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The Devil Wears Prada [Anglais] [Poche]

Lauren Weisberger
3.7 étoiles sur 5  Voir tous les commentaires (14 commentaires client)

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Description de l'ouvrage

30 mai 2006
A delightfully dishy novel about the all-time most impossible boss in the history of impossible bosses.

Andrea Sachs, a small-town girl fresh out of college, lands the job “a million girls would die for.” Hired as the assistant to Miranda Priestly, the high-profile, fabulously successful editor of Runway magazine, Andrea finds herself in an office that shouts Prada! Armani! Versace! at every turn, a world populated by impossibly thin, heart-wrenchingly stylish women and beautiful men clad in fine-ribbed turtlenecks and tight leather pants that show off their lifelong dedication to the gym. With breathtaking ease, Miranda can turn each and every one of these hip sophisticates into a scared, whimpering child.

THE DEVIL WEARS PRADA gives a rich and hilarious new meaning to complaints about “The Boss from Hell.” Narrated in Andrea’s smart, refreshingly disarming voice, it traces a deep, dark, devilish view of life at the top only hinted at in gossip columns and over Cosmopolitans at the trendiest cocktail parties. From sending the latest, not-yet-in-stores Harry Potter to Miranda’s children in Paris by private jet, to locating an unnamed antique store where Miranda had at some point admired a vintage dresser, to serving lattes to Miranda at precisely the piping hot temperature she prefers, Andrea is sorely tested each and every day—and often late into the night with orders barked over the phone. She puts up with it all by keeping her eyes on the prize: a recommendation from Miranda that will get Andrea a top job at any magazine of her choosing. As things escalate from the merely unacceptable to the downright outrageous, however, Andrea begins to realize that the job a million girls would die for may just kill her. And even if she survives, she has to decide whether or not the job is worth the price of her soul.

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Descriptions du produit

Extrait

1

The light hadn't even officially turned green at the intersection of 17th and Broadway before an army of overconfident yellow cabs roared past the tiny deathtrap I was attempting to navigate around the city streets. Clutch, gas, shift (neutral to first? Or first to second?), release clutch, I repeated over and over in my head, the mantra offering little comfort and even less direction amid the screeching midday traffic. The little car bucked wildly twice before it lurched forward through the intersection. My heart flip-flopped in my chest. Without warning, the lurching evened out and I began to pick up speed. Lots of speed. I glanced down to confirm visually that I was only in second gear, but the rear end of a cab loomed so large in the windshield that I could do nothing but jam my foot on the brake pedal so hard that my heel snapped off. Shit! Another pair of seven-hundred-dollar shoes sacrificed to my complete and utter lack of grace under pressure: this clocked in as my third such breakage this month. It was almost a relief when the car stalled (I'd obviously forgotten to press the clutch when attempting to brake for my life). I had a few seconds--peaceful seconds if one could overlook the angry honking and varied forms of the word "fuck" being hurled at me from all directions--to pull off my Manolos and toss them into the passenger seat. There was nowhere to wipe my sweaty hands except for the suede Gucci pants that hugged my thighs and hips so tightly they'd both begun to tingle within minutes of my securing the final button. My fingers left wet streaks across the supple suede that swathed the tops of my now numb thighs. Attempting to drive this $84,000 stick-shift convertible through the obstacle-fraught streets of midtown at lunchtime pretty much demanded that I smoke a cigarette.

"Fuckin' move, lady!" hollered a swarthy driver whose chest hair threatened to overtake the wife-beater he wore. "What do you think this is? Fuckin' drivin' school? Get outta the way!"

I raised a shaking hand to give him the finger and then turned my attention to the business at hand: getting nicotine coursing through my veins as quickly as possible. My hands were moist again with sweat, evidenced by the matches that kept slipping to the floor. The light turned green just as I managed to touch the fire to the end of the cigarette, and I was forced to leave it hanging between my lips as I negotiated the intricacies of clutch, gas, shift (neutral to first? Or first to second?), release clutch, the smoke wafting in and out of my mouth with each and every breath. It was another three blocks before the car moved smoothly enough for me to remove the cigarette, but it was already too late: the precariously long line of spent ash had found its way directly to the sweat stain on the pants. Awesome. But before I could consider that, counting the Manolos, I'd wrecked $3,100 worth of merchandise in under three minutes, my cell phone bleated loudly. And as if the very essence of life itself didn't suck enough at that particular moment, the caller ID confirmed my worst fear: it was Her. Miranda Priestly. My boss.

"Ahn-dre-ah! Ahn-dre-ah! Can you hear me, Ahn-dre-ah?" she trilled the moment I snapped my Motorola open--no small feat considering both of my (bare) feet and hands were already contending with various obligations. I propped the phone between my ear and shoulder and tossed the cigarette out the window, where it narrowly missed hitting a bike messenger. He screamed out a few highly unoriginal "fuck yous" before weaving forward.

"Yes, Miranda. Hi, I can hear you perfectly."

"Ahn-dre-ah, where's my car? Did you drop it off at the garage yet?"

The light ahead of me blessedly turned red and looked as though it might be a long one. The car jerked to a stop without hitting anyone or anything, and I breathed a sigh of relief. "I'm in the car right now, Miranda, and I should be at the garage in just a few minutes." I figured she was probably concerned that everything was going well, so I reassured her that there were no problems whatsoever and we should both arrive shortly in perfect condition.

"Whatever," she said brusquely, cutting me off midsentence. "I need you to pick up Madelaine and drop her off at the apartment before you come back to the office." Click. The phone went dead. I stared at it for a few seconds before I realized that she'd deliberately hung up because she had provided all of the details I could hope to receive. Madelaine. Who the hell was Madelaine? Where was she at the moment? Did she know I was to pick her up? Why was she going back to Miranda's apartment? And why on earth--considering Miranda had a full-time driver, housekeeper, and nanny--was I the one who had to do it?

Remembering that it was illegal to talk on a cell phone while driving in New York and figuring the last thing I needed at that moment was a run-in with the NYPD, I pulled into the bus lane and switched my flashers on. Breathe in, breathe out, I coached myself, even remembering to apply the parking brake before taking my foot off the regular one. It had been years since I'd driven a stick-shift car--five years, actually, since a high school boyfriend had volunteered his car up for a few lessons that I'd decidedly flunked--but Miranda hadn't seemed to consider that when she'd called me into her office an hour and a half earlier.

"Ahn-dre-ah, my car needs to be picked up from the place and dropped off at the garage. Attend to it immediately, as we'll be needing it tonight to drive to the Hamptons. That's all." I stood, rooted to the carpet in front of her behemoth desk, but she'd already blocked out my presence entirely. Or so I thought. "That's all, Ahn-dre-ah. See to it right now," she added, still not glancing up.

Ah, sure, Miranda, I thought to myself as I walked away, trying to figure out the first step in the assignment that was sure to have a million pitfalls along the way. First was definitely to find out at which "place" the car was located. Most likely it was being repaired at the dealership, but it could obviously be at any one of a million auto shops in any one of the five boroughs. Or perhaps she'd lent it to a friend and it was currently occupying an expensive spot in a full-service garage somewhere on Park Avenue? Of course, there was always the chance that she was referring to a new car--brand unknown--that she'd just recently purchased that hadn't yet been brought home from the (unknown) dealership. I had a lot of work to do.

I started by calling Miranda's nanny, but her cell phone went straight to voice mail. The housekeeper was next on the list and, for once, a big help. She was able to tell me that the car wasn't brand-new and it was in fact a "convertible sports car in British racing green," and that it was usually parked in a garage on Miranda's block, but she had no idea what the make was or where it might currently be residing. Next on the list was Miranda's husband's assistant, who informed me that, as far as she knew, the couple owned a top-of-the-line black Lincoln Navigator and some sort of small green Porsche. Yes! I had my first lead. One quick phone call to the Porsche dealership on Eleventh Avenue revealed that yes, they had just finished touching up the paint and installing a new disc-changer in a green Carrera 4 Cabriolet for a Ms. Miranda Priestly. Jackpot!

I ordered a Town Car to take me to the dealership, where I turned over a note I'd forged with Miranda's signature that instructed them to release the car to me. No one seemed to care whatsoever that I was in no way related to this woman, that some stranger had cruised into the place and requested someone else's Porsche. They tossed me the keys and only laughed when I'd asked them to back it out of the garage because I wasn't sure I could handle a stick shift in reverse. It'd taken me a half hour to get ten blocks, and I still hadn't figured out where or how to turn around so I'd actually be heading uptown, toward the parking place on Miranda's block that her housekeeper had described. The chances of my making it to 76th and Fifth without seriously injuring myself, the car, a biker, a pedestrian, or another vehicle were nonexistent, and this new call did nothing to calm my nerves.

Once again, I made the round of calls, but this time Miranda's nanny picked up on the second ring.

"Cara, hey, it's me."

"Hey, what's up? Are you on the street? It sounds so loud."

"Yeah, you could say that. I had to pick up Miranda's Porsche from the dealership. Only, I can't really drive stick. But now she called and wants me to pick up someone named Madelaine and drop her off at the apartment. Who the hell is Madelaine and where might she be?"

Cara laughed for what felt like ten minutes before she said, "Madelaine's their French bulldog puppy and she's at the vet. Just got spayed. I was supposed to pick her up, but Miranda just called and told me to pick the twins up early from school so they can all head out to the Hamptons."

"You're joking. I have to pick up a fucking dog with this Porsche? Without crashing? It's never going to happen."

"She's at the East Side Animal Hospital, on Fifty-second between First and Second. Sorry, Andy, I have to get the girls now, but call if there's anything I can do, OK?"

Maneuvering the green beast to head uptown sapped my last reserves of concentration, and by the time I reached Second Avenue, the stress sent my body into meltdown. It couldn't possibly get worse than this, I thought as yet another cab came within a quarter-inch of the back bumper. A nick anywhere on the car would guarantee I lose my job--that much was obvious--but it just might cost me my life as well. Since there was obviously not a parking spot, legal or otherwise, in the middle of the day, I called the vet's office from outside and asked them to bring Madelaine to me. A kind...

Revue de presse

"[A] funny, biting, low-cal treat."
-Rush & Molloy, The New York Daily News

"A deliciously witty and gossipy first novel."
-Publishers Weekly

"[An] on-the-money kiss-and-tell debut.
-Kirkus


From the Hardcover edition.

Détails sur le produit

  • Poche: 448 pages
  • Editeur : Anchor; Édition : Reprint (30 mai 2006)
  • Langue : Anglais
  • ISBN-10: 0307275558
  • ISBN-13: 978-0307275554
  • Dimensions du produit: 17,4 x 10,8 x 2,5 cm
  • Moyenne des commentaires client : 3.7 étoiles sur 5  Voir tous les commentaires (14 commentaires client)
  • Classement des meilleures ventes d'Amazon: 43.452 en Livres anglais et étrangers (Voir les 100 premiers en Livres anglais et étrangers)
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En savoir plus sur l'auteur

Née en 1977 en Pennsylvanie, diplômée de l'université de Cornell, Lauren Weisberger vit à New York depuis 1999. Ancienne assistante personnelle d'Anna Wintour, éditrice de Vogue, elle a relaté son expérience dans Le Diable s'habille en Prada, premier roman de ce jeune auteur prometteur. Ce titre s'est rapidement hissé dans les listes des meilleures ventes en France comme à l'étranger, avant d'être adapté au cinéma en 2006, avec Meryl Streep et Anne Hathaway dans les rôles principaux. Forte de son succès, Lauren Weisberger a persévéré, avec Stiletto Blues à Hollywood, elle signe son quatrième roman.

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3.7 étoiles sur 5
3.7 étoiles sur 5
Commentaires client les plus utiles
3 internautes sur 3 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
1.0 étoiles sur 5 Bof: beaucoup de bruit pour rien... 26 décembre 2006
Par Gemina
Format:Broché
Je ne suis pas parvenue au bout de ce livre, je me suis vite ennuyée. L'auteur a surfé sur la vague de Bridget Jones et autre "chick-lit'", dans l'esprit aussi de Sex and the City, etc. Mais a force, ça se voit trop et ça lasse...J'ai préféré le film, mais pour le livre, sous des aspects modernes, tout est très convenu, attendu...
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1 internautes sur 1 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 LES HABITS DU DIABLE 18 novembre 2012
Par BAGRATION COMMENTATEUR DU HALL D'HONNEUR
Format:Broché
Vanité et avarice sont les vices que le Diable aime instiller à tour de bras et de vis...Tournez vices et manèges de l'apparence...Un jour, la faucheuse triomphera et l'Heure de la Chute approchant, aucun secours ne vous sauvera de votre néant...vous étiez outre gonflée de pièces...vous serez pièces démembrées..en outre, vous serez renvoyé au règne immémorial de la poussière...

Habillez-vous en Prada, protégez vos sacs d'or...Vous finirez dans ses bras et de vos mains coulera l'or dans la bouche de la Mort
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4 internautes sur 5 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 A one in a million author for sure. 12 octobre 2006
Format:Poche
Prada came as "better together" with Giorgio Kostantinos'-The Quest(highly recommend) And I couldn't be happier with ,y descition for purchasing it. I think most people missed the bigger picture of this book, which, unlike the movie, goes well beyond the specific topic of the fashion industry. Anyone who has ever had a nightmare supervisor, or has ever stayed with something for way too long without knowing why, will identify. One reviewer felt there was a lack of transition from disaster to disaster; maybe so, but that actually adds to the reality of a situation in which there is no logic: the boss from he1l is always unpredictable and the reasons one stays in hel1 never make sense. I liked Andrea Sachs and empathized with the complete nonsense with which she chose to deal, over and over with no apparent way out. Besides that, the book was a good laugh. One a million authors for sure wish they had written! And because of the breadth of the book, I'm sorry, I know I am in the minority on this, but: its MUCH better than the movie! Also, if you're looking for a good read, check out Giorgio Kostantinos'--The Quest--you won't be disappointed
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3.0 étoiles sur 5 Livre de plage 17 décembre 2013
Format:Poche|Achat authentifié par Amazon
Pour moi c'est un bon livre de plage. On en a tellement parlé que j'ai été un peu déçue. Tout est un peu "attendu". Le prendre en anglais me déculpabilise de lire des niaiseries!!
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5.0 étoiles sur 5 Funny 29 mai 2013
Par Mo5
Format:Format Kindle|Achat authentifié par Amazon
Quite different story compared to the movie but still funny. I recommend it for girly girls. Or guys too.
.
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1.0 étoiles sur 5 Stupid book 18 mars 2013
Format:Format Kindle
Saw the film,, thought maybe the book was interesting. It isn't.
A la poubelle!
One star is one to many.
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5.0 étoiles sur 5 Une merveille 25 janvier 2011
Format:Poche
Dès que j'ai commencé à le lire, je ne pouvais plus le lâcher. C'est drôle, amusant et divertissant. On entre directement dans le monde caché de la mode. De plus, c'est bien écrit, et quel plaisir de le lire en version originale! Je le recommande.
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