I rated Horniman's "Kind Hearts and Coronets" the highest because it was clever, yet I had a hard time reading this story about such a psychopath. I would cringe with each murder and lack of consciousness! I find this story antisemitic, because of the Jewish negative aspect, the main character's name is Israel Rank. Every psychopathic action coupled with the name Israel, was reinforcing that sentiment. Israel comments about his race prejudicial and ridiculous.
Story in short- Israel Rank looks to gain the Gascoyne earldom.
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Israel Rank has many advantages and qualities which should enable an ordinary man to get through life quite successfully. But he’s not content to be an ordinary man. He’s a distant heir
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to the Gascoyne earldom, and he will not rest until he inherits it, lock, stock and barrel. One tiny problem: he must kill everyone in line before him, without getting caught. The result is an evergreen classic of blackly comic crime fiction. First published in 1907 as ‘Israel Rank: The Autobiography of a Criminal’, the novel is probably best known as inspiration for the classic Ealing comedy Kind Hearts and Coronets, frequently voted one of the greatest British
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films ever. The novel itself remains a remarkably fresh satire that reverses conventional morality – a sympathetic comedy about a serial killer.
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Before the first year of my life was over, my doting parents had gone through many an agony of suspense, and my father had more than once slackened his steps on returning home after
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his day’s work, fearing to enter the house lest my mother should meet him and weeping inform him that the tiny thread of life, by which I was alone prevented from flying away and becoming a little angel, had snapped. But by dint of the greatest care from a mother, who, whatever may have been her coldness to the outside world, possessed a burning affection for her husband and child, I was brought safely to my first birthday.
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Sitting here during the last few unpleasant days with nothing to entertain me but the faces of ever-changing warders—whose personalities seem all to have been supplied from one pattern—I have had time to think over many things, and I have more than once reflected whether I would not rather my mother had been less careful and had allowed the before mentioned tiny thread to snap
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My intellect, however, which has always shone brightly through the murk of my emotions, tells me—and supports the information with irrefutable logic—that I am an ignoble fool to think anything of the kind. I question whether Napoleon would have foregone his triumphant career to escape St. Helena. The principle involved in his case and my own is the same. I have had a great career; I am
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paying for it—only fortunately the public are asking an absurdly low price. It is only when I have smoked too many cigarettes that I feel nervous about Monday’s ceremony.
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Israel was a psychopath and I was disappointed in him not paying for his crimes. Esther Lane committing suicide was very sad, I wish she had not confessed to the crime of killing Lord Gascoyne, since she was only covering up for this serial murderer and false accusations on the dead Lord. It seems he would not kill again but I am not sure if someone stood in his way that he would not kill again, and it was through her that he escaped punishment. I was wondering if he had indeed killed his mother's boarder and even his mother herself when she had other plans for them. His not wanting to hurt animals, yet he could poison and kill family that was friendly to him. He had actually killed a dog experimenting with poison. I felt sick with every murder and especially the young boy and the son of his uncle, Gascoyne. How he could marry the sister of the cousin he had killed? That is why I had such a hard time reading this egotistical monster and I had no pity but felt that for all his friends. The nerve is unbelievable! I think his parents could have grounded him better but that probably would not have changed much. I wonder if the youngest son, who favors his father, will end up doing away with his eldest brother.
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My mother had married beneath her. Her father had been a solicitor in a fair way of business, blessed with one son and one daughter. They were not rich but they were gentlefolk, and by descent something more. In fact, only nine lives stood between my mother’s brother and one of the most ancient peerages in the United Kingdom.
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“Perhaps I was sentimental and foolish,” my mother would say, with that quiet, unemotional voice of hers which caused strangers to doubt whether she could ever be either, “but he had such beautiful eyes and played in such an unaffected, dreamy way. And he was so good,” she would add,
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as if this were the quality which in the end had impressed her most. “He might have been much better off than he was, only he never could do anything underhand or mean. I don’t think such things ever even tempted him. He was simply above them.” My father became a great favourite with the household till he committed the intolerable impertinence of falling in love with Miss Gascoyne. From the position of an ever welcome guest he descended to that of a “presuming little Jewish quill-driver,” as my uncle—whose friendship for him had always been of a somewhat patronising order—described him. In fact, my uncle was considerably more bitter in denouncing his presumption than my grandfather, who, his first irritation over, went so far as to suggest that the best should be made of a bad job, and that they should turn him into a lawyer, urging his nationality as a plea that his
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admission into the firm was not likely to do any harm.
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My father and mother were forbidden to meet, and so one Sunday morning—Sunday being the only day on which my father could devote the whole day to so
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important an event—my mother stole out of the house and they were married before morning service, on a prospective income of a hundred a year. As mad a piece of sentimental folly as was ever perpetrated by a pair of foolish lovers. The strange thing was that they were happy. They loved one another devotedly, and my grandfather—though quite under the thumb of my uncle—surreptitiously paid the rent of the small house where they spent the
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whole of their married life, and which after a time, still unknown to my uncle, he bought for them.
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My mother’s unequal marriage caused him to make all haste in choosing a wife. He might not have betrayed nearly so much antipathy to my father as a brother-in-law had not the Gascoyne earldom been one of the few peerages capable of descending through
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the female line. Thus, till he should have an heir of his own, his sister and any child of hers stood next in succession. He chose his wife with circumspection. She was the daughter of a baronet, not so reduced as to have ceased to be respectable; and the main point was that the match would look well on the family tree. To his infinite chagrin his first child died an hour after birth, and Mrs. Gascoyne suffered so severely that a consolation was impossible. It thus
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became inevitable that should the unexpected happen the title would pass after himself to his sister and her children. He drew some comfort from the fact that so far my father and mother had no child.
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Through the death of my grandfather he became the head of the
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firm. He left the suburbs where he had been born, and he and his wife set up house in the West End, where they moved in a very expensive set, so expensive, in fact, that in less than five years my uncle, to avoid criminal proceedings—which must have ensued as the result of a protracted juggling with clients’ money—put a bullet through his brains. He was much mourned by my father and mother, who had both loved him.
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I was christened Israel Gascoyne Rank. From my earliest years, however, I cannot remember being called anything but Israel, and in my childhood if I were asked my name I was sure to answer “Israel Rank,” and equally sure to supplement the information by adding, “and my other name is Gascoyne—Israel Gascoyne Rank.”