3 Historias en Inglés que debes conocer
Si estás buscando 3 Historias en Inglés que debes conocer para practicar tu lectura, entonces llegaste al mejor lugar a Inglés Full, porque aquí tienes las mejores recomendaciones para apoyarte con tu idioma.
Una de las formas más maravillosas de aprender inglés es practicar leyendo una historia que nos deje aprendizaje. Por esto, hoy te compartimos 3 historias en inglés que sabemos que te encantarán, y te servirán de mucho en el país que te encuentres.
Leer y practicar en inglés ayuda muchísimo, a conocer vocabulario nuevo y alcanzar una mayor comprensión y familiaridad con el idioma anglosajón, así que si estás comenzando a aprender te recomendamos leer todo lo que puedas.
Aunque también sabemos que no siempre hay tiempo para finalizar novelas en inglés completas, por lo que estas historias, igual de atrayentes, te servirán y definitivamente captarán tu atención.
Te invitamos a leer: 2 Cuentos Populares en Inglés para Niños, Repitiendo se Aprende
3 Historias en Inglés que debes conocer.
The Tell-Tale heart / Edgar Allan Poe
Es una lectura de nivel intermedio, perteneciente al género del terror, es una de las mejores historias en inglés que debes aprender.
Es uno de los principales clásicos del escritor inglés Edgar Allan Poe, que en caso de que no lo conozcas, se concentró durante toda su vida en la creación de novelas específicamente de terror.
Así que si te interesa leer este cuento en inglés, te aconsejamos hacerlo de noche si deseas alcanzar un efecto aún más interesante. Su extensión es corta y el vocabulario es bastante simple, por lo que es recomendable para un nivel intermedio en el vocabulario de inglés.
El relato nos habla la historia de un joven que realiza un asesinato y que, estando muy cerca de salirse con la suya, no puede dejar de escuchar los latidos del corazón de su víctima. Definitivamente es un cuento dificil y que debes leer alguna vez en tu vida.
IT’S TRUe! YeS, I HAVe Been ill, very ill. But why do you say that I have lost control of my mind, why do you say that I am mad? Can you not see that I have full control of my mind? Is it not clear that I am not mad? Indeed, the illness only made my mind, my feelings, my senses stronger, more powerful. My sense of hearing especially became more powerful.
I could hear sounds I had never heard before. I heard sounds from heaven; and I heard sounds from hell! Listen! Listen, and I will tell you how it happened. You will see, you will hear how healthy my mind is.
It is impossible to say how the idea first entered my head. There was no reason for what I did. I did not hate the old man; I even loved him. He had never hurt me. I did not want his money. I think it was his eye.
His eye was like the eye of a vulture, the eye of one of those terrible birds that watch and wait while an animal dies, and then fall upon the dead body and pull it to pieces to eat it.
When the old man looked at me with his vulture eye a cold feeling went up and down my back; even my blood became cold. And so, I finally decided I had to kill the old man and close that eye forever!
So you think that I am mad? A madman cannot plan. But you should have seen me. During all of that week I was as friendly to the old man as I could be, and warm, and loving.
Every night about twelve o’clock I slowly opened his door. And when the door was opened wide enough I put my hand in, and then my head. In my hand I held a light covered over with a cloth so that no light showed.
And I stood there quietly. Then, carefully, I lifted the cloth, just a little, so that a single, thin, small light fell across that eye. For seven nights I did this, seven long nights, every night at midnight. Always the eye was closed, so it was impossible for me to do the work. For it was not the old man I felt I had to kill; it was the eye, his Evil Eye.
And every morning I went to his room, and with a warm, friendly voice I asked him how he had slept. He could not guess that every night, just at twelve, I looked in at him as he slept.
The eighth night I was more than usually careful as I opened the door. The hands of a clock move more quickly than did my hand. Never before had I felt so strongly my own power; I was now sure of success.
The old man was lying there not dreaming that I was at his door. Suddenly he moved in his bed. You may think I became afraid. But no. The darkness in his room was thick and black.
I knew he could not see the opening of the door. I continued to push the door, slowly, softly. I put in my head. I put in my hand, with the covered light. Suddenly the old man sat straight up in bed and cried, “Who’s there??!”
I stood quite still. For a whole hour I did not move. Nor did I hear him again lie down in his bed. He just sat there, listening. Then I heard a sound, a low cry of fear which escaped from the old man.
Now I knew that he was sitting up in his bed, filled with fear; I knew that he knew that I was there. He did not see me there. He could not hear me there. He felt me there. Now he knew that Death was standing there.
Slowly, little by little, I lifted the cloth, until a small, small light escaped from under it to fall upon — to fall upon that vulture eye! It was open — wide, wide open, and my anger increased as it looked straight at me. I could not see the old man’s face. Only that eye, that hard blue eye, and the blood in my body became like ice.
Have I not told you that my hearing had become unusually strong? Now I could hear a quick, low, soft sound, like the sound of a clock heard through a wall. It was the beating of the old man’s heart.
I tried to stand quietly. But the sound grew louder. The old man’s fear must have been great indeed. And as the sound grew louder my anger became greater and more painful. But it was more than anger. In the quiet night, in the dark silence of the bedroom my anger became fear — for the heart was beating so loudly that I was sure some one must hear.
The time had come! I rushed into the room, crying, “Die! Die!” The old man gave a loud cry of fear as I fell upon him and held the bedcovers tightly over his head. Still his heart was beating; but I smiled as I felt that success was near. For many minutes that heart continued to beat; but at last the beating stopped. The old man was dead. I took away the bedcovers and held my ear over his heart. There was no sound. Yes. He was dead! Dead as a stone. His eye would trouble me no more!
So I am mad, you say? You should have seen how careful I was to put the body where no one could find it. First I cut off the head, then the arms and the legs. I was careful not to let a single drop of blood fall on the floor.
I pulled up three of the boards that formed the floor, and put the pieces of the body there. Then I put the boards down again, carefully, so carefully that no human eye could see that they had been moved.
As I finished this work I heard that someone was at the door. It was now four o’clock in the morning, but still dark. I had no fear, however, as I went down to open the door. Three men were at the door, three officers of the police. One of the neighbors had heard the old man’s cry and had called the police; these three had come to ask questions and to search the house.
I asked the policemen to come in. The cry, I said, was my own, in a dream. The old man, I said, was away; he had gone to visit a friend in the country. I took them through the whole house, telling them to search it all, to search well. I led them finally into the old man’s bed- room. As if playing a game with them I asked them to sit down and talk for a while.
My easy, quiet manner made the policemen believe my story. So they sat talking with me in a friendly way. But although I answered them in the same way, I soon wished that they would go. My head hurt and there was a strange sound in my ears. I talked more, and faster. The sound became clearer. And still they sat and talked.
Suddenly I knew that the sound was not in my ears, it was not just inside my head. At that moment I must have become quite white. I talked still faster and louder. And the sound, too, became louder. It was a quick, low, soft sound, like the sound of a clock heard through a wall, a sound I knew well. Louder it became, and louder.
Why did the men not go? Louder, louder. I stood up and walked quickly around the room. I pushed my chair across the floor to make more noise, to cover that terrible sound. I talked even louder. And still the men sat and talked, and smiled. Was it possible that they could not hear??
No! They heard! I was certain of it. They knew! Now it was they who were playing a game with me. I was suffering more than I could bear, from their smiles, and from that sound. Louder, louder, louder! Suddenly I could bear it no longer. I pointed at the boards and cried, “Yes! Yes, I killed him. Pull up the boards and you shall see! I killed him. But why does his heart not stop beating?! Why does it not stop!?”
2. The Velveteen Rabbit - Margery Williams.
Es un cuento en inglés para el nivel principiante perteneciente al género infantil, que te servirá de practica para muchas cosas. The Velveteen Rabbit no es solo una historia que te ayudará a poder practicar tu inglés, sino que también va a enamorar a tu niño interior.
Si disfrutaste en algún momento de la película Toy Story este cuento te deleitara, ya que relata la historia de un hermoso conejo de juguete que sueña con ser real. No te contaremos más detalles, ya que tú mismo debes vivir la experiencia de leerlo o al menos escucharlo por ti mismo.
Sin embargo, es un cuento que contiene poca extensión y es muy simple que de seguro te ayudará a descubrir una gran cantidad de nuevo vocabulario y poner a prueba tu comprensión lectora. Seguro lloraras un poco con él no te preocupes, es algo normal. Te dejaremos un video para que lo puedas manejar.
Te lo dejamos en video para que los niños aprendan tambien.
The Jilting of Granny Weatherall / Katherine Anne Porter
Es un cuento de nivel avanzado del genero cuento. The Jilting of Granny Weatherall es un cuento un poco más largo y un poco complejo al leer, por lo que lo recomendamos para niveles que sean más avanzados si eres profesor, si deseas mejorar léelo constante. Esto no solo se debe al vocabulario que implanta, sino también a los saltos temporales con los que cuenta la historia.
El relato se basa en Granny Weatherall, una anciana que se consigue en su lecho de muerte y que, delirante, empieza a recordar algunos fragmentos de su vida. Posiblemente el más transcendental y significativo es que fue abandonada en el altar, justo cuando se iba a casar por uno de sus novios de plena juventud, episodio que parece repetirse durante los últimos minutos de su vida.
Este cuento no solo pondrá a prueba el nivel de tu inglés, sino que también te dejará reflexionando por un periodo de tiempo acerca de la vida, la muerte y lo que pasa después.
Sick in bed, Granny Weatherall is being visited by Doctor Harry, a man whom she considers little more than a child. Saying there is nothing wrong with her, Granny orders the doctor to leave. He speaks in a condescending tone to her, even after she snaps at him.
Granny reminds him that she’s survived more serious sicknesses before he was even born. Closing her eyes, Granny feels as if she is in a hammock. She hears the doctor and one of her daughters, Cornelia, talking about Granny’s illness. It annoys her that they are talking about her when she is within earshot. Cornelia’s goodness also irritates Granny, who says aloud that she would enjoy spanking Cornelia.
Granny thinks about what she has to do tomorrow. She believes it’s important to keep the house clean and orderly. She decides that she must hide her letters that George and John had written her.
Granny thinks about death, which she prepared herself for twenty years ago, when she felt that the end of her life was near. Her father, who lived until he was 102, attributed his longevity to his daily hot toddy, a liquor made from tree sap. Granny asks for a hot toddy and then snaps at Cornelia. It irritates Granny terribly to think that Cornelia is humoring her. She hates the small gestures people make when under the mistaken impression that she won’t notice them.
Granny considers herself a better housekeeper and harder worker than Cornelia. She’s still young enough for her children to come to her for advice. She longs for the old days, when her children were small.
She imagines showing John how well the children turned out. They are older now than John was when he died. After his death, Granny changed. She had to fence in acres of land and act as a midwife and nurse.
She thinks John would appreciate the way she kept nearly all her patients alive. She remembers lighting the lamps when her children were young. She recalls how they stood close to her, moving away once the frightening dark had been dissipated. Granny thanks God for his help and begins to say the Hail Mary. She then thinks about the necessity of picking all the fruit and not letting any go to waste.
Granny feels as if her pillow is suffocating her. She remembers the day she was supposed to get married for the first time. Her groom, George, never came to the church. She can’t separate the idea of hell from the memory of George.
She admonishes herself not to let her “wounded vanity” overpower her. Cornelia comes in and presses a cold cloth to Granny’s forehead and comments that everyone will arrive at the house soon. Confused, Granny asks whether they are going to have a party for someone’s birthday.
Doctor Harry arrives. Granny protests that she just saw him five minutes ago, but Cornelia says that it’s now night. Granny makes a witty retort, but when no one answers, she realizes she must not have spoken aloud. The doctor gives her an injection.
Granny thinks about Hapsy, the daughter she wants to see the most, and imagines seeing Hapsy holding a baby and greeting her. Cornelia asks if there is anything she wants to say or anything Cornelia can do.
Granny wants to see George and tell him that she’s forgotten him and has had a rich life. She wants him to know that she has everything he took from her. As she thinks these thoughts, however, it occurs to her that there’s something she’s still missing. A terrible pain cuts through her. She imagines that she’s in labor and must send John for the doctor. She believes that after she gives birth to this last baby, she will regain her strength.
Cornelia says that Father Connolly has arrived. Granny thinks about the priest, who cares as much about tea and chatting as he does about the state of her soul and who often tells humorous stories about an Irishman confessing his sins.
Granny is not concerned about her soul. She believes that her favorite saints will surely usher her into heaven. She thinks again of her first wedding day when her whole world crumbled and the priest caught her before she fell.
He promised to kill George, but she told him not to. Granny thinks about herself and John comforting the children when they had nightmares and about Hapsy getting ready to deliver her baby.
She looks at the room and sees a picture of John in which his eyes, which were blue, have been made to look black.
She remembers that the man who made the picture called it a perfect copy, but she said it wasn’t a picture of her husband. On the bedside table, Granny sees a candle, crucifix, and light with a blue lampshade.
The lampshade looks ridiculous to Granny. Seeing a glow around Doctor Harry, Granny jokes that he looks like a saint, which is the closest he’ll ever come to being one. No one understands what she said.
Granny imagines getting into a cart beside a man she knows. Up ahead, she sees trees and hears birds “singing a Mass.” She holds her rosary while Father Connolly speaks Latin in a tone that strikes Granny as melodramatic. She imagines that he’s tickling her feet. She thinks again of George. She hears thunder and sees lightning. She thinks Hapsy has arrived, but it is Lydia. Jimmy is there too.
Granny realizes that she’s dying. She feels surprised and unready. She thinks of small, last-minute advice and instructions she wants to give. Aloud, Granny tells Cornelia that she can’t go yet. Granny worries about what will happen if she can’t find Hapsy. She looks for a sign from God, but none comes. This absence is the worst sorrow of all, and she feels she has been jilted again. She dies.
Te dejamos a continuación el cuento completo en Inglés para que lo descargues Porter-Jilting_of_Granny_Weatherall Story