Books, books, books...

[Caiomhe]

Hi!

Je me disais que ça pourrait être une bonne idée que chacun parle des ses expériences littéraires: livres que l'on a aimés ou pas et pourquoi.

So, the first book I'd like to consider is Angela's ashes, by Irish author Frank McCourt. This "memoir of a childhood" (the subtitle) was published in 1996 and won the Pulitzer Prize for Biography or Autobiography. It is the story of a young boy - Frank McCourt himself - born in America from poor Irish parents - Malachy and Angela McCourt - who tells us his misfortunes in Brooklyn (USA) and then in Limerick (Ireland) in the 1930's and 1940's. I really like this book since it is not some of those boring novels in which the author tells us how miserable was his childhood; it is more than that: here, McCourt does not only depict us his life when he was a boy but shows us - through the eyes and the innocence of a child - the reality of life in the Irish slums of the 1940's (and so in slums in general), the difficulties for people from them to climb the social ladder. I had never read such a moving book before.
Angela's ashes is followed by 'Tis and Teacher man. They are as good as Angela's ashes but for some other reasons. You see Frank becoming older and so less and less naive about his surroundings. Therefore, it is less moving but in a sense - I don't know how to describe it but- more interesting since it gives us a very clever perception of the society both in Ireland and America - but actually people are the same everywhere...
I really enjoy the three novels - which are in fact the same - and I encourage you to read them!
I have just discovered that McCourt has written another novel entitled Angela and the baby Jesus. I have not read it yet but I will do it and so I will put it in a nutshell for you.

And now, just a few lines extracted from Angela's ashes:

"At the end of the week Mrs O'Connell hands me the first wages of my life, a pound, my first pound. I run down the stairs and up to O'Connell Street, the main street, where the lights are on and people going home from work, people like me with wages in their pockets. (...) It's Friday night and I can do everything Ilike. I can have fish and chips and go to the Lyric Cinema. No, no more Lyric. I don't have to sit down in the gods anymore with people me cheering on the Indians killing the General Custer and the Africans chasing Tarzan all over the jungle. I can go to the Savoy Cinema now, pay six pence for a seat down front where there's a better class of people eating boxes of chocolates and covering their mouths when they laugh. After the film I can have tea and buns in the restaurant upstairs..."

I have chosen this excerpt for two reasons: the first one is simply because I like this passage, and the other one is because it reminds me your podcast, Thomas, about cinema and noisy people. I agree it is very unpleasant!

Je voudrais aussi rajouter une autre chose: je m'excuse pour ceux qui ne lisent pas l'anglais mais je dois bien avouer que je n'ai pas le courage de traduire mon bavardage, d'autant plus que je ne me relis que rarement. Par ailleurs, je n'écris pas parfaitement donc désolée pour les fautes. De même, je ne possède pas de version en français de Angela's ashes, je ne peux donc pas non plus vous donner une traduction du passage que j'ai cité (ou alors il faudrait que je la fasse ce qui me ramène à mon manque de temps et ma fainéantise  ).

Pour les autres j'espère que cela vous a plu et vous donne envie d'en faire autant.
A la prochaine!

Caiomhe

[Spinto]

Merci pour cette suggestion Caiomhe, je vais essayer de trouver Angela's ashes pour le lire.

Personnellement je lis presque tout le temps des oeuvres du 18ème-19ème. C'est peut-être pas très original, mais je voudrais poster un extrait de The Canterville Ghost, une nouvelle d'Oscar Wilde, publiée pour la première fois en feuilleton en 1887 :


"The day had been warm and sunny; and, in the cool of the evening, the whole family went out to drive. They did not return home till nine o'clock, when they had a light supper. The conversation in no way turned upon ghosts, so there were not even those primary conditions of receptive expectations which so often precede the presentation of psychical phenomena. (...) No mention at all was made of the supernatural, nor was Sir Simon de Canterville alluded to in any way. At eleven o'clock the family retired, and by half-past all the lights were out. Some time after, Mr. Otis was awakened by a curious noise in the corridor, outside his room. It sounded like the clank of metal, and seemed to be coming nearer every moment. He got up at once, struck a match, and looked at the time. It was exactly one o'clock. He was quite calm, and felt his pulse, which was not at all feverish. The strange noise still continued, and with it he heard distinctly the sound of footsteps. He put on his slippers, took a small oblong phial out of his dressing-case, and opened the door. Right in front of him he saw, in the wan moonlight, an old man of terrible aspect. His eyes were as red burning coals; long grey hair fell over his shoulders in matted coils; his garments, which were of antique cut, were soiled and ragged, and from his wrists and ankles hung heavy manacles and rusty gyves.

"My dear sir," said Mr. Otis, "I really must insist on your oiling those chains, and have brought you for that purpose a small bottle of the Tammany Rising Sun Lubricator. It is said to be completely efficacious upon one application, and there are several testimonials to that effect on the wrapper from some of our most eminent native divines. I shall leave it here for you by the bedroom candles, and will be happy to supply you with more, should you require it." With these words the United States Minister laid the bottle down on a marble table, and, closing his door, retired to rest."


J'apprécie tout particulièrement ce passage parce que Wilde s'amuse à subvertir les clichés de la littérature fantastique /gothique :
- une apparition surnaturelle devrait être précédée d'une discussion au cours de laquelle les personnages se font peur en se racontant des histoires de fantômes ;
- le lecteur se doute que le fantôme va arriver puisque le naarateur a déjà bien insisté sur le fait qu'on avait raconté aucune histoire de fantômes, donc le suspense est mort. Pourtant, le narrateur arrive quand même à recréer une espèce de suspense puisqu'il retarde l'apparition du fantôme en décrivant les actions de Mr Otis entre le moment où il entend le bruit bizarre, et le moment où il ouvre la porte pour parler au fantôme ;
- et la "chute", avec Mr Otis qui fait de la réclame pour le "Tammany Rising Sun Lubricator" pour huiler les chaînes du fantôme.

Pourtant, c'est un fantôme qui devrait faire peur (cf la description) ; le problème c'est que son public n'est pas très réceptif. Le décalage entre les deux rend l'histoire vraiment très drôle. Mr Otis est américain, et le fantôme est anglais. Wilde critique les anglais et les américains, et leurs différences mais c'est jute pour rire et sans aucune méchanceté. Au contraire.