Articles liés à Netherland
L'édition de cet ISBN n'est malheureusement plus disponible.
Afficher les exemplaires de cette édition ISBN
R160155456. NETHERLAND. 2009. In-8. Broché. Bon état, Couv. convenable, Dos satisfaisant, Intérieur frais. 296 Pages. . . . Classification Dewey : 820-Littératures anglaise et anglo-saxonne
Les informations fournies dans la section « Synopsis » peuvent faire référence à une autre édition de ce titre.
Extrait :
The afternoon before i left London for New York—Rachel had flown out six weeks previously—I was in my cubicle at work, boxing up my possessions, when a senior vice-president at the bank, an Englishman in his fifties, came to wish me well. I was surprised; he worked in another part of the building and in another department, and we were known to each other only by sight. Nevertheless, he asked me in detail about where I intended to live (“Watts? Which block on Watts?”) and reminisced for several minutes about his loft on Wooster Street and his outings to the “original” Dean & DeLuca. He was doing nothing to hide his envy.
“We won’t be gone for very long,” I said, playing down my good fortune. That was, in fact, the plan, conceived by my wife: to drop in on New York City for a year or three and then come back.
“You say that now,” he said. “But New York’s a very hard place to leave. And once you do leave . . .” The S.V.P., smiling, said, “I still miss it, and I left twelve years ago.”
It was my turn to smile—in part out of embarrassment, because he’d spoken with an American openness. “Well, we’ll see,” I said.
“Yes,” he said. “You will.”
His sureness irritated me, though principally he was pitiable—like one of those Petersburgians of yesteryear whose duties have washed him up on the wrong side of the Urals.
But it turns out he was right, in a way. Now that I, too, have left that city, I find it hard to rid myself of the feeling that life carries a taint of aftermath. This last-mentioned word, somebody once told me, refers literally to a second mowing of grass in the same season. You might say, if you’re the type prone to general observations, that New York City insists on memory’s repetitive mower—on the sort of purposeful postmortem that has the effect, so one is told and forlornly hopes, of cutting the grassy past to manageable proportions. For it keeps growing back, of course. None of this means that I wish I were back there now; and naturally I’d like to believe that my own retrospection is in some way more important than the old S.V.P.’s, which, when I was exposed to it, seemed to amount to not much more than a cheap longing. But there’s no such thing as a cheap longing, I’m tempted to conclude these days, not even if you’re sobbing over a cracked fingernail. Who knows what happened to that fellow over there? Who knows what lay behind his story about shopping for balsamic vinegar? He made it sound like an elixir, the poor bastard.
At any rate, for the first two years or so of my return to England, I did my best to look away from New York—where, after all, I’d been unhappy for the first time in my life. I didn’t go back there in person, and I didn’t wonder very often about what had become of a man named Chuck Ramkissoon, who’d been a friend during my final East Coast summer and had since, in the way of these things, become a transitory figure. Then, one evening in the spring of this year, 2006, Rachel and I are at home, in Highbury. She is absorbed by a story in the newspaper. I have already read it. It concerns a group of tribespeople that has emerged from the Amazon forest in Colombia. They are reportedly tired of the hard jungle life, although it’s noted they still like nothing better than to eat monkey, grilled and then boiled. A disturbing photograph of a boy gnawing at a blackened little skull illustrates this fact. The tribespeople have no idea of the existence of a host country named Colombia, and no idea, more hazardously, of diseases like the common cold or influenza, against which they have no natural defenses.
“Hello,” Rachel says, “your tribe has come to light.”
I’m still smiling when I answer the ringing phone. A New York Times reporter asks for Mr. van den Broek.
The reporter says, “This is about Kham, ah, Khamraj Ramkissoon . . . ?”
“Chuck,” I say, sitting down at the kitchen table. “It’s Chuck Ramkissoon.”
She tells me that Chuck’s “remains” have been found in the Gowanus Canal. There were handcuffs around his wrists and evidently he was the victim of a murder.
I don’t say anything. It seems to me this woman has told an obvious lie and that if I think about it long enough a rebuttal will come to me.
Her voice says, “Did you know him well?” When I don’t answer, she says, “It says somewhere you were his business partner.”
“That’s not accurate,” I say.
“But you were in business together, right? That’s what my note says.”
“No,” I say. “You’ve been misinformed. He was just a friend.”
She says, “Oh—OK.” There is a tapping of a keyboard and a hiatus.
“So—is there anything you can tell me about his milieu?”
“His milieu?” I say, startled into correcting her mooing pronunciation.
“Well, you know—who he hung out with, what kind of trouble he might have gotten himself into, any shady characters . . .” She adds with a faint laugh, “It is kind of unusual, what happened.”
I realize that I’m upset, even angry.
“Yes,” I finally say. “You have quite a story on your hands.”
The next day a small piece runs in the Metro section. It has been established that Chuck Ramkissoon’s body lay in the water by the Home Depot building for over two years, among crabs and car tires and shopping carts, until a so-called urban diver made a “macabre discovery” while filming a school of striped bass. Over the next week there is a trickle of follow-up items, none of them informative. But apparently it is interesting to readers, and reassuring to certain traditionalists, that the Gowanus Canal can still turn up a murder victim. There’s death in the old girl yet, as one commentator wittily puts it.
The night we receive the news, Rachel, in bed next to me, asks, “So who’s this man?” When I don’t immediately answer, she puts down her book.
“Oh,” I say, “I’m sure I’ve told you about him. A cricket guy I used to know. A guy from Brooklyn.”
She repeats after me, “Chuck Ramkissoon?”
Her voice contains an amused note I don’t like. I roll away onto one shoulder and close my eyes. “Yes,” I say. “Chuck Ramkissoon.”
Chuck and I met for the first time in August 2002. I was playing cricket at Randolph Walker Park, in Staten Island, and Chuck was present as one of the two independent umpires who gave their services in return for a fifty-dollar honorarium. The day was thick as a jelly, with a hot, glassy atmosphere and no wind, not even a breeze from the Kill of Kull, which flows less than two hundred yards from Walker Park and separates Staten Island from New Jersey. Far away, in the south, was the mumbling of thunder. It was the kind of barbarously sticky American afternoon that made me yearn for the shadows cast by scooting summer clouds in northern Europe, yearn even for those days when you play cricket wearing two sweaters under a cold sky patched here and there by a blue tatter—enough to make a sailor’s pants, as my mother used to say.
By the standards I brought to it, Walker Park was a very poor place for cricket. The playing area was, and I am sure still is, half the size of a regulation cricket field. The outfield is uneven and always overgrown, even when cut (once, chasing a ball, I nearly tripped over a hidden and, to cricketers, ominous duck), and whereas proper cricket, as some might call it, is played on a grass wicket, the pitch at Walker Park is made of clay, not turf, and must be covered with coconut matting; moreover the clay is pale sandy baseball clay, not red cricket clay, and its bounce cannot be counted on to stay true for long; and to the extent that it is true, it lacks variety and complexity. (Wickets consisting of earth and grass are rich with possibility: only they can fully challenge and reward a bowler’s repertoire of cutters and spinners and bouncers and seamers, and only these, in turn, can bring out and fully test a batsman’s repertoire of defensive and attacking strokes, not to mention his mental powers.) There is another problem. Large trees—pin oaks, red oaks, sweetgums, and American linden trees—clutter the fringes of Walker Park. Any part of these trees, even the smallest hanging leaf, must be treated as part of the boundary, and this brings randomness into the game. Often a ball will roll between the tree trunks, and the fielder running after it will partially disappear, so that when he reemerges, ball in hand, a shouting match will start up about exactly what happened.
By local standards, however, Walker Park is an attractive venue. Tennis courts said to be the oldest in the United States neighbor the cricket field, and the park itself is surrounded on all sides by Victorian houses with elaborately planted gardens. For as long as anyone can remember, the local residents have tolerated the occasional crash of a cricket ball, arriving like a gigantic meteoritic cranberry, into their flowering shrubbery. Staten Island Cricket Club was founded in 1872, and its teams have played on this little green every summer for over a hundred years. Walker Park was owned by the club until the 1920s. Nowadays the land and its clubhouse—a neo-Tudor brick structure dating back to the 1930s, its precursor having been destroyed by fire—are the property of the New York City Department of Parks and Recreation. In my time, a parks department employee, a phantom-like individual who was never seen, reportedly lived in the attic. The main ...
Revue de presse :
“We won’t be gone for very long,” I said, playing down my good fortune. That was, in fact, the plan, conceived by my wife: to drop in on New York City for a year or three and then come back.
“You say that now,” he said. “But New York’s a very hard place to leave. And once you do leave . . .” The S.V.P., smiling, said, “I still miss it, and I left twelve years ago.”
It was my turn to smile—in part out of embarrassment, because he’d spoken with an American openness. “Well, we’ll see,” I said.
“Yes,” he said. “You will.”
His sureness irritated me, though principally he was pitiable—like one of those Petersburgians of yesteryear whose duties have washed him up on the wrong side of the Urals.
But it turns out he was right, in a way. Now that I, too, have left that city, I find it hard to rid myself of the feeling that life carries a taint of aftermath. This last-mentioned word, somebody once told me, refers literally to a second mowing of grass in the same season. You might say, if you’re the type prone to general observations, that New York City insists on memory’s repetitive mower—on the sort of purposeful postmortem that has the effect, so one is told and forlornly hopes, of cutting the grassy past to manageable proportions. For it keeps growing back, of course. None of this means that I wish I were back there now; and naturally I’d like to believe that my own retrospection is in some way more important than the old S.V.P.’s, which, when I was exposed to it, seemed to amount to not much more than a cheap longing. But there’s no such thing as a cheap longing, I’m tempted to conclude these days, not even if you’re sobbing over a cracked fingernail. Who knows what happened to that fellow over there? Who knows what lay behind his story about shopping for balsamic vinegar? He made it sound like an elixir, the poor bastard.
At any rate, for the first two years or so of my return to England, I did my best to look away from New York—where, after all, I’d been unhappy for the first time in my life. I didn’t go back there in person, and I didn’t wonder very often about what had become of a man named Chuck Ramkissoon, who’d been a friend during my final East Coast summer and had since, in the way of these things, become a transitory figure. Then, one evening in the spring of this year, 2006, Rachel and I are at home, in Highbury. She is absorbed by a story in the newspaper. I have already read it. It concerns a group of tribespeople that has emerged from the Amazon forest in Colombia. They are reportedly tired of the hard jungle life, although it’s noted they still like nothing better than to eat monkey, grilled and then boiled. A disturbing photograph of a boy gnawing at a blackened little skull illustrates this fact. The tribespeople have no idea of the existence of a host country named Colombia, and no idea, more hazardously, of diseases like the common cold or influenza, against which they have no natural defenses.
“Hello,” Rachel says, “your tribe has come to light.”
I’m still smiling when I answer the ringing phone. A New York Times reporter asks for Mr. van den Broek.
The reporter says, “This is about Kham, ah, Khamraj Ramkissoon . . . ?”
“Chuck,” I say, sitting down at the kitchen table. “It’s Chuck Ramkissoon.”
She tells me that Chuck’s “remains” have been found in the Gowanus Canal. There were handcuffs around his wrists and evidently he was the victim of a murder.
I don’t say anything. It seems to me this woman has told an obvious lie and that if I think about it long enough a rebuttal will come to me.
Her voice says, “Did you know him well?” When I don’t answer, she says, “It says somewhere you were his business partner.”
“That’s not accurate,” I say.
“But you were in business together, right? That’s what my note says.”
“No,” I say. “You’ve been misinformed. He was just a friend.”
She says, “Oh—OK.” There is a tapping of a keyboard and a hiatus.
“So—is there anything you can tell me about his milieu?”
“His milieu?” I say, startled into correcting her mooing pronunciation.
“Well, you know—who he hung out with, what kind of trouble he might have gotten himself into, any shady characters . . .” She adds with a faint laugh, “It is kind of unusual, what happened.”
I realize that I’m upset, even angry.
“Yes,” I finally say. “You have quite a story on your hands.”
The next day a small piece runs in the Metro section. It has been established that Chuck Ramkissoon’s body lay in the water by the Home Depot building for over two years, among crabs and car tires and shopping carts, until a so-called urban diver made a “macabre discovery” while filming a school of striped bass. Over the next week there is a trickle of follow-up items, none of them informative. But apparently it is interesting to readers, and reassuring to certain traditionalists, that the Gowanus Canal can still turn up a murder victim. There’s death in the old girl yet, as one commentator wittily puts it.
The night we receive the news, Rachel, in bed next to me, asks, “So who’s this man?” When I don’t immediately answer, she puts down her book.
“Oh,” I say, “I’m sure I’ve told you about him. A cricket guy I used to know. A guy from Brooklyn.”
She repeats after me, “Chuck Ramkissoon?”
Her voice contains an amused note I don’t like. I roll away onto one shoulder and close my eyes. “Yes,” I say. “Chuck Ramkissoon.”
Chuck and I met for the first time in August 2002. I was playing cricket at Randolph Walker Park, in Staten Island, and Chuck was present as one of the two independent umpires who gave their services in return for a fifty-dollar honorarium. The day was thick as a jelly, with a hot, glassy atmosphere and no wind, not even a breeze from the Kill of Kull, which flows less than two hundred yards from Walker Park and separates Staten Island from New Jersey. Far away, in the south, was the mumbling of thunder. It was the kind of barbarously sticky American afternoon that made me yearn for the shadows cast by scooting summer clouds in northern Europe, yearn even for those days when you play cricket wearing two sweaters under a cold sky patched here and there by a blue tatter—enough to make a sailor’s pants, as my mother used to say.
By the standards I brought to it, Walker Park was a very poor place for cricket. The playing area was, and I am sure still is, half the size of a regulation cricket field. The outfield is uneven and always overgrown, even when cut (once, chasing a ball, I nearly tripped over a hidden and, to cricketers, ominous duck), and whereas proper cricket, as some might call it, is played on a grass wicket, the pitch at Walker Park is made of clay, not turf, and must be covered with coconut matting; moreover the clay is pale sandy baseball clay, not red cricket clay, and its bounce cannot be counted on to stay true for long; and to the extent that it is true, it lacks variety and complexity. (Wickets consisting of earth and grass are rich with possibility: only they can fully challenge and reward a bowler’s repertoire of cutters and spinners and bouncers and seamers, and only these, in turn, can bring out and fully test a batsman’s repertoire of defensive and attacking strokes, not to mention his mental powers.) There is another problem. Large trees—pin oaks, red oaks, sweetgums, and American linden trees—clutter the fringes of Walker Park. Any part of these trees, even the smallest hanging leaf, must be treated as part of the boundary, and this brings randomness into the game. Often a ball will roll between the tree trunks, and the fielder running after it will partially disappear, so that when he reemerges, ball in hand, a shouting match will start up about exactly what happened.
By local standards, however, Walker Park is an attractive venue. Tennis courts said to be the oldest in the United States neighbor the cricket field, and the park itself is surrounded on all sides by Victorian houses with elaborately planted gardens. For as long as anyone can remember, the local residents have tolerated the occasional crash of a cricket ball, arriving like a gigantic meteoritic cranberry, into their flowering shrubbery. Staten Island Cricket Club was founded in 1872, and its teams have played on this little green every summer for over a hundred years. Walker Park was owned by the club until the 1920s. Nowadays the land and its clubhouse—a neo-Tudor brick structure dating back to the 1930s, its precursor having been destroyed by fire—are the property of the New York City Department of Parks and Recreation. In my time, a parks department employee, a phantom-like individual who was never seen, reportedly lived in the attic. The main ...
Bien malin qui saura, en quelques mots, non pas résumer l'intrigue, mais dire ce qui de ce roman superbe, grave et enchanteur constitue le centre névralgique, le coeur battant. Miroitement d'impressions, de sensations, de réflexions... Voici un livre dont l'ambition est de parler du monde d'aujourd'hui à travers le prisme d'une vie ordinaire saisie dans un moment de chaos - ébranlement infime, dérisoire à l'échelle de la secousse planétaire, mais pourtant à elle intrinsèquement lié. Cela en trois cents pages d'une intensité rare, où se mêlent avec une vraie grâce, une parfaite absence d'effets, l'intime et l'époque, le contemporain et l'intemporel...
Au-delà même de cela, c'est toute la perplexité de la conscience occidentale en ce début de XXIe siècle qui est ici saisie, scrutée. Avec une pénétration aiguë, qui est la marque du grand art romanesque. (Nathalie Crom - Télérama du 26 août 2009)
Un homme regarde la couche de neige s'accumuler sur le balcon en fer forgé de son appartement. A plat ventre, il passe des heures à fixer les dessous d'un fauteuil. C'est un jour de l'hiver 2003 à New York. La torpeur a pris possession de l'esprit de Hans. Comme elle semble avoir anesthésié la ville. Les journaux publient des articles sur la guerre en Irak à côté de photos de bambins américains à luge. Hans Van Den Broek a 34 ans, il est analyste financier pour la M., une banque d'affaires. La finance ou la crise n'est pas le sujet de Netherland. La scène de la neige se veut la description d'un entre-deux, source de désespoir muet. Un cotonneux instant d'équilibre, tendu entre un avant et un après. Un fil mélancolique sur lequel Joseph O'Neill, 45 ans, parvient à maintenir délicatement tout son roman...
Coincé. Joseph O'Neill saisit ainsi dans les détails un prégnant mal de siècle mêlé à un désespoir personnel. Ses phrases palpent l'infini sentiment d'abandon de l'homme qui se croyait pourtant arrivé au faîte de l'existence. Dans un pays sûr à plusieurs titres, qui ne l'est plus. Et on ne sait jamais ce qu'il y a derrière la fenêtre. (Frédérique Roussel - Libération du 27 août 2009)
Récompensé par le PEN/Faulkner Award 2009, et félicité par Barack Obama à la BBC, le roman de Joseph O'Neill montre comme il est difficile de remonter la pente pour les Américains de l'après 11 Septembre...
Dans la prestigieuse New York Times Review of Books, qui lui avait consacré sa couverture, le journaliste Dwight Garner avait bien résumé les choses en écrivant que c'était la meilleure oeuvre de fiction sur la vie à New York et à Londres depuis la chute du World Trade Center...
Dense, intelligemment construit par associations d'idées, souvent drôle (le passage sur la validation du permis de conduire devant un bureaucrate kafkaïen est désopilant), Netherland n'est finalement pas tant un «roman sur le 11 Septembre» à proprement parler qu'un roman sur la période charnière que viennent de vivre les États-Unis. En traitant l'universel à travers le particulier, O'Neill donne un texte profond et captivant, soutenu par un suspense discret (on apprend dès les premières pages que Chuck a été retrouvé menotté au fond d'un canal, ce qui rend d'autant plus intrigants les souvenirs de Hans à son sujet). Qu'on aime ou pas Barack Obama, il faudra décidément lui reconnaître ceci à l'heure du bilan : toutes choses égales par ailleurs, il aura donné d'excellents conseils de lecture. (Bernard Quiriny - Le Magazine Littéraire, septembre 2009)
Barack Obama ferait un excellent attaché de presse. Après avoir encensé Toni Morrison - qui le lui a bien rendu - il a assuré une belle promotion à Joseph O'Neill, un Irlandais qui vit aux Etats-Unis depuis dix ans. «It's fascinating. It's a wonderful book !» s'est exclamé le président à propos de Netherland, un roman sympathique, poignant, mais qui ne mérite pas un tel dithyrambe, même si l'ombre de Fitzgerald y rôde. L'histoire ? Celle d'un couple qui a vu s'effondrer le World Trade Center et finit par vaciller à son tour, dans la tourmente d'un pays «mentalement malade, et dégoûtant». (André Clavel - L'Express du 3 septembre 2009)
Barack Obama a raffolé de ce roman dans lequel une ville, New York, et un homme, vont tenter de se reconstruire après les attentats du 11 Septembre...
Mais l'essentiel du livre n'est pas là : il est dans la peinture d'un New York qui a perdu son assiette, son équilibre, qui semble flotter au bord d'un gouffre informe prêt à engloutir «la plus grande démocratie du monde», et, parallèlement, dans le portrait d'un homme encore jeune qui cherche à comprendre quel sens peut retrouver sa vie. Un double roman de ré-éducation, en quelque sorte. (Christophe Mercier - Le Figaro du 17 septembre 2009)
Onze Septembre, suite. Les conséquences du cataclysme qui frappa New York en 2001 constituent - peut-être - la trame de ce roman dense et captivant. Peut-être car l'écrivain mène de front tant de propos que chaque lecteur peut choisir la grille de lecture qui lui convient...
Ce que l'on devine plus sûrement sous la plume de Joseph O'Neill est sa conviction de l'urgence d'un jeu collectif qui donnerait à chacun la possibilité de trouver sa place. Un jeu pour New York, un rêve d'intégration au pied des décombres qui participe aussi à la reconstruction intime des êtres. C'est là que réside la part la plus émouvante de ce roman aux éclats multiples : dans ces très belles pages d'introspection où Hans que le malheur prit au dépourvu tente de recomposer le puzzle de son existence. Pages embuées de mélancolie, mais non de tristesse, où le narrateur ballotté entre New York et Londres, entre sa carrière de financier et ses origines modestes d'enfant unique élevé en Hollande par une mère seule, reprend sa vie en main. (Geneviève Welcomme - La Croix du 23 septembre 2009)
Au-delà même de cela, c'est toute la perplexité de la conscience occidentale en ce début de XXIe siècle qui est ici saisie, scrutée. Avec une pénétration aiguë, qui est la marque du grand art romanesque. (Nathalie Crom - Télérama du 26 août 2009)
Un homme regarde la couche de neige s'accumuler sur le balcon en fer forgé de son appartement. A plat ventre, il passe des heures à fixer les dessous d'un fauteuil. C'est un jour de l'hiver 2003 à New York. La torpeur a pris possession de l'esprit de Hans. Comme elle semble avoir anesthésié la ville. Les journaux publient des articles sur la guerre en Irak à côté de photos de bambins américains à luge. Hans Van Den Broek a 34 ans, il est analyste financier pour la M., une banque d'affaires. La finance ou la crise n'est pas le sujet de Netherland. La scène de la neige se veut la description d'un entre-deux, source de désespoir muet. Un cotonneux instant d'équilibre, tendu entre un avant et un après. Un fil mélancolique sur lequel Joseph O'Neill, 45 ans, parvient à maintenir délicatement tout son roman...
Coincé. Joseph O'Neill saisit ainsi dans les détails un prégnant mal de siècle mêlé à un désespoir personnel. Ses phrases palpent l'infini sentiment d'abandon de l'homme qui se croyait pourtant arrivé au faîte de l'existence. Dans un pays sûr à plusieurs titres, qui ne l'est plus. Et on ne sait jamais ce qu'il y a derrière la fenêtre. (Frédérique Roussel - Libération du 27 août 2009)
Récompensé par le PEN/Faulkner Award 2009, et félicité par Barack Obama à la BBC, le roman de Joseph O'Neill montre comme il est difficile de remonter la pente pour les Américains de l'après 11 Septembre...
Dans la prestigieuse New York Times Review of Books, qui lui avait consacré sa couverture, le journaliste Dwight Garner avait bien résumé les choses en écrivant que c'était la meilleure oeuvre de fiction sur la vie à New York et à Londres depuis la chute du World Trade Center...
Dense, intelligemment construit par associations d'idées, souvent drôle (le passage sur la validation du permis de conduire devant un bureaucrate kafkaïen est désopilant), Netherland n'est finalement pas tant un «roman sur le 11 Septembre» à proprement parler qu'un roman sur la période charnière que viennent de vivre les États-Unis. En traitant l'universel à travers le particulier, O'Neill donne un texte profond et captivant, soutenu par un suspense discret (on apprend dès les premières pages que Chuck a été retrouvé menotté au fond d'un canal, ce qui rend d'autant plus intrigants les souvenirs de Hans à son sujet). Qu'on aime ou pas Barack Obama, il faudra décidément lui reconnaître ceci à l'heure du bilan : toutes choses égales par ailleurs, il aura donné d'excellents conseils de lecture. (Bernard Quiriny - Le Magazine Littéraire, septembre 2009)
Barack Obama ferait un excellent attaché de presse. Après avoir encensé Toni Morrison - qui le lui a bien rendu - il a assuré une belle promotion à Joseph O'Neill, un Irlandais qui vit aux Etats-Unis depuis dix ans. «It's fascinating. It's a wonderful book !» s'est exclamé le président à propos de Netherland, un roman sympathique, poignant, mais qui ne mérite pas un tel dithyrambe, même si l'ombre de Fitzgerald y rôde. L'histoire ? Celle d'un couple qui a vu s'effondrer le World Trade Center et finit par vaciller à son tour, dans la tourmente d'un pays «mentalement malade, et dégoûtant». (André Clavel - L'Express du 3 septembre 2009)
Barack Obama a raffolé de ce roman dans lequel une ville, New York, et un homme, vont tenter de se reconstruire après les attentats du 11 Septembre...
Mais l'essentiel du livre n'est pas là : il est dans la peinture d'un New York qui a perdu son assiette, son équilibre, qui semble flotter au bord d'un gouffre informe prêt à engloutir «la plus grande démocratie du monde», et, parallèlement, dans le portrait d'un homme encore jeune qui cherche à comprendre quel sens peut retrouver sa vie. Un double roman de ré-éducation, en quelque sorte. (Christophe Mercier - Le Figaro du 17 septembre 2009)
Onze Septembre, suite. Les conséquences du cataclysme qui frappa New York en 2001 constituent - peut-être - la trame de ce roman dense et captivant. Peut-être car l'écrivain mène de front tant de propos que chaque lecteur peut choisir la grille de lecture qui lui convient...
Ce que l'on devine plus sûrement sous la plume de Joseph O'Neill est sa conviction de l'urgence d'un jeu collectif qui donnerait à chacun la possibilité de trouver sa place. Un jeu pour New York, un rêve d'intégration au pied des décombres qui participe aussi à la reconstruction intime des êtres. C'est là que réside la part la plus émouvante de ce roman aux éclats multiples : dans ces très belles pages d'introspection où Hans que le malheur prit au dépourvu tente de recomposer le puzzle de son existence. Pages embuées de mélancolie, mais non de tristesse, où le narrateur ballotté entre New York et Londres, entre sa carrière de financier et ses origines modestes d'enfant unique élevé en Hollande par une mère seule, reprend sa vie en main. (Geneviève Welcomme - La Croix du 23 septembre 2009)
Les informations fournies dans la section « A propos du livre » peuvent faire référence à une autre édition de ce titre.
- ÉditeurOLIVIER
- Date d'édition2009
- ISBN 10 2879296552
- ISBN 13 9782879296555
- ReliureBroché
- Nombre de pages304
- Evaluation vendeur
Acheter neuf
En savoir plus sur cette édition
EUR 12
Frais de port :
EUR 20
De France vers Etats-Unis
Autres éditions populaires du même titre
Meilleurs résultats de recherche sur AbeBooks
Image d'archives
Netherland
Edité par
OLIVIER
(2009)
ISBN 10 : 2879296552
ISBN 13 : 9782879296555
Neuf
Couverture souple
Quantité disponible : 1
Vendeur :
Evaluation vendeur
Description du livre Etat : New. N° de réf. du vendeur C6-NRGS-EJXW
Acheter neuf
EUR 12
Autre devise
Image d'archives
Netherland
Edité par
OLIVIER
(2009)
ISBN 10 : 2879296552
ISBN 13 : 9782879296555
Neuf
Couverture souple
Quantité disponible : 1
Vendeur :
Evaluation vendeur
Description du livre Etat : New. Buy with confidence! Book is in new, never-used condition. N° de réf. du vendeur bk2879296552xvz189zvxnew
Acheter neuf
EUR 85,74
Autre devise