De Balzac Honoré:
La cousine bette - Livres de poche
2017, ISBN: 2a80394b9edd6b92bd17baee451297d7
Picador. Very Good. 5.65 x 1.45 x 8.2 inches. Paperback. 2008. 720 pages. <br>NATIONAL BOOK AWARD WINNER One of the New York Ti mes 10 Best Books of the Year The God I want to bel… Plus…
Picador. Very Good. 5.65 x 1.45 x 8.2 inches. Paperback. 2008. 720 pages. <br>NATIONAL BOOK AWARD WINNER One of the New York Ti mes 10 Best Books of the Year The God I want to believe in has a voice and a sense of humor like Denis Johnson's. ?Jonathan Franz en Named A Best Book of the Year by Time, The Washington Post, T he Boston Globe, Chicago Tribune, San Francisco Chronicle, Salon, Slate, The National Book Critics Circle, The Christian Science M onitor. . . Tree of Smoke is the story of William Skip Sands, CI A--engaged in Psychological Operations against the Vietcong--and the disasters that befall him. It is also the story of the Housto n brothers, Bill and James, young men who drift out of the Arizon a desert and into a war where the line between disinformation and delusion has blurred away. In the words of Michiko Kakutani in T he New York Times, Tree of Smoke is bound to become one of the cl assic works of literature produced by that tragic and uncannily f amiliar war. Editorial Reviews Review Denis Johnson is a true American artist, and Tree of Smoke is a tremendous book. ?The New York Times Book Review I can't be sure that there's been a bett er American novel published in the past ten years. It is a master piece. ?The Miami Herald It will . . . get inside your head like the war it is describing--mystifying, horrifying, mesmerizing. [ Johnson] has written a book that by the end wraps around you as t ightly as a snake. ?The Washington Post Book World Tree of Smoke is a masterpiece of language and depth. ?San Francisco Chronicle Johnson has captured the zeitgeist of American experience as su rely as Twain, Hemingway, or Ellison. ?New York Post Opens a win dow onto a world of mystery, war, and intrigue whose importance i n the (usually) unwritten history of our republic can't be denied . ?Chicago Tribune Johnson has written his War and Peace. ?Harpe r's Magazine About the Author Denis Johnson (1949-2017) is the author of eight novels, one novella, one book of short stories, t hree collections of poetry, two collections of plays, and one boo k of reportage. His novel Tree of Smoke won the 2007 National Boo k Award. About the Author Denis Johnson (1949-2017) is the autho r of eight novels, one novella, one book of short stories, three collections of poetry, two collections of plays, and one book of reportage. His novel Tree of Smoke won the 2007 National Book Awa rd. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Tr ee of Smoke A NovelBy Johnson, Denis Picador Copyright © 2008Jo hnson, Denis All right reserved. ISBN: 9780312427740 Chapter one Last night at 3:00 a.m. President Kennedy had been killed. Seaman Houston and the other two recruits slept while the first reports traveled around the world. There was one small nightspot on the island, a dilapidated club with big revolving fans in the ceiling and one bar and one pinball game; the two marines who ran the cl ub had come by to wake them up and tell themwhat had happened to the President. The two marines sat with the three sailors on the bunks in the Quonset hut for transient enlisted men, watching the air conditioner drip water into a coffee can and drinking beer. The Armed Forces Network from Subic Bay stayed on through the nig ht, broadcasting bulletins about the unfathomable murder. Now it was late in the morning, and Seaman Apprentice William Houston, J r., began feeling sober again as he stalked the jungle of Grande Island carrying a borrowed. 22- caliber file. There were supposed to be some wild boars roaming this island military resort, which was all he had seen so far of the Philippines. He didn't know ho w he felt about this country. He justwanted to do some hunting in the jungle. There were supposed to be some wild boars around her e. He stepped carefully, thinking about snakes and trying to be q uiet because he wanted to hear any boars before they charged him. He was aware that he was terrifically on edge. From all around c ame the ten thousand sounds of the jungle, as well as the cries o f gulls and the far- off surf, and if he stopped dead and listene d a minute, he could hear also the pulse snickering in the heat o f his flesh, and the creak of sweat in his ears. If he stayed mot ionless only another couple of seconds, the bugs found him and wh ined around his head. He propped the rifle against a stunted bana na plant and removed his headband and wrung it out and wiped his face and stood there awhile, waving away the mosquitoes with the cloth and itching his crotch absent- mindedly. Nearby, a seagull seemed to be carrying on an argument with itself, a series of pro testing squeaks interrupted by contradictory lower- pitched cries that sounded like, Huh! Huh! Huh! And something moving from one t ree to another caught Seaman Houston's eye. He kept his vision on the spot where he'd seen it among the branches of a rubber tree, putting his hand out for the rifle without altering the directio n of his gaze. It moved again. Now he saw that it was some sort o f monkey, not much bigger thana Chihuahua dog. Not precisely a wi ld boar, but it presented itself as something to be looked at, cl inging by its left hand and both feet to the tree's trunk and dig ging at the thin rind with an air of tiny, exasperated haste. Sea man Houston took the monkey's meager back under the rifle's sight . He raised the barrel a few degrees and took the monkey's head i nto the sight. Without really thinking about anything at all, he squeezed the trigger. The monkey flattened itself out against the tree, spreading its arms and legs enthusiastically, and then, re aching around with both hands as if trying to scratch its back, i t tumbled down to the ground. Seaman Houston was terrified to wit ness its convulsions there. It hoisted itself, pushing off the gr ound with one arm, and sat back against the tree trunk with its l egs spread out before it, like somebody resting from a difficult job of labor. Seaman Houston took himself a few steps nearer, and , from the distance of only a few yards, he saw that the monkey's fur was very shiny and held a henna tint in the shadows and a bl ond tint in the light, as the leaves moved above it. It looked fr om side to side, its breath coming in great rapid gulps, its bell y expanding tremendously with every breath like a balloon.The sho t had been low, exiting from the abdomen. Seaman Houston felt his own stomach tear itself in two. Jesus Christ! he shouted at the monkey, as if it might do something about its embarrassing and ha teful condition. He thought his head would explode, if the foreno on kept burning into the jungle all around him and the gulls kept screaming and the monkey kept regarding its surroundings careful ly, moving its headand black eyes from side to side like someone following the progress of some kind of conversation, some kind of debate, some kind of struggle that the jungle-the morning-the mo ment- was having with itself. Seaman Houston walked over to the m onkeyand laid the rifle down beside it and lifted the animal up i n his two hands, holding its buttocks in one and cradling its hea d with the other. With fascination, then with revulsion, he reali zed that the monkey was crying. Its breath came out in sobs, and tears welled out of its eyes when it blinked. It looked here and there, appearing no more interested in him than in anything else it might be seeing. Hey, Houston said, but the monkey didn't seem to hear. As he held the animal in his hands, its heart stopped b eating. He gave it a shake, but he knew it was useless. He felt a s if everything was all his fault, and with no one around to know about it, he let himself cry like a child. He was eighteen years old. When he got back to the club down near the water, Houston s aw that a school of violet- tinted jellyfish had washed up on the gray beach, hundreds of them, each about the size of a person's hand, translucent and shriveling under the sun.The island's small harbor lay empty. No boats ever came here other than the ferry f rom the naval base across Subic Bay. Only a few yards off, a coup le of bamboo cabins fronted the strip of sand beneath palatial tr ees dribbling small purple blooms onto their roofs. From inside o ne of the cabins came the cries of a couple making love, a whore, Seaman Houston assumed, and some sailor. Houston squatted in the shade and listened until he heard them giggling no more, breathi ng no more, and a lizard in the cabin's eaves began to call-a bri ef annunciatory warble and then a series of harsh, staccato chuck les-gek- ko; gek- ko; gek- ko . . . After a while the man came ou t, a crew- cut man in his forties with a white towel hitched unde r his belly and a cigarette clamped between his front teeth, and stood there splayfooted, holding the towel together at his hip wi th one hand, staring at some close but invisible thing, and swayi ng. An officer, probably. He took his cigarette between his thumb and finger anddrew on it and let out a fog around his face. Anot her mission accomplished. The neighboring cabin's front door open ed and a Filipina, naked, hand over her groin, said, He don't lik e to do it. The officer shouted, Hey, Lucky. A small Asian man ca me to the door, fully dressed in military fatigues. You didn't gi ve her a jolly old time? The man said, It could be bad luck. Karm a, the officer said. It could be, the little fellow said. To Hous ton the officer said, You looking for a beer? Houston had meant t o be off. Now he realized that he'd forgotten to leave and that t he man was talking to him. With his free hand the man tossed his smoke and snaked aside the drape of the towel. To Houston he said -as he loosed almost straight downward a stream that foamed on th e earth, destroying his cigarette butt-You see something worth lo oking at, you let me know. Feeling a fool, Houston went into the club. Inside, two young Filipinas in bright flowered dresses were playing pinball and talking so fast, while the large fans whirle d above them, that Seaman Houston felt his equilibrium give. Sam, one of the marines, stood behind the bar. Shut up, shut up, he s aid. He lifted his hand, in which he happened to be holding a spa tula. What'd I say? Houston asked. Excuse. Sam tilted his head to ward the radio, concentrating on its sound like a blind man. They caught the guy. They said that before breakfast. We knew that. T here's more about him. Okay, Houston said. He drank some ice wate r and listened to the radio, but he suffered such a headache righ t now he couldn't make out any of the words. After a while the of ficer came in wearing a gigantic Hawaiian-print shirt, accompanie d by the young Asian. Colonel, they caught him, Sam told the offi cer. His name is Oswald. The colonel said, What kind of name is t hat?-apparently as outraged by the killer's name as by his atroci ty. Fucking sonofabitch, Sam said. The sonofabitch, said the colo nel. I hope they shoot his balls off. I hope they shoot him up th e ass. Wiping at his tears without embarrassment he said, Is Oswa ld his first name or his last name? Houston told himself that fir st he'd seen this officer pissing on the ground, and now he was w atching him cry. To the young Asian, Sam said, Sir, we're hospita ble as hell. But generally Philippine military aren't served here . Lucky's from Vietnam, the colonel said. Vietnam. You lost? No, not lost, the man said. This guy, the colonel said, is already a jet pilot. He's a South Viet Nam Air Force captain. Sam asked the young captain, Well, is it a war over there, or what? War?-budda - budda- budda. He made his two hands into a submachine gun, jerk ing them in unison. Yes? No? The captain turned from the American , formed the phrases in his mind, practiced them, turned back, an d said, I don't know it's war. A lot people are dead. That'll do, the colonel agreed. That counts. What you doing here? I'm here f or helicopters training, the captain said. You don't look hardly old enough for a tricycle, Sam said. How old are you? Twenty-two years. I'm getting this little Slope his beer. You like San Migue l? You mind that I called you a Slope? It's a bad habit. Call him Lucky, the colonel said. The man's buying, Lucky. What's your po ison? The boy frowned and deliberated inside himself mysteriously and said, I like Lucky Lager. And what kind of cigarettes you sm oke? the colonel asked. I like the Lucky Strike, he said, and eve rybody laughed. Suddenly Sam looked at young Seaman Houston as if just recognizing him and said, Where's my rifle? For a heartbeat Houston had no idea what he might be talking about. Then he said , Shit. Where is it? Sam didn't seem terribly interested-just cur ious. Shit, Seaman Houston said. I'll get it. He had to go back i nto the jungle. It was just as hot, and just as damp. All the sam e animals were making the same noises, and the situation was just as terrible, he was far from the places of his memory, and the n avy still had him for two more years, and the President, the Pres ident of his country, was still dead-but the monkey was gone. Sam 's rifle lay in the brush just as he'd left it, and the monkey wa s nowhere. Something had carried it off. He had expected to be ma de to see it again; so he was relieved to be walking back to the club without having to look at what he'd done. Yet he understood, without much alarm or unease, that he wouldn't be spared this si ght forever. Seaman Houston was promoted once, and then demoted. He glimpsed some of Southeast Asia's great capitals, walked throu gh muggy nights in which streetside lanterns shook in the stale b reezes, but he never landed long enough to lose his sea legs, onl y long enough to get confused, to see the faces flickering and he ar the suffering laughter. When his tour was up he enlisted for a nother, enchanted above all by the power to create his destiny ju st by signing his name. Houston had two younger brothers. The nea rest to him in age, James, enlisted in the infantry and was sent to Vietnam, and one night just before the finish of his second to ur in the navy, Houston took a train from the naval base in Yokos uka, Japan, to the city of Yokohama, where he and James had arran ged to meet at the Peanut Bar. It was 1967, more than three years after the murder of John F. Kennedy. In the train car Houston fe lt gigantic, looking over the heads of pitch- black hair. The lit tle Japanese passengers stared at him without mirth, without pity , without shame, until he felt as if his throat were being twiste d. He got off, and kept himself on a straight path through the la te drizzle by following wet streetcar tracks, Picador, 2008, 3, Oxford University Press. Good. 129 x 196 x 25.4mm. Paperback. 1998. 490 pages.<br>Cousin Bette (1846) is considered to be Balzac's la st great novel, and a key work in his Human Comedy. Set in the Pa ris of the 1830s and 1840s, it is a complex tale of the devastati ng effect of violent jealousy and sexual passion. Against a metic ulously detailed backdrop of a post-Napoleonic France struggling with massive industrial and economic change, Balzac's characters span many classes of society, from impoverished workers and wealt hy courtesans to successful businessmen and official dignitaries. The tragic outcome of the novel is relieved by occasional flashe s of ironic comedy and the emergence of a younger generation whic h has come to terms with the new political and econimic climate. This new translation by Sylvia Raphael has an Introduction by Dav id Bellos which sets the novel in its social, historical, and lit erary context. - ;This new translation has an Introduction which sets the novel in its social, historical, and literary context. - ., Oxford University Press, 1998, 2.5, Penguin Books, 6/1/1998. Paperback. Very Good. Paperback book in good condition. Some very light shelf wear, otherwise a good clean copy., Penguin Books, 6/1/1998, 3, Rencontre, 1968. in12. 1968. Cartonné. 464 pages., Rencontre, 1968, 0<
