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Every Last One (Anglais) Broché – 22 mars 2011

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Descriptions du produit


This is my life: The alarm goes off at five-thirty with the murmuring of a public-radio announcer, telling me that there has been a coup in Chad, a tornado in Texas. My husband stirs briefly next to me, turns over, blinks, and falls back to sleep for another hour. My robe lies at the foot of the bed, printed cotton in the summer, tufted chenille for the cold. The coffeemaker comes on in the kitchen below as I leave the bathroom, go downstairs in bare feet, pause to put away a pair of boots left splayed in the downstairs back hallway and to lift the newspaper from the back step. The umber quarry tiles in the kitchen were a bad choice; they are always cold. I let the dog out of her kennel and put a cup of kibble in her bowl. I hate the early mornings, the suspended animation of the world outside, the veil of black and then the oppressive gray of the horizon along the hills outside the French doors. But it is the only time I can rest without sleeping, think without deciding, speak and hear my own voice. It is the only time I can be alone. Slightly less than an hour each weekday when no one makes demands.

Our bedroom is at the end of the hall, and sometimes as I pass I can hear the children breathing, each of them at rest as specific as they are awake. Alex inhales and exhales methodically, evenly, as though he were deep under the blanket of sleep even though he always kicks his covers askew, leaving one long leg, with its faint surgical scars, exposed to the night air. Across the room Max sputters, mutters, turns, and growls out a series of nonsense syllables. For more than a year when he was eleven, Max had a problem with sleepwalking. I would find him washing his hands at the bathroom sink or down in the kitchen, blinking blindly into the open refrigerator. But he stopped after his first summer at sleepaway camp.

Ruby croons, one high strangled note with each exhale. When she was younger, I worried that she had asthma. She sleeps on her back most of the time, the covers tucked securely across her chest, her hair fanned out on the pillows. It should be easy for her to slip from beneath the blanket and make her bed, but she never bothers unless I hector her.

I sit downstairs with coffee and the paper, staring out the window as my mind whirrs. At six-thirty I hear the shower come on in the master bath. Glen is awake and getting ready for work. At six-forty-five I pull the duvet off Ruby, who snatches it back and curls herself into it, larval, and says, “Ten more minutes.” At seven I lean over, first Alex, then Max, and bury my nose into their necks, beginning to smell the slightly pungent scent of male beneath the sweetness of child. “Okay, okay,” Alex says irritably. Max says nothing, just lurches from bed and begins to pull off an oversized T-shirt as he stumbles into the bathroom.

There is a line painted down the center of their room. Two years ago they came to me, at a loose end on a June afternoon, and demanded the right to choose their own colors. I was distracted, and I agreed. They did a neat job, measured carefully, put a tarp on the floor. Alex painted his side light blue, Max lime green. The other mothers say, “You won’t believe what Jonathan”—or Andrew or Peter—“told me about the twins’ room.” Maybe if the boys had been my first children I would have thought it was insane, too, but Ruby broke me in. She has a tower of soda cans against one wall of her bedroom. It is either an environmental statement or just one of those things you do when you are fifteen. Now that she is seventeen she has outgrown it, almost forgotten it, but because I made the mistake of asking early on when she would take it down she never has.

I open Ruby’s door, and although it doesn’t make a sound—she has oiled the hinges, I think, probably with baby oil or bath oil or something else nonsensically inappropriate, so we will not hear it creak in the nighttime—she says, “I’m up.” I stand there waiting, because if I take her word for it she will wrap herself in warmth again and fall into the long tunnel of sleep that only teenagers inhabit, halfway to coma or unconsciousness. “Mom, I’m up,” she shouts, and throws the bedclothes aside and begins to bundle her long wavy hair atop her head. “Can I get dressed in peace, please? For a change?” She makes it sound as though I constantly let a bleacher full of spectators gawk as she prepares to meet the day.

Only Glen emerges in the least bit cheerful, his suit jacket over one arm. He keeps his white coats at the office. They are professionally cleaned and pressed and smell lovely, like the cleanest of clean laundry. “Doctor Latham” is embroidered in blue script above his heart. From upstairs I can hear the clatter of the cereal into his bowl. He eats the same thing every morning, leaves for work at the same time. He wears either a blue or a yellow shirt, with either a striped tie or one with a small repeating pattern. Occasionally, a grateful patient gives him a tie as a gift, printed with tiny pairs of glasses, an eye chart, or even eyes themselves. He thanks these people sincerely but never wears them.

He is not tidy, but he knows where everything is: on which chair he left his briefcase, in what area of the kitchen counter he tossed his wallet. He does something with the corners of his mouth when things are not as they should be—when the dog is on the furniture, when the children and their friends make too much noise too late at night, when the red-wine glasses are in the white-wine glass rack. It has now pressed itself permanently into his expression, like the opposite of dimples.

“Please. Spare me,” says my friend Nancy, her eyes rolling. “If that’s the worst you can say about him, then you have absolutely no right to complain.” Nancy says her husband, Bill, a tall gangly scarecrow of a guy, leaves a trail of clothing as he undresses, like fairy-tale breadcrumbs. He once asked her where the washing machine was. “I thought it was a miracle that he wanted to know,” she says when she tells this story, and she does, often. “It turned out the repairman was at the door and Bill didn’t know where to tell him to go.”

Our washer is in the mudroom, off the kitchen. There is a chute from above that is designed to bring the dirty things downstairs. Over the years, our children have used the chute for backpacks, soccer balls, drumsticks. Slam. Slam. Slam. “It is a laundry chute,” I cry. “Laundry. Laundry.”

Laundry is my life, and meals, and school meetings and games and recitals. I choose a cardigan sweater and put it on the chest at the foot of the bed. It is late April, nominally spring, but the weather is as wild as an adolescent mood, sun into clouds into showers into storms into sun again.

“You smell,” I hear Alex say to Max from the hallway. Max refuses to reply. “You smell like shit,” Alex says. “Language!” I cry.

“I didn’t say a word,” Ruby shouts from behind the door of her room. Hangers slide along the rack in her closet, with a sound like one of those tribal musical instruments. Three thumps—shoes, I imagine. Her room always looks as though it has been ransacked. Her father averts his head from the closed door, as though he is imagining what lies within. Her brothers are strictly forbidden to go in there, and, honestly, are not interested. Piles of books, random sweaters, an upended shoulder bag, even the lace panties, given that they belong to their sister—who cares? I am tolerated because I deliver stacks of clean clothes. “Put those away in your drawers,” I always say, and she never does. It would be so much easier for me to do it myself, but this standoff has become a part of our relationship, my attempt to teach Ruby responsibility, her attempt to exhibit independence. And so much of our lives together consists of rubbing along, saying things we know will be ignored yet continuing to say them, like background music.

Somehow Ruby emerges every morning from the disorder of her room looking beautiful and distinctive: a pair of old Capri pants, a ruffled blouse I bought in college, a long cashmere cardigan with a moth hole in the sleeve, a ribbon tied around her hair. Ruby never looks like anyone else. I admire this and am a little intimidated by it, as though I had discovered we had incompatible blood types.

Alex wears a T-shirt and jeans. Max wears a T-shirt and jeans. Max stops to rub the dog’s belly when he gets to the kitchen. She narrows her eyes in ecstasy. Her name is Virginia, and she is nine years old. She came as a puppy when the twins were five and Ruby was eight. “Ginger” says the name on the terra-cotta bowl we bought on her first Christmas. Max scratches the base of Ginger’s tail. “Now you’ll smell like dog,” says Alex. The toaster pops with a sound like a toy gun. The refrigerator door closes. I need more toothpaste. Ruby has taken my toothpaste. “I’m going,” she yells from the back door. She has not eaten breakfast. She and her friends Rachel and Sarah will stop at the doughnut shop and get iced coffee and jelly doughnuts. Sarah swims competitively and can eat anything. “The metabolism of a hummingbird,” says my friend Nancy, who is Sarah’s mother, which is convenient for us both. Nancy is a biologist, a professor at the university, so I suppose she should know about metabolism. Rachel is a year older than the other two, and drives them to school. The three of them swear that Rachel drives safely and slowly. I know this isn’t true. I picture Rachel, moaning again about some boy she really, really likes but who is insensible to her attentions, steering with one hand, a doughnut in the other, taking a curve with a shrieking sound. Caution and nutrition are for adults. They are young, immortal.

“The bus!” Alex yells, and finally Max speaks. This is one of the headlines of our family life: Max speaks. “I’m coming,” he mumbles. “Take a sweatshirt,” I call. Either they don’t hear or they don’t care. I can see them with their backpacks getting on the middle-school bus. Alex always goes first.

“Do we have any jelly?” Glen asks. He knows where his own things are, but he has amnesia when it comes to community property. “It’s where it’s always been,” I say. “Open your eyes and look.” Then I take two jars of jelly off the shelf inside the refrigerator door and thump them on the table in front of him. I can manage only one morning manner, so I treat my husband like one of the children. He doesn’t seem to mind or even notice. He likes this moment, when the children have been there but are suddenly gone. The dog comes back into the room, her claws clicking on the tiled floor. “Don’t feed her,” I say, as I do every morning. In a few minutes, I hear the messy chewing sounds as Ginger eats a crust of English muffin. She makes a circuit of the house, then falls heavily at my feet.

After he has read the paper, Glen leaves for the office. He has early appointments one day a week and late ones three evenings, for schoolchildren and people with inflexible jobs. His office is in a small house a block from the hospital. He pulls his car out of the driveway and turns right onto our street every single morning. One day he turned left, and I almost ran out to call to him. I did open the front door, and discovered that a neighbor was retarring the driveway and a steamroller was blocking the road to the right. The neighbor waved. “Sorry for the inconvenience,” he called. I waved back.

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

Revue de presse

“Spellbinding.”—The New York Times Book Review

“In a tale that rings strikingly true, [Anna] Quindlen captures both the beauty and the breathtaking fragility of family life.”—People

“We come to love this family, because Quindlen makes their ordinary lives so fascinating, their mundane interactions engaging and important. . . . Never read a book that made you cry? Be prepared for a deluge of tears.”—USA Today

“Anna Quindlen’s writing is like knitting; prose that wraps the reader in the warmth and familiarity of domestic life. . . . Then, as in her novels Black and Blue and One True Thing, Quindlen starts to pull at the world she has knitted, and lets it unravel across the pages.”—The Seattle Times

“Packs an emotional punch . . . Quindlen succeeds at conveying the transience of everyday worries and the never-ending boundaries of a mother’s love.”—The Washington Post

“A wise, closely observed, achingly eloquent book.”—The Huffington Post
“If you pick up Every Last One to read a few pages after dinner, you’ll want to read another chapter, and another and another, until you get to bed late.”—Associated Press
“Quindlen conjures family life from a palette of finely observed details.”—Los Angeles Times
“[Quindlen’s] emotional sophistication, and her journalistic eye for authentic dialogue and detail, bring the ring of truth to every page of this heartbreakingly timely novel.”—NPR --Ce texte fait référence à l'édition Broché .

Détails sur le produit

  • Broché: 336 pages
  • Editeur : Windmill Books (22 mars 2011)
  • Langue : Anglais
  • ISBN-10: 0099537966
  • ISBN-13: 978-0099537960
  • Dimensions du produit: 12,9 x 2,1 x 19,8 cm
  • Moyenne des commentaires client : 4.5 étoiles sur 5  Voir tous les commentaires (2 commentaires client)
  • Classement des meilleures ventes d'Amazon: 143.825 en Livres anglais et étrangers (Voir les 100 premiers en Livres anglais et étrangers)
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1 internautes sur 1 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile  Par Pascale TOP 500 COMMENTATEURS sur 11 septembre 2011
Format: Broché
En dépit de ce qui arrive à la moitié du livre -et qu'il est hors de question de vous révéler :-) -, "Every Last One" ne peut effectivement pas être considéré comme un thriller, autant le dire tout de suite: pas beaucoup d'action, rythme lent, et on se demande pendant une bonne partie du livre où cette description de la vie ordinaire d'une famille va nous mener. Si vous espérez de l'action ou des rebondissements, passez votre chemin, vous serez déçus.

Néanmoins, il faut reconnaître que ce livre a d'autres qualités, notamment un certain réalisme dans les personnages et l'évocation de la vie quotidienne d'une famille de trois enfants, et ce que j'appellerais une patience littéraire: l'histoire se dévoile petit à petit, les "révélations" sont discrètes mais interpellent, et l'événement central -que l'on sent venir sans savoir vraiment ce qui va se passer- fait figure d'électrochoc dans une lecture jusqu'alors plutôt paisible et anodine. Enfin, Anna Quindlen écrit joliment et son exploration du chagrin est à la fois fine et émouvante.

Une lecture à aborder un peu comme un tableau impressionniste, des petites touches subtiles qui une fois assemblées produisent une autre réalité à laquelle on se surprend à repenser une fois le livre refermé. Certains aspects laissent sans doute à désirer et le contenu m'empêche de qualifier la lecture de plaisante, mais l'ensemble reste intéressant et touchant.
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Par Lola sur 25 octobre 2014
Format: Format Kindle Achat vérifié
Wonderful descriptions of everyday life lead to an unexpected climax. The writing continues to hold you tight to this story of a woman coping with life and tragedy.
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Commentaires client les plus utiles sur Amazon.com (beta)

Amazon.com: 427 commentaires
243 internautes sur 258 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
"It's perfection. Perfection." 31 mars 2010
Par Eileen Granfors - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Relié Commentaire client Vine pour produit gratuit ( De quoi s'agit-il? )
Anna Quindlen captures the pulse of family interactions in a way that is realistic. The narrator can be acutely self-aware without seeming whining or disdainful.

In "Every Last One," the story is narrated by Mary Beth Latham, mother of three. She has a faithful, stoic husband, her own business in gardening, and yet, this mom is feeling the slightest hints of emptiness, loneliness, as her children grow up and away.

The eldest, Ruby, is a writer. At seventeen, she is growing into a young woman known for her quirks, her artistic temperament and her ability at school. Her private manners with her family, however, reveal her to be as headstrong and rude and arrogant as any teen can be.

The twins, Alex and Max, are fraternal. They share very little except a room. Alex is the athlete; Max is the musician. Alex is popular; Max is on the fringes of his school's society. They are not exactly friends though they are brothers.

The book moves through family crisis and angst over Max's depression, Alex's cockiness, and Ruby's insistence that parents just chill when it comes to her personal life. Her personal life includes a lost-puppy boyfriend, Kiernan, who has a special place in the Latham household although as readers we get to know a wide circle of people. Quindlen handles a large cast with clarity and sympathy.

My only reservation about the book is a result of the back cover's blurb, which I felt contained an unnecessary spoiler. For the pure enjoyment of watching a family that seems perfect but that is as dysfunctional as any other, avoid reading the jacket blurb.

I am a big fan of Anna Quindlen's works. "Every Last One" is a quick read, full of emotional moments and insights into the way women bond and think. Some of the setting details seem thrown in to perhaps update the story now and then, but big deal--this is a terrific book.
145 internautes sur 169 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
Powerfully written, deeply thought-provoking 24 mars 2010
Par Marcy L. Thompson - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Relié Commentaire client Vine pour produit gratuit ( De quoi s'agit-il? )
You'd think, considering how much I actually liked this book, that I would give it five stars. In fact, I almost did.

Despite the fact that the jacket description of this book set me up to be looking for clues as to the shocking event at the center of the story, the book is powerfully well-written and compelling. The characters all seem real, and the first-person narration manages to reveal things about the other characters that even she seems not to be aware of. I really don't know how the author did that, so consistently and well, but I definitely knew things about many of the supporting characters that the narrator did not know. The author's ability to express the essence of a personality in just a single line of dialog or a physical mannerism is impressive, and she even makes it plausible that these "reveals" are unnoticed by the narrator, presumably due to familiarity.

I was deeply impressed with the book, and I find myself thinking about the characters and situations even now, days later. So why not give it five stars? Well, there are a couple reasons, and I can't really tell you what they are. There are two plot points that just irritated me. Both of them are spoilers, so I won't say what they are, but one of them seemed unnecessary and one of them was just clumsy. Both of them stood out in a what was otherwise a tightly plotted and meticulously paced novel. And each of them slammed me out of suspension of disbelief when it happened, which significantly reduced my enjoyment of the novel.

I still highly recommend this book. It feels very real, and there are many layers of meaning here to uncover, all wrapped up in fluent prose and intriguing characters.
159 internautes sur 189 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
Disappointing 10 avril 2010
Par Anne Masterson - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Relié Commentaire client Vine pour produit gratuit ( De quoi s'agit-il? )
I am a big Anna Quindlen fan and have read all her other books. I have enjoyed them immensely, with the possible exception of her last book, "Rise and Shine". That was until now. If you are a middle aged woman who is a helicopter parent, this may be the book for you. Otherwise, not so much.

This is the story of the Latham family, as narrated by the mother, Mary Beth. Her husband is an ophthalmologist and they have three teenage children, Ruby and twins Max and Alex. The jacket says that a shocking act of violence is going to befall the family and while others have complained it is a spoiler, I am glad that it did or I probably would have given up on this book. This first eighty pages or so were incredibly slow going, bordering on boring.

There is heavy foreshadowing of two possible scenarios for a tragic event and I guessed which one it was going to be long before it happened. There will be no spoilers in this review. Suffice to say that Mary Beth suffers from the fallout.

Although I did not care for this book, nor would I recommend it, I am giving it three stars rather than the two stars a lesser writer may have gotten for two reasons. The first is Anna Quindlen is not a lesser writer. Although this is not my favorite work by her, she is adept at writing whole characters and having them express themselves in ways that are true and natural. If I had liked the Mary Beth character more, I may have liked this book more. Second, is that approximately one quarter of the book deals with grief and grieving, but not in an overly depressing way. It sheds a light on the pain people go through when there is a loss, how they are supported initially and then shunned if they are not "better" in a month, and how support can, and will, come from the strangest places. This portion of the book was the Anna Quindlen I know and admire.
27 internautes sur 30 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
Tragic, but utterly boring 13 mai 2011
Par L. Pearson - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Format Kindle Achat vérifié
I was glad the synopsis included a big hint of what was to come. I had to go back and reread it nearly 1/2 way through the book it to assure myself that I wasn't just reading a laundry list of daily life for nearly any parent out there. The first 150 (of 300) pages are tedious. Had I known the last 130 pages would be as tedious, I wouldn't have bothered finishing the book. There was no build-up (some hints that told you what was probably coming, but nothing suspenseful or compelling) nor resolution. One day we're driving to soccer practice, the next unspeakable tragedy, the next we're driving to soccer practice again - but now we're sad. Not my kind of book.
12 internautes sur 12 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
"It's only before the realities set in that we can treasure our delusions." 25 avril 2010
Par Bonnie Brody - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Relié Commentaire client Vine pour produit gratuit ( De quoi s'agit-il? )
I have read every one of Anna Quindlen's novels. Every Last One is, by far, the most compelling and beautifully written of any she's written. It is the story of one family that is impacted by a horrific act of violence. Their resultant grief and struggle to survive is told with great empathy and insight. Quindlen's language is poetic and languorous. The book is a page-turner but the reader is never rushed. We are there with the characters and we face what they face, in their own time and in their own way.

Mary Beth Latham is a mother whose life revolves around her family. Though she has a successful landscaping business, her priority is her family. She is dedicated to her children: 17 year old Ruby, and the fraternal twins, 14 year-olds Alex and Max. She has been married to her physician husband, Glen, for close to twenty-five years. The marriage is happy enough but Mary Beth's focus is her children. She loves the routine of cooking, going to the children's sports events and opening her home to her children's friends.

Though they are twins, Alex and Max could not be more different. Alex is popular and easy-going. He excels at every sport that he tries. Max is quiet and introverted, not good at sports and not very popular. He takes drum lessons and seems to enjoy this activity. With good reason, Mary Beth suspects that Max is depressed and takes him to a therapist who specializes in the treatment of twins.

Ruby is a senior in high school, a unique individual with her own flowering style. She is active in her school's literary journal and writes poetry. She has two best friends, Rachel and Sara. Next year she will be off to college. Her grades are so good that she is likely to be accepted anywhere she applies.

For several years Ruby has had a boyfriend named Kiernan, the son of a former friend of Mary Beth's. Kiernan is like a fourth child in the family until the time when Ruby decides to break up with him. The break-up is traumatic for Kiernan. He begins to drink heavily, sneaks into the Latham house and Ruby's car to leave photos and presents for Ruby. One evening, in the middle of the night, he remains outside the Latham house howling and crying for Ruby. Mary Beth comforts him and sends him home. It starts to get creepy for Ruby and she attempts to tell her mother but Mary Beth is too involved with Max's depression to really understand the severity of issues with Kiernan.

On New Year's Eve, a horrific event of violence occurs that impacts the whole Latham family. Quindlen's description of grief is so right-on that it is very painful to read. She is able to draw out the characters' feelings over time just as the feelings of real grief are played out. This is not done in one or two pages, but for the whole second half of the book. The first half of the book is the prologue to the event and the second half of the book is about the impact of the event.

The first half of the book may seem slow as it sets the stage for what is to follow. However, it is necessary and important for it is here that we get the sense of what the Latham family is about - - who their friends are, their place in the community, their values and the family dynamics. It requires a bit of patience to get through this part but Quindlen knows how to set the stage for what is to follow.

I have never read such a potent and painful description of grief except in the wonderful novel, How to Paint a Dead Man: A Novel (P.S.), by Sara Hall. Quindlen's writing has matured. There is no doubt in my mind that this will be a best seller. It is a page-turner and very accessible. It is a beautiful book, a real literary achievement in its own right. It is a credit to her that this book is likely to be read by so many because it deserves a very large audience.
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