Divisadero (Spanish Edition) - Couverture souple

Ondaatje, Michael

Couverture souple

ISBN 10 : 8466337687 ISBN 13 : 9788466337687

Editeur : Debolsillo, 2017

Synopsis

Tras El paciente inglés, Ondaatje reafirma en Divisadero su extraordinaria capacidad para moverse en el difícil terreno de los sentimientos y para tratar las pasiones, las pérdidas y la persistencia del pasado. Un relato de inusual intensidad y belleza.En la más íntima y hermosa de sus historias, Michael Ondaatje narra la vida de Anna, quien tras un brutal suceso acontecido en su hogar, tendrá que dejar atrás la vida en la granja de California y empezar un nuevo camino en el sur de Francia. Lejos de su padre, de su gemela Claire y de Coop -un misterioso muchacho acogido por la familia- encontrará en la literatura y en la reconstrucción de la biografía de un importante escritor la manera de conciliarse con su pasado.Reseñas:
«Ondaatje escribe sobre el amor logrando que, en un delirio, la prosa
alcance una belleza exorbitante.»
The Times«Michael Ondaatje es el William Faulkner canadiense. Mediante imágenes inolvidables y un estilo inimitable, sus novelas narran el ascenso y caída del corazón humano. Su nueva novela es cautivadora y conmovedora.»
Vancouver Sun«Déjate llevar por Ondaatje y su lenguaje te seducirá. Hay algo enternecedoramente humano en este libro.»
The New York Times Sunday Book Review«Ondaatje tiene el don de capturar la música y el paisaje en palabras.»
Time«De la primera a la última frase, este hermoso cuento, poético y con un toque humano, es un sorprendente y maravilloso placer.»
USA Today« Divisadero tiene la marca de la casa de Ondaatje: una prosa seductora, personajes quijotescos y gran complejidad psicológica.»
Publishers Weekly

A propos du livre

Extrait :

From Divisadero

By our grandfather’s cabin, on the high ridge, opposite a slope of buckeye trees, Claire sits on her horse, wrapped in a thick blanket. She has camped all night and lit a fire in the hearth of that small structure our ancestor built more than a generation ago, and which he lived in like a hermit or some creature, when he first came to this country. He was a self-sufficient bachelor who eventually owned all the land he looked down onto. He married lackadaisically when he was forty, had one son, and left him this farm along the Petaluma road.

Claire moves slowly on the ridge above the two valleys full of morning mist. The coast is to her left. On her right is the journey to Sacramento and the delta towns such as Rio Vista with its populations left over from the Gold Rush.

She persuades the horse down through the whiteness alongside crowded trees. She has been smelling smoke for the last twenty minutes, and, on the outskirts of Glen Ellen, she sees the town bar on fire —the local arsonist has struck early, when certain it would be empty. She watches from a distance without dismounting. The horse, Territorial, seldom allows a remount; in this he can be fooled only once a day. The two of them, rider and animal, don’t fully trust each other, although the horse is my sister Claire’s closest ally. She will use every trick not in the book to stop his rearing and bucking. She carries plastic bags of water with her and leans forward and smashes them onto his neck so the animal believes it is his own blood and will calm for a minute. When Claire is on a horse she loses her limp and is in charge of the universe, a centaur. Someday she will meet and marry a centaur.

The fire takes an hour to burn down. The Glen Ellen Bar has always been the location of fights, and even now she can see scuffles starting up on the streets, perhaps to honour the landmark. She sidles the animal against the slippery red wood of a madrone bush and eats its berries, then rides down into the town, past the fire. Close by, as she passes, she can hear the last beams collapsing like a roll of thunder, and she steers the horse away from the sound.

On the way home she passes vineyards with their prehistoric-looking heat blowers that keep air moving so the vines don’t freeze. Ten years earlier, in her youth, smudge pots burned all night to keep the air warm.
Most mornings we used to come into the dark kitchen and silently cut thick slices of cheese for ourselves. My father drinks a cup of red wine. Then we walk to the barn. Coop is already there, raking the soiled straw, and soon we are milking the cows, our heads resting against their flanks. A father, his two eleven-year-old daughters, and Coop the hired hand, a few years older than us. No one has talked yet, there’s just been the noise of pails or gates swinging open.

Coop in those days spoke sparingly, in a low-pitched monologue to himself, as if language was uncertain. Essentially he was clarifying what he saw—the light in the barn, where to climb the approaching fence, which chicken to cordon off, capture, and tuck under his arm. Claire and I listened whenever we could. Coop was an open soul in those days. We realized his taciturn manner was not a wish for separateness but a tentativeness about words. He was adept in the physical world where he protected us. But in the world of language he was our student.

At that time, as sisters, we were mostly on our own. Our father had brought us up single-handed and was too busy to be conscious of intricacies. He was satisfied when we worked at our chores and easily belligerent when it became difficult to find us. Since the death of our mother it was Coop who listened to us complain and worry, and he allowed us the stage when he thought we wished for it. Our father gazed right through Coop. He was training him as a farmer and nothing else. What Coop read, however, were books about gold camps and gold mines in the California northeast, about those who had risked everything at a river bend on a left turn and so discovered a fortune. By the second half of the twentieth century he was, of course, a hundred years too late, but he knew there were still outcrops of gold, in rivers, under the bunch grass, or in the pine sierras.

*

Now and then our father embraced us as any father would. This happened only if you were able to catch him in that no-man’s-land between tiredness and sleep, when he seemed wayward to himself. I joined him on the old covered sofa, and I would lie like a slim dog in his arms, imitating his state of weariness—too much sun perhaps, or too hard a day’s work.

Claire would also be there sometimes, if she did not want to be left out, or if there was a storm. But I simply wished to have my face against his checkered shirt and pretend to be asleep. As if inhaling the flesh of an adult was a sin and also a glory, a right in any case. To do such a thing during daylight would have been unthinkable, he’d have pushed us aside. He was not a modern parent, he had been raised with a few male rules, and he no longer had a wife to qualify or compromise his beliefs. So you had to catch him in that twilight state, when he had ceded control on the tartan sofa, his girls enclosed, one in each of his arms. I would watch the flicker under his eyelid, the tremble within that covering skin that signalled his tiredness, as if he were being tugged in mid-river by a rope to some other place. And then I too would sleep, descending into the layer that was closest to him. A father who allows you that should protect you all of your days, I think.
From the Hardcover edition.

Un mot de l'auteur :

Michael Ondaatje (Colombo, Sri Lanka, 1943), novelista, poeta, profesor universitario y editor canadiense de origen cingalés, ha cultivado diversos géneros literarios con un estilo siempre innovador. Fascinado por el Oeste americano escribió Las obras completas de Billy el Niño (1970), una original combinación de poesía, prosa e imágenes. Entre su obra narrativa destacan novelas como En una piel de león (1987), El fantasma de Anil (2000, Premio Médicis, Irish Times International Fiction Prize y Premio Giller), Divisadero (2008) y El viaje de Mina (2011). Sin embargo, la obra que le otorgó reconocimiento internacional fue El paciente inglés (1992, Premio Booker), adaptada al cine por Anthony Minghella en 1996. Su aclamada obra poética, con títulos como Los monstruos cotidianos (1967) o El hombre con siete dedos en los pies (1969), se caracteriza por la profusión de sorprendentes imágenes y metáforas. También ha escrito sus memorias, recogidas en el libro Cosas de familia (1998).

À propos de cette édition

• Éditeur: Debolsillo
• Date d'édition: 2017
• ISBN 10: 8466337687
• ISBN 13: 9788466337687
• Reliure: Poche
• Nombre de pages: 304