The Darling
Subjects, Russell Banks
Russell Banks The Darling livre pdf - Un grand auteur, Russell Banks a écrit une belle The Darling livre. Ne vous inquiétez pas, le sujet de The Darling est très intéressant à lire page par page. Le livre a pages 416. Je suis sûr que vous ne vous sentirez pas ennuyeux à lire. Ce livre étonnant est publié par une grande fabrication, Bloomsbury Publishing PLC. La lecture de la The Darling fera plus de plaisir dans votre vie. Vous pourrez profiter de l'idée derrière le contenu. Télécharger The Darling bientôt à votre ordinateur portable facilement.. Si vous avez décidé de trouver ou lire ce livre, ci-dessous sont des informations sur le détail de The Darling pour votre référence.
de Russell Banks
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Nom de fichier : the-darling.pdf
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The Darling a été écrit par Russell Banks qui connu comme un auteur et ont écrit beaucoup de livres intéressants avec une grande narration. The Darling a été l'un des livres de populer sur 2016. Il contient 416 pages et disponible sur format . Ce livre a été très surpris en raison de sa note rating et a obtenu environ avis des utilisateurs. Donc, après avoir terminé la lecture de ce livre, je recommande aux lecteurs de ne pas sous-estimer ce grand livre. Vous devez prendre
The Darling que votre liste de lecture ou vous serez regretter parce que vous ne l'avez pas lu encore dans votre vie.Rang parmi les ventes Amazon: #50565 dans LivresPublié le: 2010-04-06Langue d'origine: AnglaisNombre d'articles: 1Dimensions: 7.72" h x 1.02" l x 5.20" L, 1.10 livres Reliure: Broché416 pagesExtraitChapter OneAfter many years of believing that I never dream of anything, I dreamed of Africa. It happened on a late-August night here at the farm in Keene Valley, about as far from Africa as I have been able to situate myself. I couldn't recall the dream's story, although I knew that it was in Africa, the country of Liberia, and my home in Monrovia, and that somehow the chimps had played a role, for there were round, brown, masklike faces still afloat in my mind when I awoke, safe in my bed in this old house in the middle of the Adirondack Mountains, and found myself overflowing with the knowledge that I would soon return there.It wasn't a conscious decision to return. More a presentiment is all it was, a foreboding perhaps, advancing from the blackest part of my mind at the same rate as the images of Liberia drifted there and broke and dissolved in those dark waters where I've stored most of my memories of Africa. Memories of Africa and of the terrible years before. When you have kept as many secrets as I have for as long as I have, you end up keeping them from yourself as well. So, yes, into my cache of forgotten memories of Liberia and the years that led me there — that's where the dream went. As if it were someone else's secret and were meant to be kept from me, especially.And in its place was this knowledge that I would soon be going back — foreknowledge, really, because I didn't make the decision until later that day, when Anthea and I had finished killing the chickens and were wrapping them in paper and plastic bags for delivery and pickup.It was at the end of summer, the beginning of an early autumn, and though barely a year ago, it feels like a decade, so much was altered in that year. The decade here: now, that seems like a few days and nights is all, because nothing except the same thing has happened here day after day, season after season, year after year.No new or old returning lovers, no marriages or divorces, no births or deaths, at least among the humans. Just the farm and the world that nourishes and sustains it. Timeless, it has seemed.The farm is a commercial operation, inasmuch as I sell most of what I grow, but in truth it's more like an old-fashioned family farm, and to run it I've had to give over my personal clock. I've had to abandon all my urban ways of measuring time and replace them with the farm's clock, which is marked off by the needs and demands of livestock and the crops, by the requirements of soil and the surge and flux of weather. It's no wonder that farmers in the old days were obsessed with the motions of the planets and the waxing and waning of the moon, as if their farms were the bodies of women. I sometimes think it's because I am a woman — or maybe it's merely because I lived all those years in Liberia, adapted to African time — that I was able to adapt so easily to the pace and patterns and rhythmic repetitions of nature's clock and calendar.It was as usual, then, on that August morning, with the darkness just beginning to pull back from the broad river valley to the forests and the mountains looming behind the house, that I woke at five-thirty and came downstairs wearing my flannel nightgown and slippers against the pre-dawn chill, with the dogs clattering behind me, checked the temperature by the moon-faced thermometer outside the kitchen window (still no frost,which was good, because we'd neglected to cover the tomatoes), and put the dogs out. I made coffee for Anthea, who comes in at six and says she can't do a thing until after her second cup, and the other girls, who come in at seven. I lingered for a few moments in the kitchen while the coffee brewed, enjoying the dark smell of it. I never drink coffee, having been raised on tea, a habit I took from my father as soon as he'd let me, but I do love the smell of it when it's brewing and buy organic Colombian beans from a mail-order catalogue and grind them freshly for each pot, just for the aroma.For a few moments, as I always do, I stood by the window and watched the dogs.They are Border collies, father and daughter, Baylor and Winnie, and when they have done their business, the first thing they do every morning is patrol the property, reclaiming their territory and making sure that during the night nothing untoward has happened. Usually I watch them work and think of them as working for me. But this morning they looked weirdly different to me, as if during the night one of us, they or I, had changed allegiances. They looked like ghost dogs,moving swiftly across the side yard in the gray pre-dawn light, disappearing into shadows cast by the house and oak trees, darting low to the ground into the garage, then reappearing and moving on.Today they worked for no one but themselves; that's how I saw them.Their gait was halfway between a trot and a run — fast, effortless, smooth, and silent, their ears cocked forward, plumed tails straight back — and they seemed more like small wolves than carefully trained and utterly domesticated herding animals.For a moment they scared me. I saw the primeval wildness in them, their radical independence and selfishness, the ferocity of their strictly canine needs. Perhaps it was the thin, silvery half-light and that I viewed them mostly in silhouette as they zigged and zagged across the yard, and when they'd checked the garage, an open shed, actually, where I park the pickup truck and my Honda, they moved on to the barn and from there to the henhouse, where the rooster crowed, and then loped all the way to the pond in the front field, where they woke the ducks and geese, never stopping, running in tandem, a pair of single-minded predators sifting their territory at peak efficiency.From the Hardcover edition.Revue de presse“Banks’s novel is a vivid account of a time of terror, exposing the secrets of the soul.” (O magazine)“Powerful and evocative...” (Newsweek)“Banks creates a heroine every bit as complex and flawed as someone out of Jane Austen.” (Hartford Courant)“A powerful new novel.” (St. Louis Post-Dispatch)“Hannah’s story shows why Banks ranks among our boldest artists.” (Boston Globe)“Banks has created a heroine every bit as complex and flawed as something out of Jane Austen.” (St. Petersburg Times)“Reverberating with ideas and startling prose.” (Village Voice)“In The Darling, he is working at full strength, and his readers are in his debt.” (Washington Post Book World)“Once again, he has produced a novel that is searing, demanding and unforgettable.” (Newsweek)“Banks has written a novel that is utterly accessible, forcefully wrought and undeniably passionate.” (Associated Press)“Banks’ mastery of his material makes this a compelling and important book.” (Orlando Sentinel)“Extraordinary...Banks is the rare epic novelist.” (Virginian Pilot)Présentation de l'éditeurSet in Liberia and the United States from 1975 through 1991, The Darling is the story of Hannah Musgrave, a political radical and member of the Weather Underground. Hannah flees America for West Africa, where she and her Liberian husband become friends of the notorious warlord and ex-president, Charles Taylor. Hannah's encounter with Taylor ultimately triggers a series of events whose momentum catches Hannah's family in its grip and forces her to make a heartrending choice.Vous trouverez ci-dessous les commentaires du lecteur après avoir lu The Darling. Vous pouvez considérer pour votre référence.
0 internautes sur 0 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile.Une merveille !Par Client d'AmazonUn récit sensible, passionnant et surtout brillamment écrit et traduit qui confirme si cela était nécessaire le talent de Russel Banks.De la grâce de bout en bout !A recommander sans modération.
Si vous avez un intérêt pour The Darling, vous pouvez également lire un livre similaire tel que cc Continental Drift, American Darling, Lost Memory of Skin, The Green Road: Shortlisted for the Baileys Women's Prize for Fiction 2016, The Power of the Dog, Light Years
