Articles liés à The Angel's Game

Ruiz Zafon, Carlos The Angel's Game ISBN 13 : 9780385528702

The Angel's Game - Couverture rigide

 
9780385528702: The Angel's Game
Afficher les exemplaires de cette édition ISBN
 
 
Book by CARLOS RUIZ ZAFON

Les informations fournies dans la section « Synopsis » peuvent faire référence à une autre édition de ce titre.

Extrait :
A writer never forgets the first time he accepted a few coins or a word of praise in exchange for a story. He will never forget the sweet poison of vanity in his blood and the belief that, if he succeeds in not letting any­one discover his lack of talent, the dream of literature will provide him with a roof over his head, a hot meal at the end of the day, and what he covets the most: his name printed on a miserable piece of paper that surely will outlive him. A writer is condemned to remember that mo­ment, because from then on he is doomed and his soul has a price.

My first time came one faraway day in December 1917. I was seventeen and worked at The Voice of Industry, a newspaper that had seen bet­ter days and now languished in a barn of a building that had once housed a sulfuric acid factory. The walls still oozed the corrosive vapor that ate away at furniture and clothes, sapping the spirits, consuming even the soles of shoes. The newspaper’s headquarters rose behind the forest of an­gels and crosses of the Pueblo Nuevo cemetery; from afar, its outline merged with the mausoleums silhouetted against the horizon–a skyline stabbed by hundreds of chimneys and factories that wove a perpetual twilight of scarlet and black above Barcelona.

On the night that was about to change the course of my life, the newspaper’s deputy editor, Don Basilio Moragas, saw fit to summon me, just before closing time, to the dark cubicle at the far end of the editorial staff room that doubled as his office and cigar den. Don Basilio was a forbidding- looking man with a bushy moustache who did not suffer fools and who subscribed to the theory that the liberal use of adverbs and adjectives was the mark of a pervert or someone with a vitamin deficiency. Any journalist prone to florid prose would be sent off to write fu­neral notices for three weeks. If, after this penance, the culprit relapsed, Don Basilio would ship him off permanently to the "House and Home" pages. We were all terrified of him, and he knew it.

"Did you call me, Don Basilio?" I ventured timidly.

The deputy editor looked at me askance. I entered the office, which smelled of sweat and tobacco in that order. Ignoring my presence, Don Basilio continued to read through one of the articles lying on his table, a red pencil in hand. For a couple of minutes, he machine- gunned the text with corrections and amputations, muttering sharp comments as if I weren’t there. Not knowing what to do, and noticing a chair placed against the wall, I slid toward it.

"Who said you could sit down?" muttered Don Basilio without raising his eyes from the text.
I quickly stood up and held my breath. The deputy editor sighed, let his red pencil fall, and leaned back in his armchair, eyeing me as if I were some useless piece of junk.

"I’ve been told that you write, Martin."

I gulped. When I opened my mouth only a ridiculous, reedy voice emerged.

"A little, well, I don’t know, I mean, yes, I do write..."

"I hope you write better than you speak. And what do you write– if that’s not too much to ask?"

"Crime stories. I mean..."

"I get the idea."

The look Don Basilio gave me was priceless. If I’d said I devoted my time to sculpting figures for Nativity scenes out of fresh dung I would have drawn three times as much enthusiasm from him. He sighed again and shrugged his shoulders.

"Vidal says you’re not altogether bad. He says you stand out."

"Of course, with the sort of competition in this neck of the woods, one doesn’t have to run very fast. Still, if Vidal says so."

Pedro Vidal was the star writer at The Voice of Industry. He penned a weekly column on crime and lurid events–the only thing worth read­ing in the whole paper. He was also the author of a dozen modestly successful thrillers about gangsters in the Raval quarter carrying out bedroom intrigues with ladies of high society. Invariably dressed in im­peccable silk suits and shiny Italian moccasins, Vidal had the looks and the manner of a matinee idol: fair hair always well combed, a pencil moustache, and the easy, generous smile of someone who feels comfortable in his own skin and at ease with the world. He belonged to a family whose forebears had made their pile in the Americas in the sugar business and, on their return to Barcelona, had bitten off a large chunk of the city’s electricity grid. His father, the patriarch of the clan, was one of the newspaper’s main shareholders, and Don Pedro used its offices as a playground to kill the tedium of never having worked out of necessity a single day in his life. It mattered little to him that the newspaper was losing money as quickly as the new automobiles that were beginning to circulate around Barcelona leaked oil: with its abundance of nobility, the Vidal dynasty was now busy collecting banks and plots of land the size of small principalities in the new part of town known as the Ensanche.

Pedro Vidal was the first person to whom I had dared show rough drafts of my writing when, barely a child, I carried coffee and cigarettes round the staff room. He always had time for me: he read what I had written and gave me good advice. Eventually, he made me his assistant and would allow me to type out his drafts. It was he who told me that if I wanted to bet on the Russian roulette of literature, he was willing to help me and set me on the right path. True to his word, he had now thrown me into the clutches of Don Basilio, the newspaper’s Cerberus.

"Vidal is a sentimentalist who still believes in those profoundly un-Spanish myths such as meritocracy or giving opportunities to those who deserve them rather than to the current favorite. Loaded as he is, he can allow himself to go around being a free spirit. If I had one hundredth of the cash he doesn’t even need I would have devoted my life to honing sonnets and little twittering nightingales would come to eat from my hand, captivated by my kindness and charm."

"Senor Vidal is a great man!"I protested.

"He’s more than that. He’s a saint, because although you may look scruffy he’s been banging on at me for weeks about how talented and hardworking the office boy is. He knows that deep down I’m a softy and, besides, he’s assured me that if I give you this break he’ll present me with a box of Cuban cigars. And if Vidal says so, it’s as good as Moses coming down from the mountain with the lump of stone in his hand and the revealed truth shining from his forehead. So, to get to the point, because it’s Christmas and because I want your friend to shut up once and for all, I’m offering you a head start, against wind and tide."

"Thank you so much, Don Basilio. I promise you won’t regret it."

"Don’t get too carried away, boy. Let’s see, what do you think of the indiscriminate use of adjectives and adverbs?"

"I think it’s a disgrace and should be set down in the penal code,"I replied with the conviction of a zealot.
Don Basilio nodded in approval.

"You’re on the right track, Martin. Your priorities are clear. Those who make it in this business have priorities, not principles. This is the plan. Sit down and concentrate, because I’m not going to tell you twice."

The plan was as follows. For reasons that Don Basilio thought best not to set out in detail, the back page of the Sunday edition, which was traditionally reserved for a short story or a travel feature, had fallen through at the last minute. The content was to have been a fiery narrative in a patriotic vein about the exploits of Catalan medieval knights who saved Christianity and all that was decent under the sun, starting with the Holy Land and ending with the banks of our Llobregat delta. Unfortunately, the text had not arrived in time or, I suspected, Don Basilio simply didn’t want to publish it. This left us, only six hours be­fore deadline, with no other substitute for the story than a full- page ad­vertisement for whalebone corsets that guaranteed perfect hips and full immunity from the effects of buttery by-products. The editorial board had opted to take the bull by the horns and make the most of the liter­ary excellence that permeated every corner of the newspaper. The problem would be overcome by publishing a four- column human interest piece for the entertainment and edification of our loyal family-oriented readership. The list of proven talent included ten names, none of which, needless to say, was mine.

"Martin, my friend, circumstances have conspired so that not one of the champions on our payroll is on the premises or can be contacted in time. With disaster imminent, I have decided to give you your first crack at glory."

"You can count on me."

"I’m counting on five double-spaced pages in six hours, Don Edgar Allan Poe. Bring me a story, not a speech. If I want a sermon, I’ll go to Midnight Mass. Bring me a story I have not read before and, if I have read it, bring it to me so well written and narrated that I won’t even notice."

I was about to leave the room when Don Basilio got up, walked round his desk, and rested a hand, heavy and large as an anvil, on my shoulder. Only then, when I saw him close up, did I notice a twinkle in his eyes.

"If the story is decent I’ll pay you ten pesetas. And if it’s better than decent and our readers like it, I’ll publish more."

"Any specific instructions, Don Basilio?"I asked.

"Yes. Don’t let me down."
. . .
I spent the next six hours in a trance. I installed myself at a table that stood in the middle of the editorial room and was reserved for Vidal, on the days when he felt like dropping by. The room was deserted, sub­merged in a gloom thick with the smoke of a thousand cigarettes. Closing my eyes for a moment, I conjured up an image, a cloak of dark clouds spilling down over the city in the rain, a man walking under cover of shadows with blood on his hands and a secret in his eyes. I didn’t know who he was or what he was fleeing from, but during the next six hours he was going to become my best friend. I slid a page into the typewriter and without pausing, I proceeded to squeeze out everything I had inside me. I quarreled with every word, every phrase and expression, every image and letter as if they were the last I was ever going to write. I wrote and rewrote every line as if my life depended on it, and then rewrote it again. My only company was the incessant clacking of the typewriter echoing in the darkened hall and the large clock on the wall exhausting the minutes left until dawn.
. . .
Shortly before six o’clock in the morning I pulled the last sheet out of the typewriter and sighed, utterly drained. My brain felt like a wasp’s nest. I heard the heavy footsteps of Don Basilio, who had emerged from one of his brief naps and was approaching unhurriedly. I gathered up the pages and handed them to him, not daring to meet his gaze. Don Basilio sat down at the next table and turned on the lamp. His eyes skimmed the text, betraying no emotion. Then he rested his cigar on the end of the table for a moment, glared at me, and read out the first line:

Night falls on the city and the streets carry the scent of gunpowder like the breath of a curse.

Don Basilio looked at me out of the corner of his eye and I hid be­hind a smile that didn’t leave a single tooth uncovered. Without saying another word, he got up and left with my story in his hands. I saw him walking toward his office and closing the door behind him. I stood there, petrified, not knowing whether to run away or await the death sentence. Ten minutes later–it felt more like ten years to me–the door of the deputy editor’s office opened and the voice of Don Basilio thundered right across the department.

"Martin. In here. Now."

I dragged myself along as slowly as I could, shrinking a centimeter or two with every step, until I had no alternative but to show my face and look up. Don Basilio, the fearful red pencil in hand, was staring at me icily. I tried to swallow, but my mouth was dry. He picked up the pages and gave them back to me. I took them and turned to go as quickly as I could, telling myself that there would always be room for another shoeshine boy in the lobby of Hotel Coln.

"Take this down to the composing room and have them set it,"said the voice behind me.

I turned round, thinking I was the object of some cruel joke. Don Basilio pulled open the drawer of his desk, counted out ten pesetas, and put them on the table.

"This belongs to you. I suggest you buy yourself a better suit with it–I’ve seen you wearing the same one for four years and it’s still about six sizes too big. Why don’t you pay a visit to Senor Pantaleoni at his shop in Calle Escudellers? Tell him I sent you. He’ll look after you."

"Thank you so much, Don Basilio. That’s what I’ll do."

"And start thinking about another of these stories for me. I’ll give you a week for the next one. But don’t fall asleep. And let’s see if we can have a lower body count this time–today’s readers like a slushy ending in which the greatness of the human spirit triumphs over adversity, that sort of rubbish."

"Yes, Don Basilio."

The deputy editor nodded and held out his hand to me. I shook it.

"Good work, Martin. On Monday I want to see you at the desk that belonged to Junceda. It’s yours now. I’m putting put you on the crime beat."

"I won’t fail you, Don Basilio."

"No, you won’t fail me. You’ll just cast me aside sooner or later. And you’ll be right to do so, because you’re not a journalist and you never will be. But you’re not a crime novelist yet, even if you think you are. Stick around for a while and we’ll teach you a thing or two that will always come in handy."

At that moment, my guard down, I was so overwhelmed by gratitude that I wanted to hug that great bulk of a man. Don Basilio, his fierce mask back in place, gave me a steely look and pointed toward the door.

"No scenes, please. Close the door. And happy Christmas."

"Happy Christmas."
. . .
The following Monday, when I arrived at the editorial room ready to sit at my own desk for the very Þrst time, I found a coarse gray enve­lope with a ribbon and my name on it in the same recognizable type that I had been typing out for years. I opened it. Inside was a framed copy of my story from the back page of the Sunday edition, with a note saying:

"This is just the beginning. In ten years I’ll be the apprentice and you’ll be the teacher. Your friend and colleague, Pedro Vidal."
Revue de presse :
Fans of Zafón’s The Shadow of the Wind and new readers alike will be delighted with this gothic semiprequel. In 1920s Barcelona, David Martin is born into poverty, but, aided by patron and friend Pedro Vidal, he rises to become a crime reporter and then a beloved pulp novelist. David’s creative pace is frenetic; holed up in his dream house—a decrepit mansion with a sinister history—he produces two great novels, one for Vidal to claim as his own, and one for himself. But Vidal’s book is celebrated while David’s is buried, and when Vidal marries David’s great love, David accepts a commission to write a story that leads him into danger. As he explores the past and his mysterious publisher, David becomes a suspect in a string of murders, and his race to uncover the truth is a delicious puzzle: is he beset by demons or a demon himself? Zafón’s novel is detailed and vivid, and David’s narration is charming and funny, but suspect. Villain or victim, he is the hero of and the guide to this dark labyrinth that, by masterful design, remains thrilling and bewildering. (June) -- Publishers Weekly, starred Review

Another delicious supernatural mystery from bestselling Catalan author Zafón (The Shadow of the Wind, 2005).Mix Edgar Allan Poe with Jorge Luis Borges, intellectual mysterian Arturo Pérez-Reverte, and maybe add a dash of Stephen King, and you have some of the makings of Zafón’s sensibility. Fans of his earlier book will be pleased to find themselves on patches of familiar ground, including a revisit to that wonderful conceit, the Cemetery of Forgotten Books. Indeed, this is a prequel–but only of a kind: Familiar figures turn up at points, only to seem less than familiar as the narrative twists and turns. The none-too-heroic hero, David Martín, is an aspiring journalist who bucks hackwork to turn in a crowd-pleasing series for a tough boss. This leads him into an onerous contract with the usual crooked publishers and, indirectly, into a rivalry with his former mentor–all of which, naturally, entails love triangles and smoldering egos. The picture is complicated by the arrival of another curious publisher, Andreas Corelli, who offers David piles of pesetas to write, well, a book of a different sort, involving research that yields piles of corpses and occasions ample cliffhangers. Zafón has a fine talent for inserting unexpected hitches into a story line already resistant to graphing, whose outcome is definitely not seen from afar. The plot resolves in a rush, for the author finds himself with many a loose end to tie up, but once it sinks in, the result is more than satisfying. Zafón delivers a warning about the dangers of obsession, mixed with an obvious passion for literature and the printed word; his book is also a song of love for Barcelona with all its creaking floorboards and hidden subbasements.A nice fit with the current craze for learned mysteries and for spooks of both the spying and the spectral kind. -- Kirkus Reviews


Praise for The Shadow of the Wind

“One gorgeous read”—Stephen King

“Diabolically good”—Elle magazine

“Superbly entertaining”—Washington Post

“Breathtaking”—New York Times

“Wondrous”—Entertainment Weekly

“Magic”—New York Times Book Review

“Absolutely marvelous”—Kirkus

“Infectious”—The Economist

“Outstanding”—Library Journal

“Lavish”—Booklist

“Gripping”—Philadelphia Inquirer

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

  • ÉditeurDoubleday
  • Date d'édition2009
  • ISBN 10 0385528701
  • ISBN 13 9780385528702
  • ReliureRelié
  • Nombre de pages531
  • Evaluation vendeur
EUR 16,19

Autre devise

Frais de port : EUR 5,19
Vers Etats-Unis

Destinations, frais et délais

Ajouter au panier

Autres éditions populaires du même titre

9780767931113: The Angel's Game: A Psychological Thriller

Edition présentée

ISBN 10 :  ISBN 13 :  9780767931113
Editeur : Anchor, 2010
Couverture souple

  • 9780753826492: The Angel's Game: The Cemetery of Forgotten Books 2

    W&N, 2010
    Couverture souple

  • 9780297855545: The Angel's Game: The Cemetery of Forgotten Books 2

    W&N, 2009
    Couverture rigide

  • 9781596063624: The Angel's Game

    Subter..., 2011
    Couverture rigide

  • 9780307742902: Angel's Game

    Anchor..., 2010
    Couverture souple

Meilleurs résultats de recherche sur AbeBooks

Image fournie par le vendeur

Carlos Ruiz Zaf n
ISBN 10 : 0385528701 ISBN 13 : 9780385528702
Neuf Couverture rigide Edition originale Quantité disponible : 1
Vendeur :
PAPPINFUSS Books
(Encino, CA, Etats-Unis)
Evaluation vendeur

Description du livre Hardcover. Etat : New. First Edition. New condition. N° de réf. du vendeur 1354

Plus d'informations sur ce vendeur | Contacter le vendeur

Acheter neuf
EUR 16,19
Autre devise

Ajouter au panier

Frais de port : EUR 5,19
Vers Etats-Unis
Destinations, frais et délais
Image d'archives

Carlos Ruiz Zafón
Edité par Doubleday (2009)
ISBN 10 : 0385528701 ISBN 13 : 9780385528702
Neuf Couverture rigide Quantité disponible : 1
Vendeur :
Books Unplugged
(Amherst, NY, Etats-Unis)
Evaluation vendeur

Description du livre Etat : New. Buy with confidence! Book is in new, never-used condition. N° de réf. du vendeur bk0385528701xvz189zvxnew

Plus d'informations sur ce vendeur | Contacter le vendeur

Acheter neuf
EUR 21,53
Autre devise

Ajouter au panier

Frais de port : Gratuit
Vers Etats-Unis
Destinations, frais et délais
Image d'archives

Carlos Ruiz Zafón
Edité par Doubleday (2009)
ISBN 10 : 0385528701 ISBN 13 : 9780385528702
Neuf Couverture rigide Quantité disponible : 1
Vendeur :
Book Deals
(Tucson, AZ, Etats-Unis)
Evaluation vendeur

Description du livre Etat : New. New! This book is in the same immaculate condition as when it was published. N° de réf. du vendeur 353-0385528701-new

Plus d'informations sur ce vendeur | Contacter le vendeur

Acheter neuf
EUR 21,53
Autre devise

Ajouter au panier

Frais de port : Gratuit
Vers Etats-Unis
Destinations, frais et délais
Image d'archives

Carlos Ruiz Zafón
Edité par Doubleday (2009)
ISBN 10 : 0385528701 ISBN 13 : 9780385528702
Neuf Couverture rigide Edition originale Quantité disponible : 1
Vendeur :
BooksByLisa
(Highland Park, IL, Etats-Unis)
Evaluation vendeur

Description du livre Hardcover. Etat : New. Etat de la jaquette : New. 1st Edition. N° de réf. du vendeur ABE-1704675311894

Plus d'informations sur ce vendeur | Contacter le vendeur

Acheter neuf
EUR 21,91
Autre devise

Ajouter au panier

Frais de port : Gratuit
Vers Etats-Unis
Destinations, frais et délais
Image d'archives

Carlos Ruiz Zafà n
Edité par Doubleday (2009)
ISBN 10 : 0385528701 ISBN 13 : 9780385528702
Neuf Couverture rigide Quantité disponible : 1
Vendeur :
GoldenWavesOfBooks
(Fayetteville, TX, Etats-Unis)
Evaluation vendeur

Description du livre Hardcover. Etat : new. New. Fast Shipping and good customer service. N° de réf. du vendeur Holz_New_0385528701

Plus d'informations sur ce vendeur | Contacter le vendeur

Acheter neuf
EUR 22,69
Autre devise

Ajouter au panier

Frais de port : EUR 3,70
Vers Etats-Unis
Destinations, frais et délais
Image d'archives

Carlos Ruiz Zafà n
Edité par Doubleday (2009)
ISBN 10 : 0385528701 ISBN 13 : 9780385528702
Neuf Couverture rigide Quantité disponible : 1
Vendeur :
GoldBooks
(Austin, TX, Etats-Unis)
Evaluation vendeur

Description du livre Hardcover. Etat : new. New Copy. Customer Service Guaranteed. N° de réf. du vendeur think0385528701

Plus d'informations sur ce vendeur | Contacter le vendeur

Acheter neuf
EUR 26,18
Autre devise

Ajouter au panier

Frais de port : EUR 3,93
Vers Etats-Unis
Destinations, frais et délais
Image d'archives

Carlos Ruiz Zaf?n
ISBN 10 : 0385528701 ISBN 13 : 9780385528702
Neuf Couverture rigide Quantité disponible : 1
Vendeur :
Front Cover Books
(Denver, CO, Etats-Unis)
Evaluation vendeur

Description du livre Etat : new. N° de réf. du vendeur FrontCover0385528701

Plus d'informations sur ce vendeur | Contacter le vendeur

Acheter neuf
EUR 28,26
Autre devise

Ajouter au panier

Frais de port : EUR 3,98
Vers Etats-Unis
Destinations, frais et délais
Image d'archives

Zafón, Carlos Ruiz
ISBN 10 : 0385528701 ISBN 13 : 9780385528702
Neuf Soft cover Edition originale Quantité disponible : 1
Vendeur :
Flash Books
(Audubon, NJ, Etats-Unis)
Evaluation vendeur

Description du livre Soft cover. Etat : New. Etat de la jaquette : New. 1st Edition. RARE Advance Reading Copy-Uncorrected Proof-Not For Sale. 1st Edition-Stated. 1st Printing-Full # Line. New Unread copy. Trade paperback format. BEAUTIFUL copy of Book & Cover. Book has French Flaps front and back. Rare for an ARC. COLLECTOR'S COPY. N° de réf. du vendeur 002955

Plus d'informations sur ce vendeur | Contacter le vendeur

Acheter neuf
EUR 36,20
Autre devise

Ajouter au panier

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

Carlos Ruiz Zafón
Edité par Doubleday (2009)
ISBN 10 : 0385528701 ISBN 13 : 9780385528702
Neuf Couverture rigide Quantité disponible : 2
Vendeur :
Save With Sam
(North Miami, FL, Etats-Unis)
Evaluation vendeur

Description du livre Hardcover. Etat : New. Brand New!. N° de réf. du vendeur VIB0385528701

Plus d'informations sur ce vendeur | Contacter le vendeur

Acheter neuf
EUR 40,71
Autre devise

Ajouter au panier

Frais de port : Gratuit
Vers Etats-Unis
Destinations, frais et délais
Image d'archives

Carlos Ruiz Zafón
Edité par Doubleday (2009)
ISBN 10 : 0385528701 ISBN 13 : 9780385528702
Neuf Couverture rigide Quantité disponible : 1
Vendeur :
Wizard Books
(Long Beach, CA, Etats-Unis)
Evaluation vendeur

Description du livre Hardcover. Etat : new. New. N° de réf. du vendeur Wizard0385528701

Plus d'informations sur ce vendeur | Contacter le vendeur

Acheter neuf
EUR 51,56
Autre devise

Ajouter au panier

Frais de port : EUR 3,24
Vers Etats-Unis
Destinations, frais et délais

There are autres exemplaires de ce livre sont disponibles

Afficher tous les résultats pour ce livre