Enduring Love et plus d'un million d'autres livres sont disponibles pour le Kindle d'Amazon. En savoir plus

Acheter neuf

ou
Identifiez-vous pour activer la commande 1-Click.
ou
en essayant gratuitement Amazon Premium pendant 30 jours. Votre inscription aura lieu lors du passage de la commande. En savoir plus.
Acheter d'occasion
D'occasion - Bon Voir les détails
Prix : EUR 0,01

ou
 
   
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 Enduring Love 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.

Enduring Love [Anglais] [Broché]

Ian McEwan
3.0 étoiles sur 5  Voir tous les commentaires (2 commentaires client)
Prix : EUR 8,55 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
Il ne reste plus que 4 exemplaire(s) en stock (d'autres exemplaires sont en cours d'acheminement).
Expédié et vendu par Amazon. Emballage cadeau disponible.
Voulez-vous le faire livrer le mardi 26 août ? Choisissez la livraison en 1 jour ouvré sur votre bon de commande. En savoir plus.

Offres spéciales et liens associés


Produits fréquemment achetés ensemble

Enduring Love + Saturday
Acheter les articles sélectionnés ensemble
  • Saturday EUR 9,74

Les clients ayant acheté cet article ont également acheté


Descriptions du produit

Extrait

One

The beginning is simple to mark. We were in sunlight under a turkey oak, partly protected from a strong, gusty wind. I was kneeling on the grass with a corkscrew in my hand, and Clarissa was passing me the bottle-a 1987 Daumas Gassac. This was the moment, this was the pinprick on the time map: I was stretching out my hand, and as the cool neck and the black foil touched my palm, we heard a man's shout. We turned to look across the field and saw the danger. Next thing, I was running toward it. The transformation was absolute: I don't recall dropping the corkscrew, or getting to my feet, or making a decision, or hearing the caution Clarissa called after me. What idiocy, to be racing into this story and its labyrinths, sprinting away from our happiness among the fresh spring grasses by the oak. There was the shout again, and a child's cry, enfeebled by the wind that roared in the tall trees along the hedgerows. I ran faster. And there, suddenly, from different points around the field, four other men were converging on the scene, running like me.

I see us from two hundred feet up, through the eyes of the buzzard we had watched earlier, soaring, circling, and dipping in the tumult of currents: five men running silently toward the center of a hundred-acre field. I approached from the southeast, with the wind at my back. About two hundred yards to my left two men ran side by side. They were farm laborers who had been repairing the fence along the field's southern edge where it skirts the road. The same distance beyond them was the motorist, John Logan, whose car was banked on the grass verge with its door, or doors, wide open. Knowing what I know now, it's odd to evoke the figure of Jed Parry directly ahead of me, emerging from a line of beeches on the far side of the field a quarter of a mile away, running into the wind. To the buzzard, Parry and I were tiny forms, our white shirts brilliant against the green, rushing toward each other like lovers, innocent of the grief this entanglement would bring. The encounter that would unhinge us was minutes away, its enormity disguised from us not only by the barrier of time but by the colossus in the center of the field, which drew us in with the power of a terrible ratio that set fabulous magnitude against the puny human distress at its base.

What was Clarissa doing? She said she walked quickly toward the center of the field. I don't know how she resisted the urge to run. By the time it happened, the event I am about to describe-the fall-she had almost caught us up and was well placed as an observer, unencumbered by participation, by the ropes and the shouting, and by our fatal lack of cooperation. What I describe is shaped by what Clarissa saw too, by what we told each other in the time of obsessive reexamination that followed: the aftermath, an appropriate term for what happened in a field waiting for its early summer mowing. The aftermath, the second crop, the growth promoted by that first cut in May.

I'm holding back, delaying the information. I'm lingering in the prior moment because it was a time when other outcomes were still possible; the convergence of six figures in a flat green space has a comforting geometry from the buzzard's perspective, the knowable, limited plane of the snooker table. The initial conditions, the force and the direction of the force, define all the consequent pathways, all the angles of collision and return, and the glow of the overhead light bathes the field, the baize and all its moving bodies, in reassuring clarity. I think that while we were still converging, before we made contact, we were in a state of mathematical grace. I linger on our dispositions, the relative distances and the compass point-because as far as these occurrences were concerned, this was the last time I understood anything clearly at all.

What were we running toward? I don't think any of us would ever know fully. But superficially the answer was a balloon. Not the nominal space that encloses a cartoon character's speech or thought, or, by analogy, the kind that's driven by mere hot air. It was an enormous balloon filled with helium, that elemental gas forged from hydrogen in the nuclear furnace of the stars, first step along the way in the generation of multiplicity and variety of matter in the universe, including our selves and all our thoughts.

We were running toward a catastrophe, which itself was a kind of furnace in whose heat identities and fates would buckle into new shapes. At the base of the balloon was a basket in which there was a boy, and by the basket, clinging to a rope, was a man in need of help.


Even without the balloon the day would have been marked for memory, though in the most pleasurable of ways, for this was a reunion after a separation of six weeks, the longest Clarissa and I had spent apart in our seven years. On the way out to Heathrow I had made a detour into Covent Garden and found a semilegal place to park, near Carluccio's. I went in and put together a picnic whose centerpiece was a great ball of mozzarella, which the assistant fished out of an earthenware vat with a wooden claw. I also bought black olives, mixed salad, and focaccia. Then I hurried up Long Acre to Bertram Rota's to take delivery of Clarissa's birthday present. Apart from the flat and our car, it was the most expensive single item I had ever bought. The rarity of this little book seemed to give off a heat I could feel through the thick brown wrapping paper as I walked back up the street.

Forty minutes later I was scanning the screens for arrival information. The Boston flight had only just landed and I guessed I had a half-hour wait. If one ever wanted proof of Darwin's contention that the many expressions of emotion in humans are universal, genetically inscribed, then a few minutes by the arrivals gate in Heathrow's Terminal Four should suffice. I saw the same joy, the same uncontrollable smile, in the faces of a Nigerian earth mama, a thin-lipped Scottish granny, and a pale, correct Japanese businessman as they wheeled their trolleys in and recognized a figure in the expectant crowd. Observing human variety can give pleasure, but so too can human sameness. I kept hearing the same sighing sound on a downward note, often breathed through a name as two people pressed forward to go into their embrace. Was it a major second or a minor third, or somewhere in between? Pa-pa! Yolan-ta! Ho-bi! Nz-e! There was also a rising note, crooned into the solemn, wary faces of babies by long-absent fathers or grandparents, cajoling, beseeching an immediate return of love. Han-nah? Tom-ee? Let me in!

The variety was in the private dramas: a father and a teenage son, Turkish perhaps, stood in a long silent clinch, forgiving each other, or mourning a loss, oblivious to the baggage trolleys jamming around them; identical twins, women in their fifties, greeted each other with clear distaste, just touching hands and kissing without making contact; a small American boy, hoisted onto the shoulders of a father he did not recognize, screamed to be put down, provoking a fit of temper in his tired mother.

But mostly it was smiles and hugs, and in thirty-five minutes I experienced more than fifty theatrical happy endings, each one with the appearance of being slightly less well acted than the one before, until I began to feel emotionally exhausted and suspected that even the children were being insincere. I was just wondering how convincing I myself could be now in greeting Clarissa when she tapped me on the shoulder, having missed me in the crowd and circled round. Immediately my detachment vanished, and I called out her name, in tune with all the rest.

Less than an hour later we were parked by a track that ran through beech woods in the Chiltern Hills, near Christmas Common. While Clarissa changed her shoes I loaded a backpack with our picnic. We set off down our path arm in arm, still elated by our reunion; what was familiar about her-the size and feel of her hand, the warmth and tranquillity in her voice, the Celt's pale skin and green eyes-was also novel, gleaming in an alien light, reminding me of our very first meetings and the months we spent falling in love. Or, I imagined, I was another man, my own sexual competitor, come to steal her from me. When I told her, she laughed and said I was the world's most complicated simpleton, and it was while we stopped to kiss and wondered aloud whether we should not have driven straight home to bed that we glimpsed through the fresh foliage the helium balloon drifting dreamily across the wooded valley to our west. Neither the man nor the boy was visible to us. I remember thinking, but not saying, that it was a precarious form of transport when the wind rather than the pilot set the course. Then I thought that perhaps this was the very nature of its attraction. And instantly the idea went out of my mind.

We went through College Wood toward Pishill, stopping to admire the new greenery on the beeches. Each leaf seemed to glow with an internal light. We talked about the purity of this color, the beech leaf in spring, and how looking at it cleared the mind. As we walked into the wood the wind began to get up and the branches creaked like rusted machinery. We knew this route well. This was surely the finest landscape within an hour of central London. I loved the pitch and roll of the fields and their scatterings of chalk and flint, and the paths that dipped across them to sink into the darkness of the beech stands, certain neglected, badly drained valleys where thick iridescent mosses covered the rotting tree trunks and where you occasionally glimpsed a muntjak blundering through the undergrowth.

For much of the time as we walked westward we were talking about Clarissa's research-John Keats dying in Rome in the house at the foot of the Spanish Steps where he lodged with his friend, Joseph Severn. Was it possible there were still three or four unpublished letters of Keats's in existence? Might one of them be addressed to Fanny Brawne? Clarissa had reason to think so and had spent part of a sabbatical te... --Ce texte fait référence à une édition épuisée ou non disponible de ce titre.

Revue de presse

"A page-turner, with a plot so engrossing that it seems reckless to pick the book up in the evening if you plan to get any sleep that night" (Alain de Botton Daily Mail)

"Taut with narrative excitement and suspense...a novel of rich diversity that triumphantly integrates imagination and intelligence, rationality and emotional alertness" (Sunday Times)

"He is the maestro at creating suspense: the particular, sickening, see-sawing kind that demands a kind of physical courage from the reader to continue reading" (New Statesman)

"A novel of rich diversity" (Sunday Times)

"A virtuoso display" (Observer)

Détails sur le produit

  • Broché: 256 pages
  • Editeur : Vintage; Édition : Film Tie-in Ed (28 octobre 2004)
  • Langue : Anglais
  • ISBN-10: 0099481243
  • ISBN-13: 978-0099481249
  • Dimensions du produit: 1,8 x 12,5 x 19 cm
  • Moyenne des commentaires client : 3.0 étoiles sur 5  Voir tous les commentaires (2 commentaires client)
  • Classement des meilleures ventes d'Amazon: 6.128 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 

5 étoiles
0
4 étoiles
0
2 étoiles
0
1 étoiles
0
3.0 étoiles sur 5
3.0 étoiles sur 5
Commentaires client les plus utiles
3.0 étoiles sur 5 bien 5 novembre 2013
Par Cécilia
Format:Broché|Achat vérifié
Un histoire assez tordue, un peu sinueuse pour une rélévation assez inattendue !
Le style est assez moderne et très compréhensible.
Avez-vous trouvé ce commentaire utile ?
3.0 étoiles sur 5 I love you and God loves you..... 31 août 2011
Par D. Legare TOP 1000 COMMENTATEURS VOIX VINE
Format:Broché
Joe and Clarissa are in love and their couple seems quietly uneventful, you could call that peaceful love. On the day Joe wants to celebrate Clarissa's birthday with a nice picnic in the countryside, a terrible accident occurs, followed by the death of a man. On that day, Joe briefly comes across Jed Parry, and from then on, his life and Clarissa's will be chaos. Jed Parry is a rare case of the de Clérambault syndrome, a delusional state that makes him fixate on Joe, and harass him, only him.

This is not a bad book because Ian McEwan is a talented writer, however it should have been a great book because the subject was captivating. I read it with both pleasure and a great interest, but I wasn't entirely convinced by the characters, especially Clarissa, who seems too detached from the whole thing, completely averse to facing problems and dealing with them. Her attitude is just highly unlikely, how can she deliberately ignore that her love and companion is being stalked. On the other hand, some unnecessary digressions about Joe's work weaken the plot and tend to lessen the reader's rising unease. In conclusion, Enduring Love is quite a good book but it is certainly not as good as Atonement.
Avez-vous trouvé ce commentaire utile ?
Commentaires client les plus utiles sur Amazon.com (beta)
Amazon.com: 3.9 étoiles sur 5  216 commentaires
53 internautes sur 56 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 An engrossing, beautifully written book 15 janvier 2000
Par Marion D. - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Broché
Many have praised the opening of this novel, and rightfully so, but that is only the first step in Ian McEwan's masterful creation. Told from the perspective of Joe Rose, a frustrated scientist turned journalist, the story captures our attention and never lets go. We share Joe's despair as the balloon rocks in the wind in the opening scene; we shiver as he finds himself being stalked by a delusional, obsessive intruder who thinks Joe is the love of his life. But Joe doesn't seem to trust himself entirely, and McEwan gives us plenty of reasons to distrust him even more, creating a tension in the narrative that makes us read on with a growing sense of impending calamity. In-between, McEwan explores the dichotomy of science and religion, logic and intuition, sanity and delusion. The writing is beautiful, as sharp and witty as we've come to expect of McEwan, but far more intricate and thoughtful. All that and a page-turner? It's a near-perfect read.
29 internautes sur 29 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
4.0 étoiles sur 5 An Enduring Impression 22 août 2000
Par Bryan Bickford - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Broché
What strikes me about this book is the lasting impression it's left on me. I read it last summer and still find myself thinking about it and talking about it a year later. I recently finished another book and my wife asked me to compare it to any two others as a point of reference. Better than one book we'd both read, I said, but not as good as Enduring Love. For contemporary fiction, this one sticks with you.
McEwan does a fine job in painting the lead character Joe Rose, as well as the secondary players. His use of language is clear and simple, yet never elementary. The opening chapter is as powerfully imagined as any other I've read. The reader is literally hanging by a rope at the suspense of the scene. And it sets the tone for the psychological terror to come.
More than a summer read, Enduring Love explores corners of our psyches and personalities that we don't often come face to face with. Suspense, terror, humor, and the very real idea of love and romance are alive in this book, which I reccommend as enjoyable to readers of any of these genres.
44 internautes sur 48 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
4.0 étoiles sur 5 Hitchcock would love this book 24 avril 2000
Par Ian Muldoon - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Broché
A very well crafted tale of horror, suspense, and an understanding of the psychological minutia of relationships which I read in one sitting. If you, dear reader, are interested in psychiatry, the place of scientists and science in the modern world, scientific fashion, obsessive behaviour, religious faith, love, jealousy, murder, moral choices, guilt, and fear then this is the book for you. It's also funny eg, '" I'll tell you in four words and nothing more. Someone wants to kill me." In the silence everyone, including me, totted up the words.'(p216) But if there is a common theme binding all these elements together, it's that no matter how well educated or intelligent you are there is no escaping the strait-jacket of your feelings, and its these feelings, of cowardice, of guilt, of fear, of the protaganist, Joe Rose, which propel the story forward in true Hitchcockian manner. The effects of love going sour, the hilarity of buying a gun from ex-hippies, the strangeness of an ordinary day turning weird are some of the many highlights of this book.
19 internautes sur 20 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 No Good Deed Goes Unpunished 29 août 2005
Par mrliteral - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Broché|Achat vérifié
The Ian McEwan novel Enduring Love opens with a picnic. Joe Rose and his girlfriend/common-law wife Clarissa are enjoying each other's company after a week's separation when they hear a call for help. Joe, along with several other men, wind up trying to control an errant hot-air balloon, an effort that will not only fail but will kill one of them in the process. In the shock following the death, Joe sympathetically glances at one of the other men, beginning a strange nightmare that will plague both his and Clarissa's life.

It turns out that this other man, Jed, is deeply disturbed, and from that one exchanged look, he falls in love with Joe. Beyond that, he is certain that Joe loves him, and that Joe's every gesture is some sort of secret communication of affection. This leads to a "Fatal Attraction"-like obsession which is a little less violent but maybe even more disturbing.

What separates this from just being another Fatal Attraction rip-off is Joe, who has problems of his own. Utterly rational - to the point of irrationality - Joe's attempts to clinically deal with his problems actually exacerbate them. His absolute certainty in the correctness of his actions lead to paranoia and alienation; instead of getting assistance with Jed, he winds up looking crazy himself...and due to the first-person narrative, the reader may start assuming Joe is insane as well.

Although Ian McEwan may not be known as a suspense writer, Enduring Love shows that he is good at writing such tales. But this is not merely a thriller; it's also a tale of obsession and guilt and how the two can intertwine. This is a book well worth reading.
11 internautes sur 11 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
4.0 étoiles sur 5 A Good Ride, Until the Tailspin 16 janvier 2000
Par Un client - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Broché
Though "Enduring Love" is only two-thirds of an excellent novel, the book as a whole has a lot to recommend it: an abundance of vivid character detail and insights, wonderful language, and McEwan's scary ability to walk a grueling mile in very strange shoes indeed. (Readers of "The Child In Time" and "The Innocent" will find themselves half-convinced that McEwan himself once lost a child in an unexplained kidnapping, or that he personally spent some sweaty hours dismembering a corpse with a hack-saw). Sadly, after a bravura beginning, he loses control, starting with the shooting in the restaurant. This scene is preposterous: how could an unworldly shut-in like Jed Parry so quickly find a pair of professional killers willing to commit a brazen public murder, and why bother anyway, since he has Joe's address? After that, McEwan cannot pick up the threads again; his narrative, while still beautifully written, becomes a string of absurdities, from a farcical scene with hippy gun-dealers to a melodramatic climax. What the hell threw him? The answer may be that McEwan was trying to amuse himself at the expense of his own story. Many people know that the first chapter of the book--the balloon accident--ran in the New Yorker, word for word, months before the novel appeared. At that time, there was no suggestion that it was anything other than a short story, and in fact it stood very well on its own. But McEwan was having fun, jogging the readers' memories, gloating a little over his achievement: several years before this, the New Yorker had published its first Ian McEwan story. It was about a murder in a crowded restaurant, and its heroes were Joe and Clarissa. Maybe as a challenge to himself, McEwan re-worked this story into his novel--with a shoe-horn, apparently. He made few changes, but the original details (such as the setting, a near-future London fraught with Algerian-style, Fundamentalist violence; and Clarissa's physique, which is described as that of a midget), though strange, made perfect sense in context. McEwan thought he could make this elegant trifle richer and more resonant by throwing it into the pot that became "Enduring Love". Unfortunately he failed to incorporate it convincingly, and the icy logic of his fine novel was totally derailed.
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?