting vintage photographsWhen a devastating family tragedy propels sixteen-year-old Jacob on a journey to a remote island off the coast of Wales, he stumbles upon the crumbling ruins of Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children. As he explores the abandoned rooms, he uncovers a chilling truth?these children were not just peculiar, they were potentially dangerous, and they may have been quarantined for a reason. Trapped on this desolate island, their supernatural abilities and the mysteries surrounding them deepen. Impossibly, they may still be alive, their existence defying the laws of time and nature. A spine-tingling fantasy illustrated with a strange collection of historical photographs, this unforgettable novel will delight adults, teens, and anyone who relishes an adventure in the shadows.“A tense, moving, and wondrously strange first novel. The photographs and text work together brilliantly to create an unforgettable story.”?John Green, New York Times best-selling author of The Fault in Our Stars“Riggs deftly moves between fantasy and reality, prose and photography to create an enchanting and at times positively terrifying story.”?Associated Press“You’ll love it if you want a good thriller for the summer. It’s a mystery, and you’ll race to solve it before Jacob figures it out for himself.”?Seventeen“One of the coolest, creepiest YA books.”?PopSugarReviews“A tense, moving, and wondrously strange first novel. The photographs and text work together brilliantly to create an unforgettable story.”?John Green, New York Times best-selling author of Looking for Alaska and Paper Towns “Readers searching for the next Harry Potter may want to visit Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children.”?CNN“Riggs deftly moves between fantasy and reality, prose and photography to create an enchanting and at times positively terrifying story.”?Associated Press“I read all of the Miss Peregrine’s Peculiar Children books and I loved them.”?Florence of Florence The Machine“[A] thrilling, Tim Burton-esque tale with haunting photographs.”?USA Today Pop Candy“With its X-Men: First Class-meets-time-travel story line, David Lynchian imagery, and rich, eerie detail, it’s no wonder Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children has been snapped up by Twentieth Century Fox. B ”?Entertainment Weekly“Peculiar’ doesn’t even begin to cover it. Riggs’ chilling, wondrous novel is already headed to the movies.”?People“You'll love it if you want a good thriller for the summer. It's a mystery, and you'll race to solve it before Jacob figures it out for himself.”?Seventeen“Delightfully weird.”?Good Housekeeping“One of the coolest, creepiest YA books.”?PopSugarExcerptPrologueI had just come to accept that my life would be ordinary when extraordinary things began to happen. The first of these came as a terrible shock and, like anything that changes you forever, split my life into halves: Before and After. Like many of the extraordinary things to come, it involved my grandfather, Abraham Portman.     Growing up, Grandpa Portman was the most fascinating person I knew. He had lived in an orphanage, fought in wars, crossed oceans by steamship and deserts on horseback, performed in circuses, knew everything about guns and self-defense and surviving in the wilderness, and spoke at least three languages that weren’t English. It all seemed unfathomably exotic to a kid who’d never left Florida, and I begged him to regale me with stories whenever I saw him. He always obliged, telling them like secrets that could be entrusted only to me.     When I was six I decided that my only chance of having a life half as exciting as Grandpa Portman’s was to become an explorer. He encouraged me by spending afternoons at my side hunched over maps of the world, plotting imaginary expeditions with trails of red pushpins and telling me about the fantastic places I would discover one day. At home I made my ambitions known by parading around with a cardboard tube held to my eye, shouting, “Land ho!” and “Prepare a landing party!” until my parents shooed me outside. I think they worried that my grandfather would infect me with some incurable dreaminess from which I’d never recover?that these fantasies were somehow inoculating me against more practical ambitions?so one day my mother sat me down and explained that I couldn’t become an explorer because everything in the world had already been discovered. I’d been born in the wrong century, and I felt cheated.     I felt even more cheated when I realized that most of Grandpa Portman’s best stories couldn’t possibly be true. The tallest tales were always about his childhood, like how he was born in Poland but at twelve had been shipped off to a children’s home in Wales. When I would ask why he had to leave his parents, his answer was always the same: because the monsters were after him. Poland was simply rotten with them, he said.     “What kind of monsters?” I’d ask, wide-eyed. It became a sort of routine. “Awful hunched-over ones with rotting skin and black eyes,” he’d say. “And they walked like this!” And he’d shamble after me like an old-time movie monster until I ran away laughing.     Every time he described them he’d toss in some lurid new detail: they stank like putrefying trash; they were invisible except for their shadows; a pack of squirming tentacles lurked inside their mouths and could whip out in an instant and pull you into their powerful jaws. It wasn’t long before I had trouble falling asleep, my hyperactive imagination transforming the hiss of tires on wet pavement into labored breathing just outside my window or shadows under the door into twisting gray-black tentacles. I was scared of the monsters but thrilled to imagine my grandfather battling them and surviving to tell the tale.     More fantastic still were his stories about life in the Welsh children’s home. It was an enchanted place, he said, designed to keep kids safe from the monsters, on an island where the sun shined every day and nobody ever got sick or died. Everyone lived together in a big house that was protected by a wise old bird?or so the story went. As I got older, though, I began to have doubts.     “What kind of bird?” I asked him one afternoon at age seven, eyeing him skeptically across the card table where he was letting me win at Monopoly.     “A big hawk who smoked a pipe,” he said.     “You must think I’m pretty dumb, Grandpa.”     He thumbed through his dwindling stack of orange and blue money. “I would never think that about you, Yakob.” I knew I’d offended him because the Polish accent he could never quite shake had come out of hiding, so that would became vood and think became sink. Feeling guilty, I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.     “But why did the monsters want to hurt you?” I asked.     “Because we weren’t like other people. We were peculiar.”     “Peculiar how?”     “Oh, all sorts of ways,” he said. “There was a girl who could fly, a boy who had bees living inside him, a brother and sister who could lift boulders over their heads.”     It was hard to tell if he was being serious. Then again, my grandfather was not known as a teller of jokes. He frowned, reading the doubt on my face.     “Fine, you don’t have to take my word for it,” he said. “I got pictures!” He pushed back his lawn chair and went into the house, leaving me alone on the screened-in lanai. A minute later he came back holding an old cigar box. I leaned in to look as he drew out four wrinkled and yellowing snapshots.     The first was a blurry picture of what looked like a suit of clothes with no person in them. Either that or the person didn’t have a head.     “Sure, he’s got a head!” my grandfather said, grinning. “Only you can’t see it.”     “Why not? Is he invisible?”     “Hey, look at the brain on this one!” He raised his eyebrows as if I’d surprised him with my powers of deduction. “Millard, his name was. Funny kid. Sometimes he’d say, ‘Hey Abe, I know what you did today,’ and he’d tell you where you’d been, what you had to eat, if you picked your nose when you thought nobody was looking. Sometimes he’d follow you, quiet as a mouse, with no clothes on so you couldn’t see him?just watching!” He shook his head. “Of all the things, eh?”     He slipped me another photo. Once I’d had a moment to look at it, he said, “So? What do you see?”     “A little girl?”     “And?”     “She’s wearing a crown.”     He tapped the bottom of the picture. “What about her feet?”     I held the snapshot closer. The girl’s feet weren’t touching the ground. But she wasn’t jumping?she seemed to be floating in the air. My jaw fell open.     “She’s flying!”     “Close,” my grandfather said. “She’s levitating. Only she couldn’t control herself too well, so sometimes we had to tie a rope around her to keep her from floating away!”     My eyes were glued to her haunting, doll-like face. “Is it real?”     “Of course it is,” he said gruffly, taking the picture and replacing it with another, this one of a scrawny boy lifting a boulder. “Victor and his sister weren’t so smart,” he said, “but boy were they strong!”     “He doesn’t look strong,” I said, studying the boy’s skinny arms.     “Trust me, he was. I tried to arm-wrestle him once and he just about tore my hand off!”     But the strangest photo was the last one. It was the back of somebody’s head, with a face painted on it.     I stared at the last photo as Grandpa Portman explained. “He had two mouths, see? One in the front and one in the back. That’s why he got so big and fat!”     “But it’s fake,” I said. “The face is just painted on.”     “Sure, the paint’s fake. It was for a circus show. But I’m telling you, he had two mouths. You don’t believe me?”     I thought about it, looking at the pictures and then at my grandfather, his face so earnest and open. What reason would he have to lie?     “I believe you,” I said.     And I really did believe him?for a few years, at least?though mostly because I wanted to, like other kids my age wanted to believe in Santa Claus. We cling to our fairy tales until the price for believing them becomes too high, which for me was the day in second grade when Robbie Jensen pantsed me at lunch in front of a table of girls and announced that I believed in fairies. It was just deserts, I suppose, for repeating my grandfather’s stories at school but in those humiliating seconds I foresaw the moniker “fairy boy” trailing me for years and, rightly or not, I resented him for it.     Grandpa Portman picked me up from school that afternoon, as he often did when both my parents were working. I climbed into the passenger seat of his old Pontiac and declared that I didn’t believe in his fairy stories anymore.     “What fairy stories?” he said, peering at me over his glasses.     “You know. The stories. About the kids and the monsters.”     He seemed confused. “Who said anything about fairies?”     I told him that a made-up story and a fairy tale were the same thing, and that fairy tales were for pants-wetting babies, and that I knew his photos and stories were fakes. I expected him to get mad or put up a fight, but instead he just said, “Okay,” and threw the Pontiac into drive. With a stab of his foot on the accelerator we lurched away from the curb. And that was the end of it.     I guess he’d seen it coming?I had to grow out of them eventually?but he dropped the whole thing so quickly it left me feeling like I’d been lied to. I couldn’t understand why he’d made up all that stuff, tricked me into believing that extraordinary things were possible when they weren’t. It wasn’t until a few years later that my dad explained it to me: Grandpa had told him some of the same stories when he was a kid, and they weren’t lies, exactly, but exaggerated versions of the truth?because the story of Grandpa Portman’s childhood wasn’t a fairy tale at all. It was a horror story.     My grandfather was the only member of his family to escape Poland before the Second World War broke out. He was twelve years old when his parents sent him into the arms of strangers, putting their youngest son on a train to Britain with nothing more than a suitcase and the clothes on his back. It was a one-way ticket. He never saw his mother or father again, or his older brothers, his cousins, his aunts and uncles. Each one would be dead before his sixteenth birthday, killed by the monsters he had so narrowly escaped. But these weren’t the kind of monsters that had tentacles and rotting skin, the kind a seven-year-old might be able to wrap his mind around?they were monsters with human faces, in crisp uniforms, marching in lockstep, so banal you don’t recognize them for what they are until it’s too late.     Like the monsters, the enchanted-island story was also a truth in disguise. Compared to the horrors of mainland Europe, the children’s home that had taken in my grandfather must’ve seemed like a paradise, and so in his stories it had become one: a safe haven of endless summers and guardian angels and magical children, who couldn’t really fly or turn invisible or lift boulders, of course. The peculiarity for which they’d been hunted was simply their Jewishness. They were orphans of war, washed up on that little island in a tide of blood. What made them amazing wasn’t that they had miraculous powers; that they had escaped the ghettos and gas chambers was miracle enough.     I stopped asking my grandfather to tell me stories, and I think secretly he was relieved. An air of mystery closed around the details of his early life. I didn’t pry. He had been through hell and had a right to his secrets. I felt ashamed for having been jealous of his life, considering the price he’d paid for it, and I tried to feel lucky for the safe and unextraordinary one that I had done nothing to deserve.     Then, a few years later, when I was fifteen, an extraordinary and terrible thing happened, and there was only Before and After.About the AuthorRansom Riggs is the #1 New York Times best-selling author of the Miss Peregrine’s Peculiar Children novels. Riggs was born on a farm in Maryland and grew up in southern Florida. He studied literature at Kenyon College and film at the University of Southern California. He lives in Los Angeles with his wife, the best-selling author Tahereh Mafi, and their family.

Hollow City #2 : The Second Novel of Miss Peregrine's Peculiar Children 할로우 시티(Paperback)

랜섬 릭스 (지은이)Quirk Books2015-02-24

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기본정보416쪽

130*206mm

언어 : English

국가 : 미국

ISBN : 9781594747359

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팀 버튼 감독이 선택한 『페러그린과 이상한 아이들의 집』그 두 번째 이야기가 시작된다!폭격으로 폐허가 된 섬을 떠난 제이콥과 아이들은 무서운 괴물 할로우와 할로우를 돕는 와이트들의 추격에서 도망친다. 그 과정에서 자신들처럼 특별한 능력을 지닌 동물들을 만나고, 새의 몸에 갇힌 페러그린을 인간으로 되돌리는 방법을 알아내 런던으로 향한다. 끊임없이 쫓아오는 적들을 피해 달아나 페러그린을 회복시켜 예전의 안정된 삶을 찾는 것만이 아이들의 희망이다. 이미 시간을 조종할 수 있는 초능력자인 임브라인들을 납치하고, 정해진 하루가 매일 반복되는 공간인 루프를 정복한 와이트와 할로우들에게서 살아남는 것만으로도 벅차지만, 아이들은 죽음의 공포와 자신들의 무력함을 느끼면서도 용감하게, 또는 무모하게 위험을 무릅쓰고 페러그린 회복 작전에 뛰어든다.평범한 열여섯 살 소년 제이콥이 괴짜 할아버지의 의문사의 비밀을 풀기 위해 찾아간 웨일스의 외딴섬에서 ‘이상한’ 아이들과 만나 함께 겪는 모험을 그린 첫 번째 이야기 『페러그린과 이상한 아이들의 집』은 기묘한 흑백사진들과 유기적으로 연결된 흥미로운 이야기로 출간되자마자 아마존닷컴 베스트셀러에 오르고 20세기폭스사에서 영화화가 결정되는 등 폭발적인 사랑을 받았다.두 번째 이야기 『할로우 시티』에서 괴물 할로우를 피해 섬에서 도망친 아이들은 더욱 힘겨운 시련과 모험을 겪으며 한층 더 성장한다. 아이들만큼 작가 랜섬 릭스도 더욱 글쓰기에 노련해져 전작에 비해 아이들의 개성은 더욱 뚜렷해졌고, 이야기의 밀도도 높아졌으며, 전개에도 속도감이 더해졌다.

"Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children" was the surprise best seller of 2011--an unprecedented mix of YA fantasy and vintage photography that enthralled readers and critics alike. Publishers Weekly called it "an enjoyable, eccentric read, distinguished by well-developed characters, a believable Welsh setting, and some very creepy monsters."This second novel begins in 1940, immediately after the first book ended. Having escaped Miss Peregrine's island by the skin of their teeth, Jacob and his new friends must journey to London, the peculiar capital of the world. Along the way, they encounter new allies, a menagerie of peculiar animals, and other unexpected surprises.Complete with dozens of newly discovered (and thoroughly mesmerizing) vintage photographs, this new adventure will delight readers of all ages.

Library Of Souls #3 : Meetings with Remarkable Healers 영혼의 도서관 [ Paperback ]

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랜섬 릭스 저 |Quirk Books|2015년 09월 22일|번역서 : 영혼의 도서관

발행일2015년 09월 22일

쪽수,  크기400쪽 |

133*207*30mmISBN139781594748400ISBN101594748403

책소개팀 버튼 감독 영화 원작 소설『페러그린과 이상한 아이들의 집』그 세 번째 이야기!전 세계 독자들이 기다려온 완결편!랜섬 릭스의 ‘페러그린과 이상한 아이들의 집’ 시리즈 제3편『영혼의 도서관』. 총 세 권으로 구성된 ‘페러그린’ 시리즈는 환상적인 모험담을 기묘하고 매혹적인 흑백사진과 함께 엮은 새로운 형식의 소설이다. 그 첫 번째 이야기인『페러그린과 이상한 아이들의 집』(2011)은 45주간 뉴욕 타임스 베스트셀러에 오르고 전 세계 34개국에 판권이 수출되는 등 폭발적인 반응을 일으켰으며, 뒤이은 두 번째 이야기『할로우 시티』(2013) 역시 뉴욕 타임스 베스트셀러에 오르고 아마존 선정 ‘2014년 최고의 책’ 중 하나로 선정될 만큼 잇달아 성공을 거두었다.‘페러그린’ 시리즈의 완결편이자 세 번째 이야기인『영혼의 도서관』(2015)은 전편들을 잇는 기묘한 설정과 흥미진진한 플롯, 더욱 대담해진 전개와 깊어진 주제의식으로 “흠잡을 데 없는 완벽한 엔딩!”,“훌륭한 시리즈의 훌륭한 결말”이라는 찬사와 함께, 오랫동안 후속작을 기다려온 팬들의 기대를 충족시켜주기에 손색없는 작품이라는 호평을 받았다.The Peculiar Children are back in the third instalment in the bestselling series of YA novels by Ransom Riggs. Time is running out for the Peculiar Children. With a dangerous madman on the loose, and their beloved Miss Peregrine still in danger, it's up to Jacob Portman to channel his newfound abilities and defeat Caul before he loses his friends--and their world--forever. This action-packed adventure features all-new Peculiar photographs from times and places all over the world.*

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