A Brief History of Seven Killings

Note moyenne 3,86
( 15 391 avis fournis par GoodReads )
 
9781622315376: A Brief History of Seven Killings
Extrait :

 

Listen.

Dead people never stop talking. Maybe because death is not death at all, just a detention after school. You know where you’re coming from and you’re always returning from it. You know where you’re going though you never seem to get there and you’re just dead. Dead. It sounds final but it’s a word missing an ing. You come across men longer dead than you, walking all the time though heading nowhere and you listen to them howl and hiss because we’re all spirits or we think we are all spirits but we’re all just dead. Spirits that slip inside other spirits. Sometimes a woman slips inside a man and wails like the memory of making love. They moan and keen loud but it comes through the window like a whistle or a whisper under the bed, and little children think there’s a monster. The dead love lying under the living for three reasons. (1) We’re lying most of the time. (2) Under the bed looks like the top of a coffin, but (3) There is weight, human weight on top that you can slip into and make heavier, and you listen to the heart beat while you watch it pump and hear the nostrils hiss when their lungs press air and envy even the shortest breath. I have no memory of coffins.

But the dead never stop talking and sometimes the living hear. This is what I wanted to say. When you’re dead speech is nothing but tangents and detours and there’s nothing to do but stray and wander awhile. Well, that’s at least what the others do. My point being that the expired learn from the expired, but that’s tricky. I could listen to myself, still claiming to anybody that would hear that I didn’t fall, I was pushed over the balcony at the Sunset Beach Hotel in Montego Bay. And I can’t say shut your trap, Artie Jennings, because every morning I wake up having to put my pumpkin-smashed head back together. And even as I talk now I can hear how I sounded then, can you dig it, dingledoodies? meaning that the afterlife is just not a happening scene, not a groovy shindig, Daddy-O, see those cool cats on the mat? They could never dig it, and there’s nothing to do but wait for the man that killed me, but he won’t die, he only gets older and older and trades out wives for younger and younger and breeding a whole brood of slow-witted boys and running the country down into the ground.

Dead people never stop talking and sometimes the living hear. Sometimes he talks back if I catch him right as his eyes start to flicker in his sleep, talks until his wife slaps him. But I’d rather listen to the longer dead. I see men in split breeches and bloody longcoats and they talk, but blood comes out of their mouths and good heavens that slave rebellion was such ghastly business and that queen has of course been of bloody awful use ever since the West India Company began their rather shoddy decline compared to the East and why are there so many negroes taking to sleeping so unsoundly wherever they see fit and confound it all I seem to have misplaced the left half of my face. To be dead is to understand that dead is not gone, you’re in the flatness of the deadlands. Time doesn’t stop. You watch it move but you are still, like a painting with a Mona Lisa smile. In this space a three-hundred-year-old slit throat and two-minute-old crib death is the same.

If you don’t watch how you sleep, you’ll find yourself the way the living found you. Me, I’m lying on the floor, my head a smashed pumpkin with my right leg twisted behind the back and my two arms bent in a way that arms aren’t supposed to bend and from high up, from the balcony I look like a dead spider. I am up there and down here and from up there I see myself the way my killer saw me. The dead relive a motion, an action, a scream and they’re there again just like that, the train that never stopped running until it ran off the rails, the ledge from that building sixteen floors up, the car trunk that ran out of air. Rudeboys’ bodies bursting like pricked balloons, fifty-six bullets.

Nobody falls that way without being pushed. I know. And I know how it feels and looks, a body that falls fighting air all the way down, grabbing on to clumps of nothing and begging once, just once, just goddamn once, Jesus, you sniveling son of a mongrel bitch, just once that air gives a grip. And you land in a ditch five feet deep or a marble-tiled floor sixteen feet down, still fighting when the floor rises up and smashes into you because it got tired of waiting for blood. And we’re still dead but we wake up, me a crushed spider, him a burned cockroach. I have no memory of coffins.

Listen.

Living people wait and see because they fool themselves that they have time. Dead people see and wait. I once asked my Sunday school teacher, if heaven is the place of eternal life, and hell is the opposite of heaven, what does that make hell? A place for dirty little red boys like you, she said. She’s still alive. I see her, at the Eventide Old Folks Home getting too old and too stupid, not knowing her name and talking in so soft a rasp that nobody can hear that she’s scared of nightfall because that’s when the rats come for her good toes. I see more than that. Look hard enough or maybe just to the left and you see a country that was the same as I left it. It never changes, whenever I’m around people they are exactly as I had left them, aging making no difference.

The man who was father of a nation, father to me more than my own, cried like a sudden widow when he heard I had died. You never know when people’s dreams are connected to you before you’re gone and then there’s nothing to do, but watch them die in a different way, slow, limb by limb, system by system. Heart condition, diabetes, slow-killing diseases with slow-sounding names. This is the body going over to death with impatience, one part at a time. He will live to see them make him a national hero and he will die the only person thinking he had failed. That’s what happens when you personify hopes and dreams in one person. He becomes nothing more than a literary device.

This is a story of several killings, of boys who meant nothing to a world still spinning, but each of them as they pass me carry the sweet-stink scent of the man that killed me.

The first, he screams his tonsils out but the scream stops right at the gate of his teeth because they have gagged him and it tastes like vomit and stone. And someone has tied his hands tight behind his back but they feel loose because all the skin has rubbed off and blood is greasing the rope. He’s kicking with both legs because right is tied to left, kicking the dirt rising five feet, then six, and he cannot stand because it’s raining mud and dirt and dust to dust and rocks. One rock claps his nose and another bullets his eye and it’s erupting and he’s screaming but the scream runs right to the tip of his mouth then back down like reflux and the dirt is a flood that’s rising and rising and he cannot see his toes. Then he’ll wake up and he’s still dead and he won’t tell me his name.

 

 

Bam-Bam

I know I was fourteen. That me know. I also know that too many people talk too much, especially the American, who never shut up, just switch to a laugh every time he talk ’bout you, and it sound strange how he put your name beside people we never hear ’bout, Allende Lumumba, a name that sound like a country that Kunta Kinte come from. The American, most of the time hide him eye with sunglasses like he is a preacher from America come to talk to black people. Him and the Cuban come sometimes together, sometimes on they own, and when one talk the other always quiet. The Cuban don’t fuck with guns because guns always need to be needed, him say.

And I know me used to sleep on a cot and I know that my mother was a whore and my father was the last good man in the ghetto. And I know we watched your big house on Hope Road for days now, and at one point you come talk to us like you was Jesus and we was Iscariot and you nod as if to say get on with your business and do what you have to do. But I can’t remember if me see you or if somebody told me that him see you so that me think I see it too, you stepping out on the back porch, eating a slice of breadfruit, she coming out of nowhere like she have serious business outside at that time of night and shocked, so shocked that you don’t have no clothes on, then she reach for your fruit because she want to eat it even though Rasta don’t like when woman loose and you both get to midnight raving, and I grab meself and rave too from either seeing it or hearing it, and then you write a song about it. The boy from Concrete Jungle on the same girly green scooter come by for four days at eight in the morning and four in the evening for the brown envelope until the new security squad start to turn him back. We know about that business too.

In the Eight Lanes and in Copenhagen City all you can do is watch. Sweet-talking voice on the radio say that crime and violence are taking over the country and if change ever going to come then we will have to wait and see, but all we can do down here in the Eight Lanes is see and wait. And I see shit water run free down the street and I wait. And I see my mother take two men for twenty dollars each and one more who pay twenty-five to stay in instead of pull out and I wait. And I watch my father get so sick and tired of her that he beat her like a dog. And I see the zinc on the roof rust itself brown, and then the rain batter hole into it like foreign cheese, and I see seven people in one room and one pregnant and people fucking anyway because people so poor that they can’t even afford shame and I wait.

And the little room get smaller and smaller and more sisterbrothercousin come from country, the city getting bigger and bigger and there be no place to rub-a-dub or cut you shit and no chicken back to curry and even when there is it still cost too much money and that little girl get stab because they know she get lunch money every Tuesday and the boys like me getting older and not in school very regular and can’t read Dick and Jane but know Coca-Cola, and want to go to a studio and cut a tune and sing hit songs and ride the riddim out of the ghetto but Copenhagen City and the Eight Lanes both too big and every time you reach the edge, the edge move ahead of you like a shadow until the whole world is a ghetto, and you wait.

I see you hungry and waiting and know that it’s just luck, you loafing around the studio and Desmond Dekker telling the man to give you a break, and he give you the break because he hear the hunger in your voice before he even hear you sing. You cut a tune, but not a hit song, too pretty for the ghetto even then, for we past the time when prettiness make anybody’s life easy. We see you hustle and trying to talk your way twelve inches taller and we want to see you fail. And we know nobody would want you to be a rudeboy anyway for you look like a schemer.

And when you disappear to Delaware and come back, you try sing the ska, but ska already left the ghetto to take up residence uptown. Ska take the plane to foreign to show white people that it’s just like the twist. Maybe that make the Syrian and the Lebanese proud, but when we see them in the newspaper posing with Air Hostess we not proud, just stunned stupid. You make another song, this time a hit. But one hit can’t bounce you out of the ghetto when you recording hits for a vampire. One hit can’t make you into Skeeter Davis or the man who sing them Gunfighter Ballads.

By the time boy like me drop out of my mother, she give up. Preacher says there is a god-shaped void in everybody life but the only thing ghetto people can fill a void with is void. Nineteen seventy-two is nothing like 1962 and people still whispering for they could never shout that when Artie Jennings dead all of a sudden he take the dream with him. The dream of what I don’t know. People stupid. The dream didn’t leave, people just don’t know a nightmare when they right in the middle of one. More people start moving to the ghetto because Delroy Wilson just sing that “Better Must Come” and the man who would become Prime Minister sing it too. Better Must Come. Man who look like white man but chat bad like naigger when they have to, singing “Better Must Come.” Woman who dress like the Queen, who never care about the ghetto before it swell and burst in Kingston singing “Better Must Come.”

But worst come first.

We see and wait. Two men bring guns to the ghetto. One man show me how to use it. But ghetto people used to kill each other long before that. With anything we could find: stick, machete, knife, ice pick, soda bottle. Kill for food. Kill for money. Sometimes a man get kill because he look at another man in a way that he didn’t like. And killing don’t need no reason. This is ghetto. Reason is for rich people. We have madness.

Madness is walking up a good street downtown and seeing a woman dress up in the latest fashion and wanting to go straight up to her and grab her bag, knowing that it’s not the bag or the money that we want so much, but the scream, when she see that you jump right into her pretty-up face and you could slap the happy right out of her mouth and punch the joy right out of her eye and kill her right there and rape her before or after you kill her because that is what rudeboys like we do to decent women like her. Madness that make you follow a man in a suit down King Street, where poor people never go and watch him throw away a sandwich, chicken, you smell it and wonder how people can be so rich that they use chicken for just to put between so-so bread, and you pass the garbage and see it, still in the foil, and still fresh, not brown with the other garbage and no fly on it yet and you think maybe, and you think yes and you think you have to, just to see what chicken taste like with no bone. But you say you not no madman, and the madness in you is not crazy people madness but angry madness, because you know the man throw it away because he want you to see. And you promise yourself that one day rudeboy going to start walking with a knife and next time I going jump him and carve sufferah right in him chest.

But he know boy like me can’t walk downtown for long before we get pounce on by Babylon. Police only have to see that me don’t have no shoes before he say what the bloodcloth you nasty naiggers doing ’round decent people, and give me two choices. Run and he give chase into one of the lanes that cut through the city so that he can shoot me in the private. Plenty shots in the magazine so at least one bullet must hit. Or stand down and get beat up right in front of decent people, him swinging the baton and knocking out my side teeth and cracking my temple so that I can never hear good out of that ear again and saying let that be a lesson to never take you dutty, stinking, ghetto self uptown again. And I see them and I wait.

But then you come back even though nobody know when you leave. Woman want to know why you come back when you can always get nice things like Uncle Ben’s rice in America. We wonder if you go there to sing hit songs. Some of we keep watching as you shift through the ghetto like small fish in a big river. Me know your game now but didn’t see it then, how you friend up the gunman here, the Rasta with the big sound there an...

Revue de presse :

Vast and vastly ambitious... much to admire...fascinating...the author's imaginative and stylistic range are impressive. Sunday Times It's like a Tarantino remake of The Harder They Come but with a soundtrack by Bob Marley and a script by Oliver Stone and William Faulkner, with maybe a little creative boost from some primo ganja. It s epic in every sense of that word: sweeping, mythic, over-the-top, colossal and dizzyingly complex. It s also raw, dense, violent, scalding, darkly comic, exhilarating and exhausting a testament to Mr. James s vaulting ambition and prodigious talent. Michiko Kakutani, New York Times Marlon James's writing can be at once punchy and lyrical; can alternate strange, dreamy poetry with visceral action; and can bring persuasive life to a kaleidoscopic range of characters. His gifts are expansive...Extraordinary...a writer whose importance can scarcely be questioned. Independent A vivid novel that deserves all the praise it has received. Sunday Telegraph This seething, hot, violent, action-packed novel is enormous in every sense...the ambition is huge, but [James] pulls it off with huge style, confidence, imagination and wit...Extraordinary. The Times When reading reviews of The Book of Night Women, James apparently became bored with comparisons to Toni Morrison; and with A Brief History, he s got bored with comparisons to Quentin Tarantino. But it is hard not to see the strength of that comparison. This is a novel that explores the aesthetics of cacophony and also the aesthetics of violence. Guardian James has triumphed in capturing the tension, the politics, the heat, chaos, beauty and music of Jamaica. Financial Times A vivid plunge into a crazed, violent and corrupt world, told through multiple narrators and executed with swaggering aplomb...the most original novel I ve read in years. Irvine Welsh With comparisons to the works of David Foster Wallace and Quentin Tarantino, James has garnered the highest of contemporary praise. Wired Breaks new ground...a very fluid and superbly controlled work. Spectator Manages consistently to shock and mesmerise at the same time...Best of all is the dialogue ...its musicality is tinged with menace...this tale of a country and its people ravaged and transformed by tragedy packs quite a punch. The Economist A prismatic story of gang violence and Cold War politics in a turbulent post-independence Jamaica. The New Yorker A Brief History of Seven Killings is a masterpiece. Chris Salewicz This novel cracks open a world that needs to be known. It's scary and lyrically beautiful you'll want to read whole pages aloud to strangers. Russell Banks Marlon James has done a hard thing. He's taken a complex, myth-like chapter in the story of an international legend, and given it new life...Poetic, vivid, this is a deeply entertaining read. ShortList An excellent new work of historical fiction...part crime thriller, part oral history, part stream-of-consciousness monologue. Rolling Stone Thrilling, ambitious...Both intense and epic. Los Angeles Times A tour de force...an audacious, demanding, inventive literary work. Wall Street Journal, Best Books of 2014 Epic, immersive, acutely observed and deeply moving, it s worth every long hour it demands of the reader...James s meticulous characterization makes his writing exceptionally vivid and compelling ...a brilliant, hearbreaking and searing (novel) that will burrow its way deep into the reader's soul' --Huffington Post, Best Books of 2014

James s sprawling, daunting, messy effort is a great if grim success...Brilliant. New Statesman This is the go-for-broke BIG BOOK of the year, a vast, challenging kaleidoscopic historical novel, as told from the edges of history. Hilary Mantel would approve. Chicago Tribune The hottest name in Caribbean literature right now. GQ, Best Books of 2014 It may sound daunting, but the way James uses language is amazing ... Vigorous, intricate and captivating, A Brief History of Seven Killings is hard to put down. Book clubs come running. Ebony This compelling, not-so-brief history brings off a social portrait worthy of Diego Rivera, antic and engagé, a fascinating tangle of the naked and the dead. Washington Post, Best Books of 2014 James has written a dangerous book, one full of lore and whispers and history ... a great book. Boston Globe, Best Books of 2014 An exuberant, Balzacian novel by a self-described post-post colonialist writer who is at ease with several canons, traditions and dialects. You ll also find a political novel on the level of Don DeLillo. It s the rare revelation that will easily outlive its hype-cycle. Flavorwire Nothing short of awe-inspiring. Entertainment Weekly This novel should be required reading. Publishers Weekly, Best Books of 2014 [A] magisterial, viscerally lyric epic...The sharp-edged pleasures of this book come from its protean, potent language. Each of James s characters speaks in a distinct (though sometimes shifting) voice and dialect...[like] reading a pulp fiction version of Faulkner s The Sound and the Fury. --Barnes & Noble Review

A brilliant novel, highly recommended; one of those big, rich, magisterial works that lets us into a world we really don t know. --Library Journal

Les informations fournies dans la section « A propos du livre » peuvent faire référence à une autre édition de ce titre.

Meilleurs résultats de recherche sur AbeBooks

1.

James, Marlon
ISBN 10 : 1622315375 ISBN 13 : 9781622315376
Neuf(s) Quantité : 2
Vendeur
BargainBookStores
(Grand Rapids, MI, Etats-Unis)
Evaluation vendeur
[?]

Description du livre Compact Disc. État : New. This is an audio book in Compact Disc format. It will be delivered to Shipping Address entered during checkout. This is NOT a digital download. N° de réf. du libraire 7733174

Plus d'informations sur ce vendeur | Poser une question au libraire

Acheter neuf
EUR 23,90
Autre devise

Ajouter au panier

Frais de port : EUR 3,69
Vers Etats-Unis
Destinations, frais et délais

2.

Marlon James
Edité par Highbridge Company, United States (2014)
ISBN 10 : 1622315375 ISBN 13 : 9781622315376
Neuf(s) Quantité : 1
Vendeur
The Book Depository US
(London, Royaume-Uni)
Evaluation vendeur
[?]

Description du livre Highbridge Company, United States, 2014. CD-Audio. État : New. Unabridged. 168 x 140 mm. Language: English . Brand New. On December 3, 1976, just before the Jamaican general election and two days before Bob Marley was to play the Smile Jamaica Concert, gunmen stormed his house, machine guns blazing. The attack nearly killed the Reggae superstar, his wife, and his manager, and injured several others. Marley would go on to perform at the free concert on December 5, but he left the country the next day, not to return for two years.Deftly spanning decades and continents and peopled with a wide range of characters assassins, journalists, drug dealers, and even ghosts A Brief History of Seven Killings is the fictional exploration of that dangerous and unstable time and its bloody aftermath, from the streets and slums of Kingston in the 1970s, to the crack wars in 1980s New York, to a radically altered Jamaica in the 1990s. Brilliantly inventive and stunningly ambitious, this novel is a revealing modern epic that will secure Marlon James place among the great literary talents of his generation. N° de réf. du libraire AAS9781622315376

Plus d'informations sur ce vendeur | Poser une question au libraire

Acheter neuf
EUR 29,66
Autre devise

Ajouter au panier

Frais de port : Gratuit
De Royaume-Uni vers Etats-Unis
Destinations, frais et délais

3.

James, Marlon
Edité par HighBridge Audio (2014)
ISBN 10 : 1622315375 ISBN 13 : 9781622315376
Neuf(s) Quantité : 6
Vendeur
Murray Media
(North Miami Beach, FL, Etats-Unis)
Evaluation vendeur
[?]

Description du livre HighBridge Audio, 2014. Audio CD. État : New. N° de réf. du libraire 1622315375

Plus d'informations sur ce vendeur | Poser une question au libraire

Acheter neuf
EUR 32,53
Autre devise

Ajouter au panier

Frais de port : EUR 2,77
Vers Etats-Unis
Destinations, frais et délais

4.

Marlon James
Edité par Highbridge Company, United States (2014)
ISBN 10 : 1622315375 ISBN 13 : 9781622315376
Neuf(s) Quantité : 1
Vendeur
The Book Depository
(London, Royaume-Uni)
Evaluation vendeur
[?]

Description du livre Highbridge Company, United States, 2014. CD-Audio. État : New. Unabridged. 168 x 140 mm. Language: English . Brand New. On December 3, 1976, just before the Jamaican general election and two days before Bob Marley was to play the Smile Jamaica Concert, gunmen stormed his house, machine guns blazing. The attack nearly killed the Reggae superstar, his wife, and his manager, and injured several others. Marley would go on to perform at the free concert on December 5, but he left the country the next day, not to return for two years.Deftly spanning decades and continents and peopled with a wide range of characters assassins, journalists, drug dealers, and even ghosts A Brief History of Seven Killings is the fictional exploration of that dangerous and unstable time and its bloody aftermath, from the streets and slums of Kingston in the 1970s, to the crack wars in 1980s New York, to a radically altered Jamaica in the 1990s. Brilliantly inventive and stunningly ambitious, this novel is a revealing modern epic that will secure Marlon James place among the great literary talents of his generation. N° de réf. du libraire AAS9781622315376

Plus d'informations sur ce vendeur | Poser une question au libraire

Acheter neuf
EUR 35,48
Autre devise

Ajouter au panier

Frais de port : Gratuit
De Royaume-Uni vers Etats-Unis
Destinations, frais et délais

5.

Marlon James
ISBN 10 : 1622315375 ISBN 13 : 9781622315376
Neuf(s) Quantité : 1
Vendeur
Grand Eagle Retail
(Wilmington, DE, Etats-Unis)
Evaluation vendeur
[?]

Description du livre Compact Disc. État : New. 140mm x 46mm x 165mm. Compact Disc. Shipping may be from multiple locations in the US or from the UK, depending on stock availability. 1560 pages. 0.454. N° de réf. du libraire 9781622315376

Plus d'informations sur ce vendeur | Poser une question au libraire

Acheter neuf
EUR 35,95
Autre devise

Ajouter au panier

Frais de port : Gratuit
Vers Etats-Unis
Destinations, frais et délais

6.

Marlon James
Edité par Highbridge Company 2014-10-15 (2014)
ISBN 10 : 1622315375 ISBN 13 : 9781622315376
Neuf(s) Quantité : > 20
Vendeur
Blackwell's
(Oxford, OX, Royaume-Uni)
Evaluation vendeur
[?]

Description du livre Highbridge Company 2014-10-15, 2014. audio CD. État : New. N° de réf. du libraire 9781622315376

Plus d'informations sur ce vendeur | Poser une question au libraire

Acheter neuf
EUR 32,94
Autre devise

Ajouter au panier

Frais de port : EUR 5,20
De Royaume-Uni vers Etats-Unis
Destinations, frais et délais

7.

Marlon James
Edité par HighBridge Company
ISBN 10 : 1622315375 ISBN 13 : 9781622315376
Neuf(s) Quantité : 20
Vendeur
BuySomeBooks
(Las Vegas, NV, Etats-Unis)
Evaluation vendeur
[?]

Description du livre HighBridge Company. No binding. État : New. Audio CD. 1560 pages. On December 3, 1976, just before the Jamaican general election and two days before Bob Marley was to play the Smile Jamaica Concert, gunmen stormed his house, machine guns blazing. The attack nearly killed the Reggae superstar, his wife, and his manager, and injured several others. Marley would go on to perform at the free concert on December 5, but he left the country the next day, not to return for two years. Deftly spanning decades and continents and peopled with a wide range of charactersassassins, journalists, drug dealers, and even ghostsA Brief History of Seven Killings is the fictional exploration of that dangerous and unstable time and its bloody aftermath, from the streets and slums of Kingston in the 1970s, to the crack wars in 1980s New York, to a radically altered Jamaica in the 1990s. Brilliantly inventive and stunningly ambitious, this novel is a revealing modern epic that will secure Marlon James place among the great literary talents of his generation. This item ships from multiple locations. Your book may arrive from Roseburg,OR, La Vergne,TN. Audio CD. N° de réf. du libraire 9781622315376

Plus d'informations sur ce vendeur | Poser une question au libraire

Acheter neuf
EUR 35,25
Autre devise

Ajouter au panier

Frais de port : EUR 3,66
Vers Etats-Unis
Destinations, frais et délais

8.

James, Marlon
Edité par Highbridge Audio (2014)
ISBN 10 : 1622315375 ISBN 13 : 9781622315376
Neuf(s) Quantité : 1
Vendeur
English-Book-Service Mannheim
(Mannheim, Allemagne)
Evaluation vendeur
[?]

Description du livre Highbridge Audio, 2014. État : New. N° de réf. du libraire TH9781622315376

Plus d'informations sur ce vendeur | Poser une question au libraire

Acheter neuf
EUR 38,38
Autre devise

Ajouter au panier

Frais de port : EUR 5
De Allemagne vers Etats-Unis
Destinations, frais et délais

9.

James, Marlon
Edité par Highbridge Co (2014)
ISBN 10 : 1622315375 ISBN 13 : 9781622315376
Neuf(s) Quantité : 2
Vendeur
Revaluation Books
(Exeter, Royaume-Uni)
Evaluation vendeur
[?]

Description du livre Highbridge Co, 2014. Audio CD. État : Brand New. unabridged,unabridged; 26 hours edition. 1560 pages. 6.50x5.50x2.00 inches. In Stock. N° de réf. du libraire z-1622315375

Plus d'informations sur ce vendeur | Poser une question au libraire

Acheter neuf
EUR 56,52
Autre devise

Ajouter au panier

Frais de port : EUR 6,93
De Royaume-Uni vers Etats-Unis
Destinations, frais et délais

10.

Marlon James
ISBN 10 : 1622315375 ISBN 13 : 9781622315376
Neuf(s) Quantité : 1
Vendeur
AussieBookSeller
(SILVERWATER, NSW, Australie)
Evaluation vendeur
[?]

Description du livre Compact Disc. État : New. 140mm x 46mm x 165mm. Compact Disc. Shipping may be from our Sydney, NSW warehouse or from our UK or US warehouse, depending on stock availability. 1560 pages. 0.454. N° de réf. du libraire 9781622315376

Plus d'informations sur ce vendeur | Poser une question au libraire

Acheter neuf
EUR 39,52
Autre devise

Ajouter au panier

Frais de port : EUR 25,93
De Australie vers Etats-Unis
Destinations, frais et délais