As I Lay Dying et plus d'un million d'autres livres sont disponibles pour le Kindle d'Amazon. En savoir plus


ou
Identifiez-vous pour activer la commande 1-Click.
Amazon Rachète votre article
Recevez un chèque-cadeau de EUR 1,00
Amazon Rachète cet article
Plus de choix
Vous l'avez déjà ? Vendez votre exemplaire ici
Désolé, cet article n'est pas disponible en
Image non disponible pour la
couleur :
Image non disponible

 
Commencez à lire As I Lay Dying sur votre Kindle en moins d'une minute.

Vous n'avez pas encore de Kindle ? Achetez-le ici ou téléchargez une application de lecture gratuite.

As I Lay Dying [Anglais] [Poche]

William Faulkner
4.6 étoiles sur 5  Voir tous les commentaires (5 commentaires client)
Prix : EUR 8,99 Livraison à EUR 0,01 En savoir plus.
  Tous les prix incluent la TVA
o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
En stock.
Expédié et vendu par Amazon. Emballage cadeau disponible.
Voulez-vous le faire livrer le mardi 15 juillet ? Choisissez la livraison en 1 jour ouvré sur votre bon de commande. En savoir plus.

Formats

Prix Amazon Neuf à partir de Occasion à partir de
Format Kindle EUR 7,04  
Cahier --  
Relié EUR 13,31  
Broché EUR 7,81  
Poche, 4 janvier 1996 EUR 8,99  
Broché EUR 10,79  
Cassette --  

Description de l'ouvrage

4 janvier 1996 0099479311 978-0099479314 New Ed
The death and burial of Addie Bundren is told by members of her family, as they cart the coffin to Jefferson, Mississippi, to bury her among her people. And as the intense desires, fears and rivalries of the family are revealed in the vernacular of the Deep South, Faulkner presents a portrait of extraordinary power - as epic as the Old Testament, as American as Huckleberry Finn.

Offres spéciales et liens associés


Produits fréquemment achetés ensemble

As I Lay Dying + On the Road
Acheter les articles sélectionnés ensemble
  • On the Road EUR 8,16

Les clients ayant acheté cet article ont également acheté


Descriptions du produit

Extrait

Darl

Jewel and I come up from the field, following the path in single file. Although I am fifteen feet ahead of him, anyone watching us from the cottonhouse can see Jewel's frayed and broken straw hat a full head above my own.

The path runs straight as a plumb-line, worn smooth by feet and baked brick-hard by July, between the green rows of laidby cotton, to the cottonhouse in the center of the field, where it turns and circles the cottonhouse at four soft right angles and goes on across the field again, worn so by feet in fading precision.

The cottonhouse is of rough logs, from between which the chinking has long fallen. Square, with a broken roof set at a single pitch, it leans in empty and shimmering dilapidation in the sunlight, a single broad window in two opposite walls giving onto the approaches of the path. When we reach it I turn and follow the path which circles the house. Jewel, fifteen feet behind me, looking straight ahead, steps in a single stride through the window. Still staring straight ahead, his pale eyes like wood set into his wooden face, he crosses the floor in four strides with the rigid gravity of a cigar store Indian dressed in patched overalls and endued with life from the hips down, and steps in a single stride through the opposite window and into the path again just as I come around the corner. In single file and five feet apart and Jewel now in front, we go on up the path toward the foot of the bluff.

Tull's wagon stands beside the spring, hitched to the rail, the reins wrapped about the seat stanchion. In the wagon bed are two chairs. Jewel stops at the spring and takes the gourd from the willow branch and drinks. I pass him and mount the path, beginning to hear Cash's saw.

When I reach the top he has quit sawing. Standing in a litter of chips, he is fitting two of the boards together. Between the shadow spaces they are yellow as gold, like soft gold, bearing on their flanks in smooth undulations the marks of the adze blade: a good carpenter, Cash is. He holds the two planks on the trestle, fitted along the edges in a quarter of the finished box. He kneels and squints along the edge of them, then he lowers them and takes up the adze. A good carpenter. Addie Bundren could not want a better one, a better box to lie in. It will give her confidence and comfort. I go on to the house, followed by the

Chuck. Chuck. Chuck. of the adze.

Cora

So I saved out the eggs and baked yesterday. The cakes turned out right well. We depend a lot on our chickens. They are good layers, what few we have left after the possums and such. Snakes too, in the summer. A snake will break up a hen-house quicker than anything. So after they were going to cost so much more than Mr Tull thought, and after I promised that the difference in the number of eggs would make it up, I had to be more careful than ever because it was on my final say-so we took them. We could have stocked cheaper chickens, but I gave my promise as Miss Lawington said when she advised me to get a good breed, because Mr Tull himself admits that a good breed of cows or hogs pays in the long run. So when we lost so many of them we couldn't afford to use the eggs ourselves, because I could not have had Mr Tull chide me when it was on my say-so we took them. So when Miss Lawington told me about the cakes I thought that I could bake them and earn enough at one time to increase the net value of the flock the equivalent of two head. And that by saving the eggs out one at a time, even the eggs wouldn't be costing anything. And that week they laid so well that I not only saved out enough eggs above what we had engaged to sell, to bake the cakes with, I had saved enough so that the flour and the sugar and the stove wood would not be costing anything. So I baked yesterday, more careful than ever I baked in my life, and the cakes turned out right well. But when we got to town this morning Miss Lawington told me the lady had changed her mind and was not going to have the party after all.

"She ought to taken those cakes anyway," Kate says.

"Well," I say, "I reckon she never had no use for them now."

"She ought to taken them," Kate says. "But those rich town ladies can change their minds. Poor folks cant."

Riches is nothing in the face of the Lord, for He can see into the heart. "Maybe I can sell them at the bazaar Saturday," I say. They turned out real well.

"You cant get two dollars a piece for them," Kate says.

"Well, it isn't like they cost me anything," I say. I saved them out and swapped a dozen of them for the sugar and flour. It isn't like the cakes cost me anything, as Mr Tull himself realises that the eggs I saved were over and beyond what we had engaged to sell, so it was like we had found the eggs or they had been given to us.

"She ought to taken those cakes when she same as gave you her word," Kate says. The Lord can see into the heart. If it is His will that some folks has different ideas of honesty from other folks, it is not my place to question His decree.

"I reckon she never had any use for them," I say. They turned out real well, too.

The quilt is drawn up to her chin, hot as it is, with only her two hands and her face outside. She is propped on the pillow, with her head raised so she can see out the window, and we can hear him every time he takes up the adze or the saw. If we were deaf we could almost watch her face and hear him, see him. Her face is wasted away so that the bones draw just under the skin in white lines. Her eyes are like two candles when you watch them gutter down into the sockets of iron candle-sticks. But the eternal and the everlasting salvation and grace is not upon her.

"They turned out real nice," I say. "But not like the cakes Addie used to bake." You can see that girl's washing and ironing in the pillow-slip, if ironed it ever was. Maybe it will reveal her blindness to her, laying there at the mercy and the ministration of four men and a tom-boy girl. "There's not a woman in this section could ever bake with Addie Bundren," I say. "First thing we know she'll be up and baking again, and then we wont have any sale for ours at all." Under the quilt she makes no more of a hump than a rail would, and the only way you can tell she is breathing is by the sound of the mattress shucks. Even the hair at her cheek does not move, even with that girl standing right over her, fanning her with the fan. While we watch she swaps the fan to the other hand without stopping it.

"Is she sleeping?" Kate whispers.

"She's just watching Cash yonder," the girl says. We can hear the saw in the board. It sounds like snoring. Eula turns on the trunk and looks out the window. Her necklace looks real nice with her red hat. You wouldn't think it only cost twenty-five cents.

"She ought to taken those cakes," Kate says.

I could have used the money real well. But it's not like they cost me anything except the baking. I can tell him that anybody is likely to make a miscue, but it's not all of them that can get out of it without loss, I can tell him. It's not everybody can eat their mistakes, I can tell him.

Someone comes through the hall. It is Darl. He does not look in as he passes the door. Eula watches him as he goes on and passes from sight again toward the back. Her hand rises and touches her beads lightly, and then her hair. When she finds me watching her, her eyes go blank.

Darl

Pa and Vernon are sitting on the back porch. Pa is tilting snuff from the lid of his snuff-box into his lower lip, holding the lip outdrawn between thumb and finger. They look around as I cross the porch and dip the gourd into the water bucket and drink.

"Where's Jewel?" pa says. When I was a boy I first learned how much better water tastes when it has set a while in a cedar bucket. Warmish-cool, with a faint taste like the hot July wind in cedar trees smells. It has to set at least six hours, and be drunk from a gourd. Water should never be drunk from metal.

And at night it is better still. I used to lie on the pallet in the hall, waiting until I could hear them all asleep, so I could get up and go back to the bucket. It would be black, the shelf black, the still surface of the water a round orifice in nothingness, where before I stirred it awake with the dipper I could see maybe a star or two in the bucket, and maybe in the dipper a star or two before I drank. After that I was bigger, older. Then I would wait until they all went to sleep so I could lie with my shirt-tail up, hearing them asleep, feeling myself without touching myself, feeling the cool silence blowing upon my parts and wondering if Cash was yonder in the darkness doing it too, had been doing it perhaps for the last two years before I could have wanted to or could have.

Pa's feet are badly splayed, his toes cramped and bent and warped, with no toenail at all on his little toes, from working so hard in the wet in homemade shoes when he was a boy. Beside his chair his brogans sit. They look as though they had been hacked with a blunt axe out of pig-iron. Vernon has been to town. I have never seen him go to town in overalls. His wife, they say. She taught school too, once.

I fling the dipper dregs to the ground and wipe my mouth on my sleeve. It is going to rain before morning. Maybe before dark. "Down to the barn," I say. "Harnessing the team."

Down there fooling with that horse. He will go on through the barn, into the pasture. The horse will not be in sight: he is up there among the pine seedlings, in the cool. Jewel whistles, once and shrill. The horse snorts, then Jewel sees him, glinting for a gaudy instant among the blue shadows. Jewel whistles again; the horse comes dropping down the slope, stiff-legged, his ears cocking and flicking, his mismatched eyes rolling, and fetches up twenty feet away, broadside on, watching Jewel over his shoulder in an attitude kittenish and alert.

"Come here, sir," Jewel says. He moves. Moving that quick his coat, bunching, tongues swirling like so many flames. With tossing mane and tail a... --Ce texte fait référence à l'édition Broché .

Revue de presse

"A masterpiece of dark humour" (Daily Express)

"The greatest American writers of the last century were William Faulkner and Saul Bellow...As I Lay Dying and The Adventures of Augie March: it's hard to think of two better novels written in this country in any century" (Philip Roth Observer)

"One of America's greatest writers" (The Times)

"A beautiful novel" (Independent)

"By universal consent of critics and common readers, Faulkner is now recognised as the strongest American novelist of the century, clearly surpassing (Ernest) Hemingway and (Scott) Fitzgerald, and standing as an equal in the sequence that includes Hawthorne, Melville, Mark Twain and Henry James . . . As I Lay Dying may be the most original novel ever written by an American" (Harold Bloom)

Détails sur le produit

  • Poche: 256 pages
  • Editeur : Vintage Classics; Édition : New Ed (4 janvier 1996)
  • Collection : Vintage classics
  • Langue : Anglais
  • ISBN-10: 0099479311
  • ISBN-13: 978-0099479314
  • Dimensions du produit: 13,2 x 19,9 cm
  • Moyenne des commentaires client : 4.6 étoiles sur 5  Voir tous les commentaires (5 commentaires client)
  • Classement des meilleures ventes d'Amazon: 6.503 en Livres anglais et étrangers (Voir les 100 premiers en Livres anglais et étrangers)
  •  Souhaitez-vous compléter ou améliorer les informations sur ce produit ? Ou faire modifier les images?


En savoir plus sur l'auteur

William Faulkner est né en 1897 dans l'État du Mississippi. Il appartient à une vieille famille aristocratique ruinée par la guerre de Sécession. Après avoir tâté de différents métiers, vécu à New York et à Paris, il revient habiter dans son pays natal et s'installe à Oxford, Mississippi. Il partage désormais son temps entre la littérature et l'administration de ses terres. William Faulkner a reçu le prix Nobel en 1949 ; il est probablement l'écrivain qui a eu le plus d'influence sur la littérature contemporaine. Il est mort le 6 juillet 1962.

Dans ce livre (En savoir plus)
Parcourir les pages échantillon
Couverture | Copyright | Extrait | Quatrième de couverture
Rechercher dans ce livre:

Quels sont les autres articles que les clients achètent après avoir regardé cet article?


Commentaires en ligne 

4 étoiles
0
2 étoiles
0
1 étoiles
0
4.6 étoiles sur 5
4.6 étoiles sur 5
Commentaires client les plus utiles
4 internautes sur 4 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 An I different from my I 15 mai 2009
Par IceKhube
Format:Broché
Qu'est-ce qu'As I Lay Dying? Monument grotesque? Récit épique? Tragédie humaine? Grosse blague? Cette question ne trouvera pas nécessairement de réponse à la fin de l'œuvre, qui n'a vraiment aucun égal. Tout comparaison serait vaine. Le style est assez difficile d'accès. Comptez d'emblée au moins deux lectures, sans quoi vous passeriez à côté de beaucoup de choses. Un livre étourdissant, au sens propre, qui est tout sauf un divertissement. La richesse extrême du roman, ses nombreuses références, ses personnages attachants, son style accrocheur, sa répartition par points de vue, son analyse visuelle et artistique, ses réflexions presque philosophique, son mélange des tons et des styles en font une œuvre qui mérite notre plus grand intérêt.
Avez-vous trouvé ce commentaire utile ?
1 internautes sur 1 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Faulkner au sommet 23 juin 2012
Par Cuperlier
Format:Poche|Achat vérifié
On plonge encore une fois dans la culture et la philosophie du sud profond des Etats-Unis avec le récit de cette famille désunie : du point de vue des sentiments bien sûr, mais aussi du fait du parti pris de narration qui nous fait vivre l'histoire à travers les yeux de différents protagonistes.Il faut prendre son temps et faire preuve d'ouverture d'esprit pour être touché par les personnages et comprendre tous les non-dits et les secrets qui existent dans chaque famille. Un grand moment de littérature !
Avez-vous trouvé ce commentaire utile ?
6 internautes sur 8 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
Par Lisa
Format:Broché
Tous est étrange dans ce livre: la forme, les personnages, le fond, l'intrigue... Livre étrange mais fascinant, les personnages sont pourtant attachants. Ce voyage "down-to-earth" se transforme en traversé épique, et l'ironie de la fin était finalement prévisible depuis le tout début. L'intrigue s'accompagne d'une réflexion en filigrane sur le language et sur les mots, "abolis bibelots d'inanité sonore".
Ce livre n'est pas d'accès facile (il m'a fallu plusieurs essais pour rentrer dedans), mais il vaut vraiment le coup de se forcer un peu au début.
Avez-vous trouvé ce commentaire utile ?
3.0 étoiles sur 5 Du Faulkner pur jus 6 avril 2013
Format:Poche|Achat vérifié
On retrouve ici l'univers de Faulkner tel que découvert dans The Sound and the Fury... L'ambiance étouffante du sud, des personnages rongés par leurs névroses... L'écriture est unique.
Avez-vous trouvé ce commentaire utile ?
2 internautes sur 3 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 The Best 3 août 2009
Par Le Cunff
Format:Broché
Ce livre m'a fait trouver tous les autres fades pendant au moins un mois. Une merveille de la Littérature. Un commentaire descriptif serait réducteur. On en sort puissant ou dépressif, mais pas indifférent.
Avez-vous trouvé ce commentaire utile ?
Vous voulez voir plus de commentaires sur cet article ?
Ces commentaires ont-ils été utiles ?   Dites-le-nous
Rechercher des commentaires
Rechercher uniquement parmi les commentaires portant sur ce produit

Discussions entre clients

Le forum concernant ce produit
Discussion Réponses Message le plus récent
Pas de discussions pour l'instant

Posez des questions, partagez votre opinion, gagnez en compréhension
Démarrer une nouvelle discussion
Thème:
Première publication:
Aller s'identifier
 

Rechercher parmi les discussions des clients
Rechercher dans toutes les discussions Amazon
   


Rechercher des articles similaires par rubrique


Commentaires

Souhaitez-vous compléter ou améliorer les informations sur ce produit ? Ou faire modifier les images?