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Adventure of Huckleberry Finn [Non relié]

Mark Twain
4.7 étoiles sur 5  Voir tous les commentaires (9 commentaires client)

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Descriptions du produit

Extrait

CHAPTER 1

DISCOVER MOSES AND THE BULRUSHERS

You don't know about me without you have read a book by the name of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer; but that ain't no matter. That book was made by Mr. Mark Twain, and he told the truth, mainly. There was things which he stretched, but mainly he told the truth. That is nothing. I never seen anybody but lied one time or another, without it was Aunt Polly, or the widow, or maybe Mary. Aunt Polly--Tom's Aunt Polly, she is--and Mary, and the Widow Douglas is all told about in that book, which is mostly a true book, with some stretchers, as I said before.

Now the way that the book winds up is this: Tom and me found the money that the robbers hid in the cave, and it made us rich. We got six thousand dollars apiece--all gold. It was an awful sight of money when it was piled up. Well, Judge Thatcher he took it and put it out at interest, and it fetched us a dollar a day apiece all the year round--more than a body could tell what to do with. The Widow Douglas she took me for her son, and allowed she would sivilize me; but it was rough living in the house all the time, considering how dismal regular and decent the widow was in all her ways; and so when I couldn't stand it no longer I lit out. I got into my old rags and my sugar-hogshead again, and was free and satisfied. But Tom Sawyer he hunted me up and said he was going to start a band of robbers, and I might join if I would go back to the widow and be respectable. So I went back.

The widow she cried over me, and called me a poor lost lamb, and she called me a lot of other names, too, but she never meant no harm by it. She put me in them new clothes again, and I couldn't do nothing but sweat and sweat, and feel all cramped up. Well, then, the old thing commenced again. The widow rung a bell for supper, and you had to come to time. When you got to the table you couldn't go right to eating, but you had to wait for the widow to tuck down her head and grumble a little over the victuals, though there warn't really anything the matter with them--that is, nothing only everything was cooked by itself. In a barrel of odds and ends it is different; things get mixed up, and the juice kind of swaps around, and the things go better.

After supper she got out her book and learned me about Moses and the Bulrushers, and I was in a sweat to find out all about him; but by and by she let it out that Moses had been dead a considerable long time; so then I didn't care no more about him, because I don't take no stock in dead people.

Pretty soon I wanted to smoke, and asked the widow to let me. But she wouldn't. She said it was a mean practice and wasn't clean, and I must try to not do it any more. That is just the way with some people. They get down on a thing when they don't know nothing about it. Here she was a-bothering about Moses, which was no kin to her, and no use to anybody, being gone, you see, yet finding a power of fault with me for doing a thing that had some good in it. And she took snuff, too; of course that was all right, because she done it herself.

Her sister, Miss Watson, a tolerable slim old maid, with goggles on, had just come to live with her, and took a set at me now with a spelling-book. She worked me middling hard for about an hour, and then the widow made her ease up. I couldn't stood it much longer. Then for an hour it was deadly dull, and I was fidgety. Miss Watson would say, "Don't put your feet up there, Huckleberry"; and "Don't scrunch up like that, Huckleberry--set up straight"; and pretty soon she would say, "Don't gap and stretch like that, Huckleberry--why don't you try to behave?" Then she told me all about the bad place, and I said I wished I was there. She got mad then, but I didn't mean no harm. All I wanted was to go somewheres; all I wanted was a change, I warn't particular. She said it was wicked to say what I said; said she wouldn't say it for the whole world; she was going to live so as to go to the good place. Well, I couldn't see no advantage in going where she was going, so I made up my mind I wouldn't try for it. But I never said so, because it would only make trouble, and wouldn't do no good.

Now she had got a start, and she went on and told me all about the good place. She said all a body would have to do there was to go around all day long with a harp and sing, forever and ever. So I didn't think much of it. But I never said so. I asked her if she reckoned Tom Sawyer would go there, and she said not by a considerable sight. I was glad about that, because I wanted him and me to be together.

Miss Watson she kept pecking at me, and it got tiresome and lonesome. By and by they fetched the niggers in and had prayers, and then everybody was off to bed. I went up to my room with a piece of candle, and put it on the table. Then I set down in a chair by the window and tried to think of something cheerful, but it warn't no use. I felt so lone-some I most wished I was dead. The stars were shining, and the leaves rustled in the woods ever so mournful; and I heard an owl, away off, who-whooing about somebody that was dead, and a whippowill and a dog crying about somebody that was going to die; and the wind was trying to whisper something to me, and I couldn't make out what it was, and so it made the cold shivers run over me. Then away out in the woods I heard that kind of a sound that a ghost makes when it wants to tell about something that's on its mind and can't make itself understood, and so can't rest easy in its grave, and has to go about that way every night grieving. I got so downhearted and scared I did wish I had some company. Pretty soon a spider went crawling up my shoulder, and I flipped it off and it lit in the candle; and before I could budge it was all shriveled up. I didn't need anybody to tell me that that was an awful bad sign and would fetch me some bad luck, so I was scared and most shook the clothes off of me. I got up and turned around in my tracks three times and crossed my breast every time; and then I tied up a little lock of my hair with a thread to keep witches away. But I hadn't no confidence. You do that when you've lost a horseshoe that you've found, instead of nailing it up over the door, but I hadn't ever heard anybody say it was any way to keep off bad luck when you'd killed a spider.

I set down again, a-shaking all over, and got out my pipe for a smoke; for the house was all as still as death now, and so the widow wouldn't know. Well, after a long time I heard the clock away off in the town go boom--boom--boom--twelve licks; and all still again--stiller than ever. Pretty soon I heard a twig snap down in the dark amongst the trees--something was a-stirring. I set still and listened. Directly I could just barely hear a "me-yow! me-yow!" down there. That was good! Says I, "me-yow! me-yow!" as soft as I could, and then I put out the light and scrambled out of the window on to the shed. Then I slipped down to the ground and crawled in among the trees, and, sure enough, there was Tom Sawyer waiting for me.

CHAPTER 2

OUR GANG'S DARK OATH

We went tiptoeing along a path amongst the trees back toward the end of the widow's garden, stooping down so as the branches wouldn't scrape our heads. When we was passing by the kitchen I fell over a root and made a noise. We scrouched down and laid still. Miss Watson's big nigger, named Jim, was setting in the kitchen door; we could see him pretty clear, because there was a light behind him. He got up and stretched his neck out about a minute, listening. Then he says:

"Who dah?"

He listened some more; then he came tiptoeing down and stood right between us; we could 'a' touched him, nearly. Well, likely it was minutes and minutes that there warn't a sound, and we all there so close together. There was a place on my ankle that got to itching, but I dasn't scratch it; and then my ear begun to itch; and next my back, right between my shoulders. Seemed like I'd die if I couldn't scratch. Well, I've noticed that thing plenty times since. If you are with the quality, or at a funeral, or trying to go to sleep when you ain't sleepy--if you are anywheres where it won't do for you to scratch, why you will itch all over in upward of a thousand places. Pretty soon Jim says:

"Say, who is you? Whar is you? Dog my cats ef I didn' hear sumf'n. Well, I know what I's gwyne to do: I's gwyne to set down here and listen tell I hears it ag'in."

So he set down on the ground betwixt me and Tom. He leaned his back up against a tree, and stretched his legs out till one of them most touched one of mine. My nose begun to itch. It itched till the tears come into my eyes. But I dasn't scratch. Then it begun to itch on the inside. Next I got to itching underneath. I didn't know how I was going to set still. This miserableness went on as much as six or seven minutes; but it seemed a sight longer than that. I was itching in eleven different places now. I reckoned I couldn't stand it more'n a minute longer, but I set my teeth hard and got ready to try. Just then Jim begun to breathe heavy; next he begun to snore--and then I was pretty soon comfortable again.

Tom he made a sign to me--kind of a little noise with his mouth--and we went creeping away on our hands and knees. When we was ten foot off Tom whispered to me, and wanted to tie Jim to the tree for fun. But I said no; he might wake and make a disturbance, and then they'd find out I warn't in. Then Tom said he hadn't got candles enough, and he would slip in the kitchen and get some more. I didn't want him to try. I said Jim might wake up and come. But Tom wanted to resk it; so we slid in there and got three candles, and Tom laid five cents on the table for pay. Then we got out, and I was in a sweat to get away; but nothing would do Tom but he must crawl to where Jim was, on his hands and knees, and play something on him. I waited, and it seemed a good while, everything was so still and lonesome.

As soon as Tom was back we cut along the path, around the garden fence,... --Ce texte fait référence à l'édition Relié .

Revue de presse

"All modern American literature comes from one book by Mark Twain called Huckleberry Finn. It's the best book we've had." --Ernest Hemingway


From the Hardcover edition. --Ce texte fait référence à l'édition Broché .

Détails sur le produit

  • Non relié
  • Editeur : Washington Square Press (1 octobre 1983)
  • Langue : Anglais
  • ISBN-10: 0671640194
  • ISBN-13: 978-0671640194
  • Dimensions du produit: 17 x 10,4 x 2,3 cm
  • Moyenne des commentaires client : 4.7 étoiles sur 5  Voir tous les commentaires (9 commentaires client)
  • Table des matières complète
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Commentaires client les plus utiles
22 internautes sur 23 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 la vie sur un raft. 29 janvier 2003
Format:Poche
Un livre super rafraichissant, pas du tout destine aux enfants comme on pourrait le croire, et traitant sur un ton humoristique de sujets comme l'amitie entre noirs et blancs au temps de l'esclavage, la recherche du bonheur et la liberte. Les dialectes anglais sont une pure merveille, les situations cocasses dans lesquelles Huck se retrouve s'echainent avec rythme et bonheur, un tres bon moment de lecture. Et pour ceux se posant la question anglais ou francais, je ne dirais qu'une chose: Original Version!
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1 internautes sur 1 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
4.0 étoiles sur 5 Huck Finn 21 octobre 2012
Par Vanessa
Format:Broché|Achat vérifié
The book is very interesting to read. The history follows the Adventures of Tom Sawyer and if you liked Tom Sawyer you will like the adventures of Huckleberry Finn. But if you are not very good at English you may need a dictionnary to help you some times :). You can afford the boo at low prices which is good. Enjoy!!
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1 internautes sur 1 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 is own death and set 26 septembre 2011
Par Titulaire
Format:Format Kindle
Wild child Huck has to get away. His violent drunk of a father is back in town again, raising Cain. He won't rest until he has Huck's money. So the enterprising boy fakes his own death and sets out in search of adventure and freedom. Teaming up with Jim, an escaped slave with a price on his head, the two fugitives go on the run, travelling down the wide Mississippi River. But Huck finds himself wrestling with his conscience. Should he save Jim, or turn his friend over to a terrible fate? .
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3 internautes sur 4 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
4.0 étoiles sur 5 Le texte original 9 février 2011
Format:Broché
Attention, il existe aujourd'hui une version édulcorée et "politiquement correcte" du roman de Mark Twain. Tout ça parce que les mots "nigger" et "unjun" hérissent certaines catégories de population.
Pour ma part, je pense qu'on ne doit pas mutiler une oeuvre littéraire.
Bien heureuseument, cette édition ci contient le texte original, non trafiqué.
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5.0 étoiles sur 5 Un régal ! 6 janvier 2014
Par mlesix
Format:Broché
Le burlesque de Don Quichotte, le décor d'un Lucky-Luke, et des héros qui tiendraient de Tintin : tout cela réunis ensemble ! Super découverte. Cela faisait longtemps que je n'avais pas freiné ma lecture pour faire durer le plaisir. Ce livre est une suite de chapitres courts tous plus amusants les uns que les autres. C'est drôle, parfois émouvant, et pour couronner le tout, Twain se permet des petites descriptions 'by-and-by' de-ci de-là pleines de poésie, et qui posent en quelques traits bien sentis un paysage, une ambiance, une nuit sur l'eau, un orage... on s'y croirait. Huck, le héro, tient d'un Petit Nicolas ayant grandi et qui fumerait la pipe : mais que les lecteurs adultes se rassurent, on rigole bien de 7 à 77 ans (et plus). Dernière remarque : ce serait dommage de le lire en Français... on perdrait le savoureux des expressions et des dialogues, et même s'il faut s'habituer au parlé des protagonistes sur les 1ères pages, le niveau d'anglais requis n'est pas trop élevé.
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