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The price of salt pdf

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Patricia Highsmith se fue a casa y, escribió de un tirón el argumento completo de Carol, que Carol Beginning English Conversation. 78 Pages·· Read “The Price of Salt”, by Patricia Highsmith online on Bookmate – A chance encounter between two lonely women leads to a passionate romance in this. READ|Download [PDF] The Price of Salt: Or Carol Download by - Patricia Highsmith EPUB ebook free trial Get now.


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Patricia Highsmith. Patricia Highsmith THE PRICE OF SALT CHAPTER 1 THE LUNCH HOUR in the co-workers' cafeteria at Frankenberg's had reac "Sister Alicia," Therese whispered carefully, the sibilant syllables comforting her. Patricia Highsmith THE PRICE OF SALT CHAPTER 1 THE LUNCH HOUR in the co-workers' cafeteria at Frankenberg's had reac. Editorial Reviews. Review. ''A document of persecuted love -- perfect.'' --The Independent ''About the pursuit of love, and true happiness It has characters who.

Older than ninety-one. Therese made her way toward her past salesgirls and through empty boxes on the floor. Finally, there was nothing to do but buy a sanitary napkin from the slot machine. Therese made a helpless gesture that Mrs. She was in that. First edition.

It was not blind, only partially blind. But it was very painful.

It still gave her pain. That and her back. And her feet. Therese realized she was relating all her troubles and her bad luck so that she, Therese, would understand why she had sunk so low as to work in a department store. Robichek asked confidently.

Therese looked in the mirror in the wardrobe door. It showed a long thin figure with a narrowish head that seemed ablaze at the outline, bright yellow fire running down to the bright red bar on either shoulder. The dress hung in straight draped folds down almost to her ankles. It was the dress of queens in fairy tales, of a red deeper than blood. She stepped back, and pulled in the looseness of the dress behind her, so it fitted her ribs and her waist, and she looked back at her own dark-hazel eyes in the mirror.

Herself meeting herself. This was she, not the girl in the dull plaid skirt and the beige sweater, not the girl who worked in the doll department at Frankenberg's.

Robichek asked. Therese studied the surprisingly tranquil mouth, whose modeling she could see distinctly, though she wore no more lipstick than she might if someone had kissed her. She wished she could kiss the person in the mirror and make her come to life, yet she stood perfectly still, like a painted portrait. Robichek urged impatiently, watching from a distance, lurking against the wardrobe as saleswomen lurk while women try on coats and dresses in front of mirrors in department stores.

But it wouldn't last, Therese knew. She would move, and it would be gone. Even if she kept the dress, it would be gone, because it was a thing of a minute, this minute. She didn't want the dress. She tried to imagine the dress in her closet at home, among her other clothing, and she couldn't. She began to unbutton the buttons, to unfasten the collar.

Robichek asked as confidently as ever. She couldn't get the hook and eye unfastened at the back of the collar. Robichek had to help her, and she could hardly wait. She felt as if she were being strangled. What was she doing here? How did she happen to have put on a dress like this? Suddenly Mrs. Robichek and her apartment were like a horrible dream that she had just realized she was dreaming. Robichek was the hunchbacked keeper of the dungeon.

And she had been brought here to be tantalized. A pin stick you? Her mind was at a distant point, at a distant vortex that opened on the scene in the dimly lighted, terrifying room where the two of them seemed to stand in desperate combat. And at the point of the vortex where her mind was, she knew it was the hopelessness that terrified her and nothing else.

It was the hopelessness of Mrs. Robichek's ailing body and her job at the store, of her stack of dresses in the trunk, of her ugliness, the hopelessness of which the end of her life was entirely composed. And the hopelessness of herself, of ever being the person she wanted to be and of doing the things that person would do.

Had all her life been nothing but a dream, and was this real? It was the terror of this hopelessness that made her want to shed the dress and flee before it was too late, before the chains fell around her and locked. It might already be too late. As in a nightmare, Therese stood in the room in her white slip, shivering, unable to move. You cold? It's hot. The radiator hissed. The room smelled of garlic and the fustiness of old age, of medicines, and of the peculiar metallic smell that was Mrs.

Robichek's own. Therese wanted to collapse in the chair where her skirt and sweater lay. Perhaps if she lay on her own clothing, she thought, it wouldn't matter. But she shouldn't lie down at all. If she did, she was lost. The chains would lock, and she would be one with the hunchback. Therese trembled violently. She was suddenly out of control. It was a chill, not merely fright or tiredness. Robichek's voice said from a distance, and with shocking unconcern and boredom, as if she were quite used to girls feeling faint in her room, and from a distance, too, her dry, rough-tipped fingers pressed against Therese's arms.

Therese struggled against the chair, knowing she was going to succumb to it, and even aware that she was attracted to it for that reason. She dropped into the chair, felt Mrs.

Robichek tugging at her skirt to pull it from under her, but she couldn't make herself move. She was still at the same point of consciousness, however, still had the same freedom to think, even though the dark arms of the chair rose about her.

Robichek was saying, "You stand up too much at the store. It's hard these Christmases. I seen four of them. You got to learn how to save yourself a little. Save herself by eating lunch in the cafeteria. Taking shoes off bunioned feet like the row of women perched on the radiator in the women's room, fighting for a bit of the radiator to put a newspaper on and sit for five minutes.

Therese's mind worked very clearly. It was astonishing how clearly it worked, though she knew she was simply staring into space in front of her, and that she could not have moved if she had wanted to. That is not what I meant at all. That is not it, at all. She wanted to say it, but she could not make her lips move. Something sweet and burning was in her mouth. Robichek was standing in front of her, spooning something from a bottle, and pushing the spoon between her lips.

Therese swallowed it obediently, not caring if it were poison. She could have moved her lips now, could have gotten up from the chair, but she didn't want to move. Finally, she lay back in the chair, and let Mrs.

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Robichek cover her with the blanket, and she pretended to go to sleep. But all the while she watched the humpbacked figure moving about the room, putting away the things from the table, undressing for bed. She watched Mrs. Robichek remove a big laced corset and then a strap device that passed around her shoulders and partially down her back. Therese closed her eyes then in horror, pressed them tight shut, until the creaking of a spring and a long groaning sigh told her that Mrs.

Robichek had gone to bed. But that was not all. Robichek reached for the alarm clock and wound it, and without lifting her head from the pillow, groped with the clock for the straight chair beside the bed. In the dark, Therese could barely see her arm rise and fall four times before the clock found the chair.

I shall wait fifteen minutes until she is asleep and then go, Therese thought. And because she was tired, she tensed herself to hold back that spasm, that sudden seizure that was like falling, that came every night long before sleep, yet heralded sleep. It did not come.

So after what she thought was fifteen minutes, Therese dressed herself and went out the door silently. It was easy, after all, simply to open the door and escape.

It was easy, she thought, because she was not really escaping at all. The one with the stock company? Well, he's in town, and he says you've got a job in a couple of weeks. Phil wants to see us tonight. I'll tell you about it when I see you. I'll be over in about twenty minutes.

I'm just leaving school now. She was in the middle of washing up, and the soap had dried on her face. She stared down at the orange washcloth in the basin. The magic word. She changed into a dress, and hung a short silver chain with a St.

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Christopher medallion, a birthday present from Richard, around her neck, and combed her hair with a little water so it would look neater. Then she set some loose sketches and cardboard models just inside the closet where she could reach them easily when Phil McElroy asked to see them.

No, I haven't had much actual experience, she would have to say, and she felt a sink of failure. She hadn't even an apprentice's job behind her, except that two-day job in Montclair, making the cardboard model that the amateur group had finally used, if that could be called a job. She had taken two courses in scenic design in New York, and she had read a lot of books. She could hear Phil McElroy--an intense and very busy young man, probably, a little annoyed at having come to see her for nothing--saying regretfully that she wouldn't do after all.

But with Richard present, Therese thought, it wouldn't be quite as crushing as if she were alone. Richard had quit or been fired from about five jobs since she had known him. Nothing bothered Richard less than losing and finding jobs. Therese remembered being fired from the Pelican Press a month ago, and she winced. They hadn't even given her notice, and the only reason she had been fired, she supposed, was that her particular research assignment had been finished. When she had gone in to speak to Mr.

Nussbaum, the president, about not being given notice, he had not known, or had pretended not to know, what the term meant. It was easy for Richard, living at home with a family to keep him cheerful. It was easier for him to save money. He had saved about two thousand in a two-year hitch in the Navy, and a thousand more in the year since.

And how long would it take her to save the fifteen hundred dollars that a junior membership in the stage designers' union cost? After nearly two years in New York, she had only about five hundred dollars of it. It was the one beautiful thing in her apartment, the wooden Madonna she had bought the first month she had been in New York.

She wished there were a better place for it in the room than on the ugly bookshelf. The bookshelf was like a lot of fruit crates stacked up and painted red. She longed for a bookshelf of natural-colored wood, smooth to the touch and sleek with wax. She went down to the delicatessen and bought six cans of beer and some blue cheese. Then when she came upstairs, she remembered the original purpose of her going to the store, to buy some meat for dinner.

She and Richard had planned to have dinner in tonight. That might be changed now, but she didn't like to take it on her own initiative to alter plans where Richard was concerned, and she was about to run down again for the meat when Richard's long ring sounded. She pressed the release button. Richard came up the steps at a run, smiling. That means he's coming. He probably won't stay long. Don't be nervous, will you?

It's just a little company in the Village, and you've probably got more talent than all the rest of them put together. Under the overcoat was a roll of charcoal paper he had brought from art school. That's something I want to work on at home," he said carelessly. Some of his first paintings were good, like the lighthouse in blues and blacks that hung over her bed, that he had done when he was in the Navy and just starting to paint.

But his life drawing was not good yet, and Therese doubted that it ever would be. There was a new charcoal smudge all over one knee of his tan cotton trousers. He wore a shirt inside the red and black checked shirt, and buckskin moccasins that made his big feet look like shapeless bear paws. He was more like a lumberjack or a professional athlete of some sort, Therese thought, than anything else.

She could more easily imagine him with an ax in his hand than a paintbrush. She had seen him with an ax once, cutting wood in the yard back of his house in Brooklyn. If he didn't prove to his family that he was making some progress in his painting, he would probably have to go into his father's bottled gas business this summer, and open the branch in Long Island that his father wanted him to.

Are you free? The family asked if you could come out for dinner, but we don't have to stay long. I could borrow a truck and we could drive somewhere in the afternoon. She took her arms from around Richard. It made her feel self-conscious and foolish, as if she stood embracing the stem of a tree, to have her arms around Richard. From where? The people they hire for Christmas don't get any regular lockers. Wolves, she had thought, a pack of wolves, stealing a bloody bag of meat just because it was food, a free meal.

She had asked all the salesgirls if they had seen it, and they had all denied it. Bringing meat into the store wasn't allowed, Mrs. Hendrickson had said indignantly. But what was one to do, if all the meat stores closed at six o'clock? Richard lay back on the studio couch. His mouth was thin and its line uneven, half of it downward slanting, giving an ambiguity to his expression, a look sometimes of humor, sometimes of bitterness, a contradiction that his rather blank and frank blue eyes did nothing to clarify.

He said slowly and mockingly, "Did you go down to the lost and found? Lost, one pound of beefsteak. Answers to the name Meatball. Hendrickson did tell me to go down to the lost and found.

And there's bread and butter. Shall I go get some frozen pork chops? It's fungus. Look at it, blue as a mandrill's behind. Why don't you eat bread once you buy it? But since you don't like it--" She took it from him and dropped it into the garbage bag. There were two young men. Richard introduced them as Phil McElroy and his brother, Dannie.

Phil was not at all what Therese had expected. He did not look intense or serious or even particularly intelligent. And he scarcely glanced at her when they were introduced.

Dannie stood with his coat over his arm until Therese took it from him. She could not find an extra hanger for Phil's coat, and Phil took it back and tossed it onto a chair, half on the floor. It was an old dirty polo coat.

Therese served the beer and cheese and crackers, listening all the while for Phil and Richard's conversation to turn to the job. But they were talking about things that had happened since they had seen each other last in Kingston, New York.

Richard had worked for two weeks last summer on some murals in a roadhouse there, where Phil had had a job as a waiter.

He seemed shy, or perhaps bored and impatient to leave. He was older than Phil and a little more heavily built. His dark-brown eyes moved thoughtfully from object to object in the room. Raymond Cortes. If I recommend you, it's a cinch you'll get in," he said with a glance at Therese.

It's called Small Rain. Three acts. Have you done any sets so far by yourself? Georgia Halloran has the lead. Did you happen to see that Sartre thing they did in the fall down there? She was in that. Georgia might have been one of the girls Richard had had an affair with, Therese supposed.

He had once mentioned about five. She couldn't remember any of their names except Celia. And now, Richard and Phil were talking about a man who owed Richard money from somewhere. Phil said he had seen the man last night in the San Remo bar.

Phil's elongated face and his clipped hair was like an El Greco, Therese thought, yet the same features in his brother looked like an American Indian. And the way Phil talked completely destroyed the illusion of El Greco. He talked like any of the people one saw in Village bars, young people who were supposed to be writers or actors, and who usually did nothing. The fair scene," she said, wondering if he would know the ballet. He might be a lawyer, she thought, or even a doctor. There were yellowish stains on his fingers, not the stains of cigarettes.

Richard said something about being hungry, and Phil said he was starving, but neither of them ate any of the cheese that was in front of them. Then a moment later, they were all standing up, putting on their coats. This was the end of it, she supposed, and nothing was definite. She had an impulse to ask Phil a crucial question, but she didn't. And on the street, they began to walk downtown instead of up.

Richard walked with Phil, and only glanced back once or twice at her, as if to see if she were still there. Dannie held her arm at the curbs, and across the patches of dirty slippery stuff, neither snow nor ice, that were the remains of a snowfall three weeks ago. Then he said, "That's a long way from stage designing, isn't it. He smiled broadly, showing square white teeth. To the subway. But Phil wants a bite somewhere first. And Richard was talking to Phil about their going to Europe next summer.

Therese felt a throb of embarrassment as she walked along behind Richard, like a dangling appendage, because Phil and Dannie would naturally think she was Richard's mistress.

She wasn't his mistress, and Richard didn't expect her to be in Europe. It was a strange relationship, she supposed, and who would believe it?

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Because from what she had seen in New York, everybody slept with everybody they had dates with more than once or twice. And the two people she had gone out with before Richard--Angelo and Harry--had certainly dropped her when they discovered she didn't care for an affair with them. She had tried to have an affair with Richard three or four times in the year she had known him, though with negative results; Richard said he preferred to wait. He meant wait until she cared more for him. Richard wanted to marry her, and she was the first girl he had ever proposed to, he said.

She knew he would ask her again before they left for Europe, but she didn't love him enough to marry him. And yet she would be accepting most of the money for the trip from him, she thought with a familiar sense of guilt. Then the image of Mrs. Semco, Richard's mother, came before her, smiling approval on them, on their marrying, and Therese involuntarily shook her head.

Not at all. She was cold, and felt rather miserable in general. It was the half dangling, half cemented relationship with Richard, she knew. They saw more and more of each other, without actually growing closer.

She still wasn't in love with him, not after ten months, and maybe she never could be, though the fact remained that she liked him better than any one person she had ever known, certainly any man. Sometimes she thought she was in love with him, waking up in the morning and looking blankly at the ceiling, remembering suddenly that she knew him, remembering suddenly his face shining with affection for her because of some gesture of affection on her part, before her sleepy emptiness had time to fill up with the realization of what time it was, what day, what she had to do, the soldier substance that made up one's life.

But the feeling bore no resemblance to what she had read about love.

The price of salt

Love was supposed to be a kind of blissful insanity. Richard didn't act blissfully insane either, in fact. How long do you think you'll be there? Phil went into the Riker's shop on the corner of Fifty-third Street.

Phil just wants to stop a minute. Don't you feel it? But she couldn't recapture even the certainty she remembered when she had looked at the orange washcloth in the basin after Richard's telephone call. She leaned against the stool next to Phil's, and Richard stood beside her, still talking to him.

The glaring white light on the white tile walls and the floor seemed brighter than sunlight, for here there were no shadows.

She could see every shiny black hair in Phil's eyebrows, and the rough and smooth spots on the pipe Dannie held in his hand, unlighted. She could see the details of Richard's hand that hung limply out of his overcoat sleeve, and she was conscious again of their incongruity with his limber, long-boned body.

They were thick, even plump looking hands, and they moved in the same inarticulate, blind way if they picked up a salt shaker or the handle of a suitcase.

Or stroked her hair, she thought. The insides of his hands were extremely soft, like a girl's, and a little moist.

Worst of all, he generally forgot to clean his nails, even when he took the trouble to dress up. Therese had said something about it a couple of times to him, but she felt now that she couldn't say anything more without irritating him. Dannie was watching her. She was held by his thoughtful eyes for a moment, then she looked down. Suddenly she knew why she couldn't recapture the feeling she had before: Phil can give you some tips. She half listened to Phil's conversation with Richard.

They were talking about boat reservations. Phil's staying with me, too. Come and have lunch with us, will you? I'd like to. It's better to go early than wait till everything's so crowded over there.

I don't care if I don't finish the winter term at school. It was easy to believe all of it, and just as easy not to believe any of it.

But if it were all true, if the job were real, the play a success, and she could go to France with at least a single achievement behind her--Suddenly, Therese reached out for Richard's arm, slid her hand down it to his fingers. Richard was so surprised, he stopped in the middle of a sentence. The next afternoon, Therese called the Watkins number that Phil had given her.

A very efficient sounding girl answered. Cortes was not there, but they had heard about her through Phil McElroy. The job was hers, and she would start work December twenty-eighth at fifty dollars a week. She could come in beforehand and show Mr. Cortes some of her work, if she wanted to, but it wasn't necessary, not if Mr. McElroy had recommended her so highly. Therese called up Phil to thank him, but nobody answered the telephone. She wrote him a note, in care of the Black Cat Theatre.

Down the long aisle, Therese watched the salesgirls make way for Roberta. Roberta flew up and down counters and from one corner of the floor to the other, from nine in the morning until six at night. Therese had heard that Roberta was trying for another promotion.

She wore red harlequin glasses, and unlike the other girls, always pushed the sleeves of her green smock up above her elbows. Therese saw her flit across an aisle and stop Mrs. Hendrickson with an excited message delivered with gestures. Hendrickson nodded agreement, Roberta touched her shoulder familiarly, and Therese felt a small start of jealousy.

Jealousy, though she didn't care in the least for Mrs. Hendrickson, even disliked her. Therese pulled out another box, from the last spot it might possibly be, and it wasn't.

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Miss Santini had a cold. Miss Santini had been especially courteous to her lately. Therese remembered the stolen meat. But now Miss Santini only lifted her eyebrows, stuck out her bright red underlip with a shrug, and I went on. With pigtails? The tactics were to force the customer into buying on the seventh floor, where everything was more expensive.

Therese told the woman the dolls were in the basement. Therese nodded. One that stands up? Her face was different from all the other faces across the counter, gentle, with a certain cognizance in the eyes as if they actually saw what they looked at. Do you have a smaller one?

Suddenly Therese wanted to take infinite pains, wanted to find exactly the doll the woman was looking for. But the next doll wasn't quite right, either. The doll didn't have real hair. Therese tried in another place and found the same doll with real hair. It even cried when it bent over.

It was exactly what the woman wanted. Therese laid the doll down carefully in fresh tissue in a new box. She graduated from nursing school with me, so I made a little uniform like ours to dress a doll in. Thank you so much. And I wish you a merry Christmas! It was the first merry Christmas she had heard from a customer. Hendrickson asked her, as sharply as if she reproached her. Therese hadn't had it.

She got her pocketbook and the novel she was reading from the shelf under the wrapping counter. How anyone could have read Gertrude Stein without reading any Joyce, Richard said, he didn't know. She felt a bit inferior when Richard talked with her about books. She had browsed all over the bookshelves at school, but the library assembled by the Order of St.

Margaret had been far from catholic, she realized now, though it had included such unexpected writers as Gertrude Stein.

The hall to the employees' rest rooms was blocked by big shipping carts piled high with boxes. Therese waited to get through. Therese smiled a little because it was silly. Even down in the cloakroom in the basement, they yelled "Pixie! She got through, and dodged a shipping cart that hurtled toward her with a clerk aboard.

She went on without looking down at her leg, though pain began to blossom there, like a slow explosion. She went on into the different chaos of women's voices, women's figures, and the smell of disinfectant. Blood was running to her shoe, and her stocking was torn in a jagged hole. She pushed some skin back into place, and feeling sickened, leaned against the wall and held to a water pipe. She stayed there a few seconds, listening to the confusion of voices among the girls at the mirror.

Then she wet toilet paper and daubed until the red was gone from her stocking, but the red kept coming. Finally, there was nothing to do but buy a sanitary napkin from the slot machine.

She used a little of the cotton from inside it, and tied it on her leg with the gauze. And then it was time to go back to the counter. Their eyes met at the same instant, Therese glancing up from a box she was opening, and the woman just turning her head so she looked directly at Therese.

She was tall and fair, her long figure graceful in the loose fur coat that she held open with a hand on her waist. Her eyes were gray, colorless, yet dominant as light or fire, and caught by them, Therese could not look away.

She heard the customer in front of her repeat a question, and Therese stood there, mute. The woman was looking at Therese, too, with a preoccupied expression as if half her mind were on whatever it was she meant to buy here, and though there were a number of salesgirls between them, Therese felt sure the woman would come to her.

Then Therese saw her walk slowly toward the counter, heard her heart stumble to catch up with the moment it had let pass, and felt her face grow hot as the woman came nearer and nearer.

The damaged valise lay only a yard away. Therese turned around and got a box from the bottom of a stack, a box that had never been opened. The appeal of The Price of Salt was that it had a happy ending for its two main characters, or at least they were going to try to have a future together.

Prior to this book, homosexuals male and female in American novels had had to pay for their deviation by cutting their wrists, drowning themselves in a swimming pool, or by switching to heterosexuality so it was stated , or by collapsing—alone and miserable and shunned—into a depression equal to hell.

Highsmith depicts Therese as puzzled when her experience does not match that " butch-femme paradigm": She had heard about girls falling in love, and she knew what kind of people they were and what they looked like. Neither she nor Carol looked like that. Yet the way she felt about Carol passed all the tests for love and fitted all the descriptions. An unsuccessful attempt was made in the early s to turn the novel into a movie.

In the screen treatment the title was changed to Winter Journey and the character of "Carol" was changed to "Carl".

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It comprised five segments of approximately 15 minutes. From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.

The Price of Salt

The Price of Salt First edition. Patricia Highsmith Claire Morgan nom de plume. That was a possibility, even though I might never be inspired to write another such book in my life. So I decided to offer the book under another name.

Highsmith used her name in the first working title of the novel, "The Bloomingdale Story". Ironically, this led to the creation of her novel in which two women meet in a department store and begin a passionate affair. Separated from Carol, who has been forced to return home, Therese is reminded of their time together: The music lived, but the world was dead.

And the song would die one day, she thought, but how would the world come back to life? How would its salt come back? Something suspenseful, that she enjoyed. A little salt, she thought. Now a young woman, Claire Morgan, comes along and writes of unsanctioned love from a completely new point of view. As the Louisville Times says: Claire Morgan is completely natural.

She has a story to tell and she tells it with an almost conversational ease. Her people are neither degenerate monsters nor fragile victims of the social order.

They must—and do—pay a price for thinking, feeling and loving 'differently;' but they are courageous and true to themselves throughout. But the real success came a year later with the paperback edition, which sold nearly a million copies and was certainly read by more. The fan letters came in addressed to Claire Morgan, care of the paperback house. I remember receiving envelopes of ten and fifteen letters a couple of times a week and for months on end.

We don't all commit suicide and lots of us are doing fine. It is a little like my own story …" "The letters trickled in for years, and even now a letter comes once or twice a year from a reader. Patricia Highsmith on the inspiration for Carol".

The Telegraph. Telegraph Media Group Limited. Retrieved January 3, The Guardian. Retrieved March 30, Part 1".

The Talented Miss Highsmith: Martin's Press. Beautiful Shadow: A Life of Patricia Highsmith 1st ed. This Recording. Retrieved October 6, The Price of Salt 1st ed. Telegraph Media Group Ltd. Retrieved March 14, Retrieved March 13, Part 2".

The New Yorker. Retrieved January 2, The Slate Group. Retrieved February 27, Find A Grave. July 17, November 22, The National Book Review. Why was the source novel originally called "The Price of Salt " ". Retrieved June 1, The Spinoff. May 18, Are you sure you want to Yes No.

Be the first to like this. No Downloads. Views Total views. Actions Shares. Embeds 0 No embeds. No notes for slide. Or Carol Download by - Patricia Highsmith 1. Or Carol Download by - Patricia Highsmith 2. Book details Author: Patricia Highsmith Pages: Dover Publications Language: English ISBN Description this book A chance encounter between two lonely women leads to a passionate romance in this lesbian cult classic. If you want to download this book, click link in the last page 5.