Emotionally Weird 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.
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 Emotionally Weird 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.

Emotionally Weird [Anglais] [Broché]

Kate Atkinson
3.0 étoiles sur 5  Voir tous les commentaires (3 commentaires client)
Prix : EUR 8,57 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.

Offres spéciales et liens associés


Produits fréquemment achetés ensemble

Emotionally Weird + Human Croquet + Behind The Scenes At The Museum
Acheter les articles sélectionnés ensemble


Descriptions du produit

Extrait

1

Inspector Jack Gannet drove into Saltsea-on-Sea along the coast road. Today's sun (not that he believed it to be a new one every day) was already climbing merrily in the sky. It was a beautiful morning. Shame it was about to be spoilt by the Lucky Lady and her cargo - one very unlucky lady. One very dead lady. Jack Gannet sighed, this job didn't get any easier. Jack Gannet had been in the force longer than he cared to remember. He was a straightforward, old-fashioned kind of detective. He had no strange tics or eccentricities - he didn't do crosswords, he wasn't Belgian, he certainly wasn't a woman. He was a man suited to his profession. What he wasn't, was happy. He didn't want to be dealing with a dead body on a glorious morning like this. Especially not on an empty stomach.

Madame Astarti didn't know about the dead body yet. She was having some trouble opening her eyes. They were glued shut by sleep and mascara and one too many gins in The Crab and Bucket last night with Sandra and Brian. Madame Astarti sighed and groped blindly around on her bedside table for her lighter and a packet of Player's No.6 and inhaled deeply on a cigarette. She loved the smell of nicotine in the morning.

Seagulls were clog-dancing on the roof above her head, heralding a brand new day in Saltsea-on-Sea. Through a gap in the curtains she could see that the sun was the colour of egg-yolks. Sunrise, she thought to herself, a little daily miracle. It would be funny, wouldn't it, if it didn't happen one morning? Well, probably not very funny at all really because everything on earth would die. The really big sleep.

My mother is a virgin. (trust me.) my mother, nora - a fiery Caledonian beacon - says she is untouched by the hand of man and is as pure as Joan of Arc or the snow on the Grampians. If you were asked to pick out the maiden in a police line-up of women (an unlikely scenario, I know) you would never, ever, choose Nora.

Am I then a child of miracle and magic? Were there signs and portents in the sky on the night I was born? Is Nora the Mother of God? Surely not.

On my birth certificate it states that I was born in Oban, which seems an unlikely place for the second coming. My beginning was always swaddled in such mist and mystery by Nora that I grew up thinking I must be a clandestine princess of the blood royal (true and blue), awaiting the day when I could come safely into my inheritance. Now it turns out that things are more complicated than that.

I am twenty-one years old and I am (as far as I know, for we can be sure of nothing it seems), Euphemia Stuart-Murray. Effie, for Nora's sister, who drowned in a river on the day that I was born. Nora herself was just seventeen when I entered the material world. A child looking after a child, she says.

These Stuart-Murrays are strangers to me, of course. As a child I had no kindly grandfather or playful uncles. Nora has never visited a brother nor spoken wistfully of a mother. Even their name is new to me, for all of my life Nora and I have gone by the more prosaic 'Andrews'. And if you cannot trust your name to be true then what can you trust? For all she has acknowledged her family - or vice versa - my mother may as well have washed ashore on a scallop shell, or sprung fully formed from some wrathful god's head, her veins running with ichor.

The closest Nora ever came to talking about any family until now was to claim that we were descended from the same line as Mary Stuart herself and the dead Scottish queen's flaws had followed us down the generations, particularly, Nora said, her bad judgement where men were concerned. But then, I doubt that this is a trait exclusive to Mary Queen of Scots, or even the Stuart-Murrays.

I have come home - if you can call it that, for I have never lived here. My life is all conundrums. I am as far west as I can be - between here and America there is only ocean. I am on an island in that ocean - a speck of peat and heather pricked with thistles, not visible from the moon. My mother's island. Nora says it is not her island, that the idea of land ownership is absurd, not to mention politically incorrect. But, whether she likes it or not, she is empress of all she surveys. Although that is mostly water.

We are not alone. The place is overrun with hardy Scottish wildlife, the thick-coated mammals and vicious birds that have reclaimed the island now that the people have all left it for the comfort of the mainland. Nora, ever a widdershins kind of woman, has made the journey in reverse and left the comfort of the mainland to settle on this abandoned isle. When we say the mainland we do not always mean the mainland, we often mean the next biggest island to this one. Thus is our world shrunk.

Nora, a perpetual déracineé, the Wandering Scot, a diaspora of one (two if you count me), spent the years of my childhood in exile from her native land, flitting from one English seaside town to the next as if she was in the grip of some strange cartographical compulsion to trace the coastline step by step. Anyone observing us would have thought we were on some kind of permanent holiday.

I used to wonder if, long ago, Nora began her journey in Land's End and was trying to get to John o'Groats, although for what reason I couldn't imagine - unless it was because she was Scottish, but then many Scots live their whole lives without ever finding it necessary to go to John o'Groats.
Now she says she will die here, but she is only thirty-eight years old, surely she is not ready to die yet? Nora says that it doesn't matter when you die, that this life is nothing but an illusion. Maybe that's true, but it doesn't stop the cold rain from soaking us to the skin or the gales blowing in our hair. (We are truly weathered here.) Anyway, I don't believe that Nora will ever die, I think she will merely change state. It has begun already, she is being transformed into an elemental creature, with tidal blood and limestone bones. She is unevolving, retiring into the ancient, fishy regions of her brain. Perhaps soon she will crawl back into the watery realm of Poseidon and reclaim her Saurian ancestry. Or metamorphose into something monumental - an ice-capped ben, littered with granite boulders, or a tumbling, peat-brown burn, bubbling to the sea with its cargo of elvers and fry and frothy green weed.

I am bound to the unknown and neglected Stuart-Murrays by spiralling tapeworms of genetic material. We are, dead and alive (but mostly dead, it seems), the glowing molecular dust of stars, a galactic debris of bacteria and germs. Our veins are the colour of delphiniums and lupins, our arterial blood a febrile brew of crushed geranium petals and hot-house roses, thinned with plasma like catarrh and-

~ Wheesht, says Nora, talk sense, our bloodline is that of ancient warriors, of berserkers and invaders. Our blood tastes of rusted weapons and hammered-out coins. We are not the sort, she says, who stoically slit their thin veins like reeds, and slip away quietly down their own bloodstream, we don our breastplates and hack and hew and rive at our enemies.

The Stuart-Murrays, it seems, are even-handed - they have fought against the English and also stood shoulder to shoulder with them in support of Empire and exploitation. We are numbered amongst those wha' bled wi' Wallace and have been present at nearly every rammy, stushie and stramash in Scotland's tortured history.

And where are they now, these feckless Stuart-Murrays? The line, Nora says, will end in daughters. Or, to be more precise - me. I am, it seems, the last daughter of the house of Stuart-Murray.
I am a young woman composed of blood and flesh, sugar and spice, all things nice and the recycled molecules of the dead. I have thin bones that snap and shatter too easily for my liking. I have Nora's narrow insteps and broad toes, her love of sentimental music, her hatred of Brussels sprouts. I have my mother's temperamental hair - hair that usually exists only in the imagination of artists and can be disturbing to see on the head of a real woman. On Nora it is the colour of nuclear sunsets and of overspiced gingerbread, but on me, unfortunately, the same corkscrewing curls are more clownish and inclined to be carroty.

I also have my mother's native tongue, for we led such an isolated life when I was a child that I speak with her accent, even though I never set foot in her country until I was eighteen years old.
Some people spend their whole lives looking for themselves, yet our self is the one thing we surely cannot lose (how like a cheap philosopher I am become, staying in this benighted place). From the moment we are conceived it is the pattern in our blood and our bones are printed through with it like sticks of seaside rock. Nora, on the other hand, says that she's surprised anyone knows who they are, considering that every cell and molecule in our bodies has been replaced many times over since we were born.

Some people say that we are nothing more than a bundle of perceptions, others claim that we are composed entirely out of our memories. My earliest memory is of drowning - like my mother, I am clearly drawn to the dark side. Perhaps I am a living, breathing example of reincarnation - perhaps the drowning Effie's spirit leapt out of her body and into my newborn one?

~ Let's hope not, Nora says.

Memory is a capricious thing, of course, belonging not in the world of reason and logic, but in the realm of dreams and photographs - places where truth and reality are tantalizingly out of reach. For all I know I have imagined this aquatic memory, as insubstantial as water itself - or remembered a nightmare and thought it real. But then, what is a nightmare if it isn't real?

Before she had a purpose (turning into landscape) Nora herself was always a distracted and absent-minded person. Mnemosyne's forgotten daughter. How else can you explain the obliteration of the Stuart-Murrays, not to mention the terrible circumstances of my birth?

We are walking along the puffin-populated cliffs that ...

Revue de presse

"The lustre, energy and panache of her writing are as striking as ever...Funny, bold and memorable" (Helen Dunmore The Times)

"Beautifully written...brimming with quirky characters and original storytelling. Kate Atkinson has struck gold with this unique offering" (Time Out)

"Sends jolts of pleasure off the page...Atkinson's funniest foray yet...it is a work of Dickensian or even Shakespearean plenty" (The Scotsman)

"Her novels are remarkable both in and of themselves, and as evidence of an important emerging body of work from a brilliant and profoundly original writer" (Daily Telegraph)

"With just two novels, Atkinson has added new colour to the British literary landscape" (Guardian)

Détails sur le produit

  • Broché: 496 pages
  • Editeur : Black Swan; Édition : New Ed (1 mars 2001)
  • Collection : Roman
  • Langue : Anglais
  • ISBN-10: 055299734X
  • ISBN-13: 978-0552997348
  • Dimensions du produit: 2,9 x 12,6 x 19,8 cm
  • Moyenne des commentaires client : 3.0 étoiles sur 5  Voir tous les commentaires (3 commentaires client)
  • Classement des meilleures ventes d'Amazon: 15.749 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

Découvrez des livres, informez-vous sur les écrivains, lisez des blogs d'auteurs et bien plus encore.

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 

3.0 étoiles sur 5
3.0 étoiles sur 5
Commentaires client les plus utiles
Format:Broché|Achat vérifié
On retrouve l'humour de Kate Atkinson que j'adore. Des situations étranges, des personnages singuliers, des histoires qui se développent séparément pour se rejoindre au final, comme elle sait le faire souvent (Case histories). On rit mais ses personnages sont convaincants. J'ai passé un bon moment en lisant ce livre.
Avez-vous trouvé ce commentaire utile ?
1 internautes sur 2 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
3.0 étoiles sur 5 okay 13 mars 2013
Par annetski
Format:Broché|Achat vérifié
I think this is probably a book that I will enjoy more the second time I read it. Unusual for a Kate Atkinson book.
Avez-vous trouvé ce commentaire utile ?
0 internautes sur 1 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
2.0 étoiles sur 5 Too "Weird", No "Emotion" 24 juin 2013
Format:Broché|Achat vérifié
I enjoyed "Human Croquet", loved "Behind the Scenes at the Museum", felt real emotion reading the Jackson Brodie series but I was sincerely disappointed with this book. The problem is we just don't know what the author is driving at -- is the theme of the search for family roots, for one's identity meant to be the most important one? She did that SO MUCH better in BTSATM and HQ. Is it meant to be a satire of student life in the seventies , the clothes, the "boring" classes conducted by teachers obsessed with "post-modern" theories ? I have the notion that, unfortunately, the author was taking the reader for a ride, she was having her own fun writing the "novel within a novel " or "novels within a novel" (for several of the characters are attempting to write their own masterpieces.) Is this meant to be an "exercice de style " on how to write, or not to write ?
I could not get interested in the characters and even had trouble keeping them all straight. As for the narrative itself I often had the feeling that she was submitting us to something surrealistic and absurd, like a bad dream, a bad trip or a bad hangover -- all in a typically Scottish haze.
To conclude all I can say is that I hope Ms Atkinson will continue to provide her readers with novels of the same quality as the ones I mentioned above and forget about trying to be "Oh, so clever !!"
Avez-vous trouvé ce commentaire utile ?
Commentaires client les plus utiles sur Amazon.com (beta)
Amazon.com: 3.4 étoiles sur 5  77 commentaires
25 internautes sur 25 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Don't let the first 20 or so pages fool you 30 juillet 2003
Par jmz - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Broché
I will admit, it was really hard to continue reading Emotionally Weird by Kate Atkinson. You're immediately thrown into several stories -- stories that are told within stories and stories that aren't. It's hard to figure out what's going on when, who is who, why you're even reading the book. But believe me, you must continue reading...it's worth it in every way.
I think the parts that I love the most are when Effie's "mother" Nora interrupts her story telling of her experience at the University. Nora's quips are perfect ("does this story have a plot?," "There are too many characters and I can't keep them straight," and "No! Don't kill of Olivia!") for how I felt as a reader. Effie's story (which is a huge chunk of the book) is really funny. Atkinson holds a dry wit that just continues to roll with each page.
And the end...yes, there is an ending, and yes, everything pulls together more coherently than you could ever imagine. I won't say anything more about the ending. If your fear is that you won't be able to get through Emotionally Weird, then just take heed that it will all make sense in the end and you should just keep plugging along.
20 internautes sur 21 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Hilarious, offbeat, thought-provoking 26 décembre 2002
Par Gwen A Orel - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Broché
To say this is a book in which on a deserted Scottish island Effie and her mother tell stories about their lives is to give a completely wrong impression of this book...
it's more like Italo Calvino in the way it plays with a bunch of different narratives. Most of the book is 20-year old Effie's story.. it's 1972, and she's an unmotivated student at the University of Dundee. Her chapters, "Chez Bob" (Bob is her Star Trek-obsessed boyfriend she's too lethargic to leave) are hilarious... the descriptions of her friends and the nonsensical situations and conversations will be familiar to anyone who's ever been to college, anywhere. The excerpts from tutorials (we'd call them seminars" she half-heartedly participates on are exact and funny. They also provide an excuse to show excerpts from the mystery novel she's writing, the fantasy a friend is writing and a mysterious novel that seems to have supernatural powers taht one of the professors is working on. Every time we get to an excerpt, the font changes, which is a clear and delightful device
For all that the book plays with reality, it still remains clear and not mystified and annoying. Every now and then we return to the remote Scottish island (the font is more stark there, too) and we get little glimpses of Nora's story as Effie tries to get the story of her birth... Nora is a Virgin and as the book goes on we realize Nora is not her mother... also in Effie's story she is being followed by a mysterious woman...
all of these threads are tied together brilliantly by the end in a conclusion that is logical and satisfying.
We also get a brief epilogue set in 1999, largely excerpts from the now-published writings of Effie and her friends, which is short and funny.
I laughed out loud at the description of one of the college parties. Atkinson has a brilliant ear for dialogue and her character descriptions are sharp and clear. I feel as if I've *been* to Dundee in 1972! (The student demonstrations and their escalations, and a feminist meeting attended by a doddering, gallant male professor, are particularly wonderful).
Don't be put off by some of the lukewarm reviews here-- this is one of the more original books I've read in a while!
17 internautes sur 18 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Emotionally manipulative 31 mai 2000
Par Daniel - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Relié
When this book came out in the UK in May I was so excited, I even bought it in hardback. Kate Atkinson is that rare writer - one who knows as much about writing as how to write, and she shows this to advantage in an extremely clever book. She veers on the self-indulgent with her myriad storylines interweaving in and out of this book, but her charm and great good humour shine throughout; and I greatly regretted that we did not see more of her lead character's gloriously campy and wickedly parody-like detective novel. The word games and language play which characterise Atkinson are not so subtle as they were in "Human Croquet" (which still remains her best novel) but they still provide a source of much enjoyment and delight; amusing us as much as they entertain the brain and make the reader think. She is one of our greatest modern writers, and even if Emotionally Weird is not as good as her last two books (Human Croquet, and Behind The Scenes at the Museum, which latter is much praised by people and described as "The perfect novel") , and is, undeniably, flawed in some ways - The symbolism and development of Atkinson's storyline, with the private eye and the yellow dog, is not as clear cut as one would wish for. However - and this is the truly magical thing - with an Atkinson novel, you can re-read it and everything suddenly becomes different. Words dropped here and there become surprisingly important, dialogue leaps into focus, things you ignored suddenly force themselves into your consciousness a second time around. The book grips the brain as much as it thrills and mystifies, entertains and satisfies. Not only is it extremely funny, extremely baffling, and extremely intelligent, but it is extreme in its own right. The plot lays itself open to ridicule, but so strong is Atkinson's power and skill that we never think "Goodness, what a daft plot!". The portraits of the characters are marvellously precise, true to life and bitingly witty. Thankyou, Kate, for understanding that characters are very important in a novel. A mediocre plot can be pulled off with strong characters, a faintly weird plot is a success. Kate, you may not have quite parallelled the superlative wealth of your second book, but you're still a damn good authoress. And the exciting thing is - there is obviously room for improvement! This is not a bad thing when someone writes as well as she does. What I am saying to you is that Kate Atkinson will go on to write even better - though it hardly seems possible - than she does now. Her style will develop, and when she is at her most matured, she will be one of the literary greats of her day. I heartily recommend the purchase of this book, but would suggest strongly that you buy her other books as well, and start with Human Croquet - which is more accessible and immediately understandable. Having read that, you can then embark upon this book - and you will be all the better for it. I promise you.
6 internautes sur 6 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
4.0 étoiles sur 5 Extremely Offbeat, Funny and, yes, Weird 20 septembre 2002
Par Lleu Christopher - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Cassette
I had never read anything by Kate Atkinson before this and was quite pleasantly surprised. What I hastily concluded from the jacket description was that this was going to be a play-like dialogue between a mother and daughter. This is, instead, a multilayered, multigenre piece of experimental fiction that is fun to read, thought-provoking and original. As much as anything else, Emotionally Weird is about writing and the creative process. Effie, the young woman who is the narrator, tells stories which may or may not be true to Nora, an older woman who may or may not be her mother. The two live on a secluded island off Scotland. The stories Effie tells are mainly whimsical character studies of bohemian college life in the 1970s. By contrast, the scenes that take place on the island beteen Effie and Nora are told in a somberly poetic, almost gothic (and very Celtic) style. To further complicate things, Effie is also herself writing a detective novel about yet another set of characters. If this sounds confusing, at times it is. Yet, you don't have to completely understand what's going on to enjoy this novel. After all, there is very little plot to worry about following. There are, appropriately enough, several references to Alice in Wonderland, though, compared to Emotionally Weird, Lewis Carroll's tale is almost conventional and straightforward. James Joyce is also mentioned, but despite her radical style, Atkinson is much, much easier to read. There is a very deliberate pointlessness to the book. When Effie is at college, for example, there are scenes that are little more than parades of absurd characters. Professors are portrayed as gibberish-speaking buffoons; some of my favorite scenes took place in the classroom, where the professors uttter meaningless jargon to apathetic students. Nora often interrupts the tales to deliver her quite valid criticisms, such as the fact that Effie creates too many characters. Some of the scenes could be considered more like writing exercises than actual scenes that propel a story. Some readers will find this novel tedious; it does take a suspension of your usual expectations regarding fiction. I enjoyed the contrasting styles and the existentialism of the characters that is alternately tragic and comical. Finally, I found it's labyrinthian stories within stories to be a fascinating exploration of creativity and of identity.
9 internautes sur 10 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Brilliant Wordplay 25 juin 2000
Par dirtwitch - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Relié
Atkinson is the sort of writer I read in a blissful state. Her characters are many layered, her wordplay is fantastical, her plotline engrossing. I appreciate that her characters are, while not always exactly sane, intelligent. That's not something I can say about many novelists.
She is a new find for me, and I'm very happy to have found a writer I enjoy as much as Barbara Trapido. From me, this is a very high compliment.
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?