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![Around the World in Eighty Days (English Edition) di [Jules Verne, Classics HQ]](https://m.media-amazon.com/images/I/41xmbjLXw4L._SY346_.jpg)
Around the World in Eighty Days (English Edition) Formato Kindle
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Shocking his stodgy colleagues at the exclusive Reform Club, enigmatic Englishman Phileas Fogg wagers his fortune, undertaking an extraordinary and daring enterprise: to circumnavigate the globe in eighty days. With his French valet Passepartout in tow, Verne's hero traverses the far reaches of the earth, all the while tracked by the intrepid Detective Fix, a bounty hunter certain he is on the trail of a notorious bank robber.
- LinguaInglese
- EditoreClassics HQ
- Data di pubblicazione17 gennaio 2022
- Dimensioni file1820 KB
Descrizione prodotto
Recensione
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Dalla quarta di copertina
Dalla seconda/terza di copertina
On a seemingly normal day at the exclusive Reform Club, Phileas Fogg, a gentleman of great wealth and exacting tastes, makes an extraordinary £20,000 wager: he will perform an impossible feat and circumnavigate the globe in just eighty days. Accompanied only by his new French valet, the steady Passepartout, he sets off on a thrilling journey. Adventure, chaos and romance ensue as the daring pair harness the new power of steam to escape their ever-increasing enemies and beat the clock.
The exciting adventures of Fogg and Passepartout will entertain modern readers as much as they did the Victorians, and are accompanied here by an afterword from John Grant.
--Questo testo si riferisce a un'edizione alternativa kindle_edition.Recensione
Fun and imaginative... This spin on Jules Verne's classic hot air balloon romp is an eccentric treat. --Time Out
A fun-filled comedy caper... All the components - ingenuity, enthusiasm and a cracking good story - are present to make it a rollicking success. --reviewshub --Questo testo si riferisce a un'edizione alternativa kindle_edition.
Descrizione del libro
Estratto. © Riproduzione autorizzata. Diritti riservati.
In which Phileas Fogg and Passepartout accept each other, the one as master, the other as man
Mr. Phileas Fogg lived, in 1872, at No. 7 Savile Row, Burlington Gardens, the house in which Sheridan died in 1814. He was one of the most noticeable members of the Reform Club, though he seemed always to avoid attracting attention; an enigmatical personage, about whom little was known, except that he was a polished man of the world. People said that he resembled Byron,—at least that his head was Byronic; but he was a bearded, tranquil Byron, who might live on a thousand years without growing old.
Certainly an Englishman, it was more doubtful whether Phileas Fogg was a Londoner. He was never seen on ’Change, nor at the Bank, nor in the counting-rooms of the “City”; no ships ever came into London docks of which he was the owner; he had no public employment; he had never been entered at any of the Inns of Court, either at the Temple, or Lincoln’s Inn, or Gray’s Inn; nor had his voice ever resounded in the Court of Chancery, or in the Exchequer, or the Queen’s Bench, or the Ecclesiastical Courts. He certainly was not a manufacturer; nor was he a merchant or a gentleman farmer. His name was strange to the scientific and learned societies, and he never was known to take part in the sage deliberations of the Royal Institution or the London Institution, the Artisan’s Association or the Institution of Arts and Sciences. He belonged, in fact, to none of the numerous societies which swarm in the English capital, from the Harmonic to that of the entomologists, founded mainly for the purpose of abolishing pernicious insects.
Phileas Fogg was a member of the Reform; and that was all.
The way in which he got admission to this exclusive club was simple enough.
He was recommended by the Barings, with whom he had an open credit. His checks were regularly paid at sight from his account current, which was always flush.
Was Phileas Fogg rich? Undoubtedly. But those who knew him best could not imagine how he had made his fortune, and Mr. Fogg was the last person to whom to apply for the information. He was not lavish, nor, on the contrary, avaricious; for whenever he knew that money was needed for a noble, useful, or benevolent purpose, he supplied it quietly, and sometimes anonymously. He was, in short, the least communicative of men. He talked very little, and seemed all the more mysterious for his taciturn manner. His daily habits were quite open to observation; but whatever he did was so exactly the same thing that he had always done before, that the wits of the curious were fairly puzzled.
Had he travelled? It was likely, for no one seemed to know the world more familiarly; there was no spot so secluded that he did not appear to have an intimate acquaintance with it. He often corrected, with a few clear words, the thousand conjectures advanced by members of the club as to lost and unheard-of travellers, pointing out the true probabilities, and seeming as if gifted with a sort of second sight, so often did events justify his predictions. He must have travelled everywhere, at least in the spirit.
It was at least certain that Phileas Fogg had not absented himself from London for many years. Those who were honored by a better acquaintance with him than the rest, declared that nobody could pretend to have ever seen him anywhere else. His sole pastimes were reading the papers and playing whist. He often won at this game, which, as a silent one, harmonized with his nature; but his winnings never went into his purse, being reserved as a fund for his charities. Mr. Fogg played, not to win, but for the sake of playing. The game was in his eyes a contest, a struggle with a difficulty, yet a motionless, unwearying struggle, congenial to his tastes.
Phileas Fogg was not known to have either wife or children, which honest folk may surely have; either relatives or near friends, which is yet more rare. He lived alone in his house on Savile Row, whither none penetrated. A single domestic sufficed to serve him. He breakfasted and dined at the club, at hours mathematically fixed, in the same room, at the same table, never taking his meals with other members, much less bringing a guest with him; and went home at exactly midnight, only to retire at once to bed. He never used the cosy chambers which the Reform provides for its favored members. He passed ten hours out of the twenty-four in Savile Row, either in sleeping or making his toilet. When he chose to take a walk, it was with a regular step in the entrance hall with its mosaic flooring, or in the circular gallery with its dome supported by twenty red porphyry Ionic columns, and illumined by blue painted windows. When he breakfasted or dined, all the resources of the club—its kitchens and pantries, its buttery and dairy—aided to crowd his table with their most succulent stores; he was served by the gravest waiters, in dress-coats, and shoes with swan-skin soles, who proffered the viands in special porcelain, and on the finest linen; club decanters, of a lost mould, contained his sherry, his port, and his cinnamon-spiced claret; while his beverages were refreshingly cooled with ice, brought at great cost from the American lakes.
If to live in this style is to be eccentric, it must be confessed that there is something good in eccentricity!
The mansion on Savile Row, though not sumptuous, was exceedingly comfortable. The habits of its occupant were such as to demand but little from the sole domestic; but Phileas Fogg required him to be almost superhumanly prompt and regular. On this very 2d of October, he had dismissed James Forster, because that luckless youth had brought him shaving-water at eighty-four degrees Fahrenheit instead of eighty-six; and he was awaiting his successor, who was due at the house between eleven and half past.
Phileas Fogg was seated squarely in his armchair, his feet close together like those of a grenadier on parade, his hands resting on his knees, his body straight, his head erect; he was steadily watching a complicated clock which indicated the hours, the minutes, the seconds, the days, the months, and the years. At exactly half-past eleven Mr. Fogg would, according to his daily habit, quit Savile Row, and repair to the Reform.
A rap at this moment sounded on the door of the cosy apartment where Phileas Fogg was seated, and James Forster, the dismissed servant, appeared.
“The new servant,” said he.
A young man of thirty advanced and bowed.
“You are a Frenchman, I believe,” asked Phileas Fogg, “and your name is John?”
“Jean, if monsieur pleases,” replied the newcomer, “Jean Passepartout, a surname which has clung to me because I have a natural aptness for going out of one business into another. I believe I’m honest, monsieur, but, to be outspoken, I’ve had several trades. I’ve been an itinerant singer, a circus-rider, when I used to vault like Leotard, and dance on a rope like Blondin. Then I got to be a professor of gymnastics, so as to make better use of my talents; and then I was a sergeant fireman at Paris, and assisted at many a big fire. But I quitted France five years ago, and, wishing to taste the sweets of domestic life, took service as a valet here in England. Finding myself out of place, and hearing that Monsieur Phileas Fogg was the most exact and settled gentleman in the United Kingdom, I have come to monsieur in the hope of living with him a tranquil life, and forgetting even the name of Passepartout.”
“Passepartout suits me,” responded Mr. Fogg. “You are well recommended to me; I hear a good report of you. You know my conditions?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Good. What time is it?”
“Twenty-two minutes after eleven,” returned Passepartout, drawing an enormous silver watch from the depths of his pocket.
“You are too slow,” said Mr. Fogg. “Pardon me, monsieur, it is impossible—”
“You are four minutes too slow. No matter; it’s enough to men- tion the error. Now from this moment, twenty-nine minutes after eleven, a.m., this Wednesday, October 2d, you are in my service.”
Phileas Fogg got up, took his hat in his left hand, put it on his head with an automatic motion, and went off without a word.
Passepartout heard the street door shut once; it was his new master going out. He heard it shut again; it was his predecessor, James Forster, departing in his turn. Passepartout remained alone in the house on Savile Row.
II In which Passepartout is convinced that he has at last found his ideal
“Faith,” muttered Passepartout, somewhat flurried, “I’ve seen people at Madame Tussaud’s as lively as my new master!”
Madame Tussaud’s “people,” let it be said, are of wax, and are much visited in London; speech is all that is wanting to make them human.
During his brief interview with Mr. Fogg, Passepartout had been carefully observing him. He appeared to be a man about forty years of age, with fine, handsome features, and a tall, well-shaped figure; his hair and whiskers were light, his forehead compact and unwrinkled, his face rather pale, his teeth magnificent. His countenance possessed in the highest degree what physiognomists call “repose in action,” a quality of those who act rather than talk. Calm and phlegmatic, with a clear eye, Mr. Fogg seemed a perfect type of that English composure which Angelica Kauffmann has so skilfully represented on canvas. Seen in the various phases of his daily life, he gave the idea of being perfectly well-balanced, as exactly regulated as a Leroy chronometer. Phileas Fogg was, indeed, exactitude personified, and this was betrayed even in the expression of his very hands and feet; for in men, as well as in animals, the limbs themselves are expressive of the passions.
He was so exact that he was never in a hurry, was always ready, and was economical alike of his steps and his motions. He never took one step too many, and always went to his destination by the shortest cut; he made no superfluous gestures, and was never seen to be moved or agitated. He was the most deliberate person in the world, yet always reached his destination at the exact moment.
He lived alone, and so to speak, outside of every social relation; and as he knew that in this world account must be taken of friction, and that friction retards, he never rubbed against anybody.
As for Passepartout, he was a true Parisian of Paris. Since he had abandoned his own country for England, taking service as a valet, he had in vain searched for a master after his own heart. Passepartout was by no means one of those pert dunces depicted by Molière, with a bold gaze and a nose held high in the air; he was an honest fellow, with a pleasant face, lips a trifle protruding, soft-mannered and serviceable, with a good round head, such as one likes to see on the shoulders of a friend. His eyes were blue, his complexion rubicund, his figure almost portly and well built, his body muscular, and his physical powers fully developed by the exercises of his younger days. His brown hair was somewhat tumbled; for while the ancient sculptors are said to have known eighteen methods of arranging Minerva’s tresses, Passepartout was familiar with but one of dressing his own: three strokes of a large-tooth comb completed his toilet.
It would be rash to predict how Passepartout’s lively nature would agree with Mr. Fogg. It was impossible to tell whether the new servant would turn out as absolutely methodical as his master required; experience alone could solve the question. Passepartout had been a sort of vagrant in his early years, and now yearned for repose; but so far he had failed to find it, though he had already served in ten English houses. But he could not take root in any of these; with chagrin he found his masters invariably whimsical and irregular, constantly running about the country, or on the lookout for adventure. His last master, young Lord Longferry, Member of Parliament, after passing his nights in the Haymarket taverns, was too often brought home in the morning on policemen’s shoulders. Passepartout, desirous of respecting the gentleman whom he served, ventured a mild remonstrance on such conduct; which being ill received, he took his leave. Hearing that Mr. Phileas Fogg was looking for a servant, and that his life was one of unbroken regularity, that he neither travelled nor stayed from home overnight, he felt sure that this would be the place he was after. He presented himself, and was accepted, as has been seen. --Questo testo si riferisce a un'edizione alternativa kindle_edition.
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- ASIN : B09QLGSFPP
- Editore : Classics HQ (17 gennaio 2022)
- Lingua : Inglese
- Dimensioni file : 1820 KB
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- Lunghezza stampa : 250 pagine
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Verne's imagination is grand & the plot is silly and almost kid-like. But absurd it ain't. It is fun exactly because there is a topsy turvy madness to visiting places just to prove a point. It is fun because it is rife with interesting observations, factoids, themes that in Verne's day were barely in development. There is romance, the plot is thick with well... things happening, a ticking clock looms a large shadow, and a velocity is masterfully established that seems almost incredibly doable--the reader wants to experience this. (Airplanes suck ass anyway!
Molto bello
Le recensioni migliori da altri paesi


Similar to The Journey to the Centre of the Earth which I read yesterday - Verne creates amazingly awesome and complex characters. The main protagonist Mr. Fogg is an obsessive compulsive routine loving time keeper who bets his chums at the club that he can travel around the world in 80 days, which a newspaper said was possible - if no delays were incurred. He is so deep though, so much is beneath the surface of this quiet, content gent. Never fearing or worrying whatever dilemmas are thrown in his path and always willing to fail the mission to help his friends. He is also very good at handling a boat. I have to ask - does anyone know if he has been in any of Verne's previous stories at it seems like he has an amazing past. If he hasn't been present and that is just what is built up by the writing in this book I am speechless.
His trusty French manservant is amazing too - Not for a long time have two characters been so three dimensional and have I truly cared about them so much in 200 or so pages. This dude is clever, he worries like he is always ruining the plan but he is very loyal, apt gymnast and sometimes lifesaver.
Other characters Fix (a stalking policeman) and Aouda (a rescued Indian damsel) are amazingly created colourful characters too.
I don't want to say too much of the story but it takes places all over the world. London, China, India, Japan, HK, America, Liverpool amongst others. Full of amazing set pieces that whilst being gripping always bring a smile to your face. Travelling on an elephant to rescue a lady due to be burnt to the death, fighting bandits on railway lines in the US are just a couple of these many amazing incidents. I was expecting a scene with a hot air balloon which I see in all the film version advertisments which (spoiler) is not in the book.
I do think that later I am going to watch the Steve Coogan /Jackie Chan version of this to see how it compares.
Love as always. James x
[...]

But on the day that he employs Jean Passpartout as his valet he also ends up taking on a bet, to circumnavigate the world in just eighty days. Although still popular it has to be admitted that a lot of the plot and ideas have probably been knowingly or unknowingly stolen from others, but that still doesn’t detract from the way this story pulls you in and keeps you reading.
As Jean is about to find out, the quiet life of regularity that he was expecting to have with Fogg is not going to happen as they start off on their journey. Soon our intrepid hero is being sought by the police as the possible person, who carried out a robbery at the Bank of England, and thus in the Middle East has Fix of the Yard on his tail, trying to delay him whilst a warrant can be served.
Full of incident, and even some romance, with the saving of a young Indian lady, Aouda, Fogg is determined to fulfil his side of the bet and travel around the world in eighty days. This is fast paced and makes for some great escapism, whether young or old, and something to keep in mind, the wager which is for twenty thousand pounds would in today’s money easily be a couple of million. As you can imagine not only does Phileas Fogg have a grand task ahead of him, but one that could spell his ruin, especially as he has to spend money on his trip if he wants to complete it.

But on the day that he employs Jean Passpartout as his valet he also ends up taking on a bet, to circumnavigate the world in just eighty days. Although still popular it has to be admitted that a lot of the plot and ideas have probably been knowingly or unknowingly stolen from others, but that still doesn’t detract from the way this story pulls you in and keeps you reading.
As Jean is about to find out, the quiet life of regularity that he was expecting to have with Fogg is not going to happen as they start off on their journey. Soon our intrepid hero is being sought by the police as the possible person, who carried out a robbery at the Bank of England, and thus in the Middle East has Fix of the Yard on his tail, trying to delay him whilst a warrant can be served.
Full of incident, and even some romance, with the saving of a young Indian lady, Aouda, Fogg is determined to fulfil his side of the bet and travel around the world in eighty days. This is fast paced and makes for some great escapism, whether young or old, and something to keep in mind, the wager which is for twenty thousand pounds would in today’s money easily be a couple of million. As you can imagine not only does Phileas Fogg have a grand task ahead of him, but one that could spell his ruin, especially as he has to spend money on his trip if he wants to complete it.
