Identifiez-vous pour activer la commande 1-Click.
en essayant gratuitement Amazon Premium pendant 30 jours. Votre inscription aura lieu lors du passage de la commande. En savoir plus.
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

Dites-le à l'éditeur :
J'aimerais lire ce livre sur Kindle !

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

Hanna's Daughters: A Novel [Anglais] [Broché]

Marianne Fredriksson

Prix : EUR 11,64 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 1 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 samedi 12 juillet ? Choisissez la livraison en 1 jour ouvré sur votre bon de commande. En savoir plus.

Offres spéciales et liens associés

Descriptions du produit



Her mind was as clear as a winter's day, a day as quiet and shadowless as if snow had just fallen. Harsh sounds penetrated, the clatter of dropped enamel bowls and cries. It frightened her. Like the weeping from the next bed slicing into the whiteness.

There were many who cried where she was.

She had lost her memory four years ago, then only a few months later her words had disappeared. She could see and hear, but could name neither objects nor people, so they lost all meaning.

That was when she came to this white country where time was nonexistent. She didn't know where her bed was or how old she was, but she had found a new way of being and appealed for compassion with humble smiles. Like a child. And like a child, she was wide open to emotions, everything vibrating between people without words.

She was aware she was going to die. That was knowledge, not an idea.
Her family were those who kept her going.

Her husband came every day. He also was wordless but for different reasons: He was over ninety, so he, too, was near the borderline, but he had no wish either to die or to know about it. Just as he had always controlled his life and hers, he put up a fierce struggle against the inevitable. He massaged her back, bent and stretched her knees, and read aloud to her from the daily paper. She had no means of opposing him. They had had a long and complicated relationship.

Most difficult of all was when their daughter, who lived in another town, came to visit. The old woman knew nothing of time or distance, and was always uneasy before she came, as if the moment she woke at dawn, she had already sensed the car making its way through the country, at the wheel the woman with all her unreasonable hopes.

Anna realized she was being as demanding as a child. That was no help, and as soon as she gave in, her thoughts slid away: just for once, perhaps, an answer to one of the questions I never had time to ask. After almost five hours of driving, as she turned into the nursing home parking lot, she had accepted that her mother would not recognize her this time, either.
Yet she would ask the questions.

I do it for my own sake, she thought. It makes no difference what I talk about to her.

She was wrong. Johanna did not understand the words, but she was aware of her daughter's torment and her own powerlessness. She did not remember it was her task to console the child who had always asked unreasonable questions. Still, the demand remained as well as the guilt over her inadequacy.

Her desire was to escape into silence, to close her eyes, but she couldn't, her heart thumping, the darkness behind her eyelids scarlet and painful. She started crying. Embarrassed, Anna tried to console her, there, there, wiping the old woman's cheeks.

When she was unable to halt Johanna's despair, Anna became frightened and rang for help. As usual, there was a delay, then the fair girl was standing in the doorway, a girl with young eyes but no depth in them. Anna saw contempt in those blue eyes, and for a moment Anna could see what the girl saw: an older woman, anxious and clumsy, by the side of the really old one.
"There, there," she said, too, but her voice was hard, as hard as the hand that ran over the old woman's head. And yet she succeeded. Johanna fell asleep so suddenly, it seemed unreal.

"We mustn't upset the patients," said the girl. "You must sit there quietly for a while. We'll come and change her and remake the bed in about ten minutes."

Anna slipped out to the terrace like a shamefaced dog, found her cigarettes, and drew the smoke deep down into her lungs. It calmed her and she could think. At first angry thoughts: damned bitch, hard as nails. Pretty, of course, and horribly young. Had Mother obeyed her out of fear? Was there a discipline here that the helpless old people sensed and gave in to?
Then came the self-reproach. The girl was only doing her job, everything she, Anna, ought to be doing, according to the laws of nature. But she couldn't, couldn't bring herself to, even if the time and place had existed.

Last of all came the astonishing realization that Mother had somehow been touched by the questions she'd asked.

She stubbed out her cigarette in the rusty tray at the far end of the table. God, how tired she was. Mother, she thought, dear wonderful Mother, why can't you show pity and die?

Frightened, she glanced out over the nursing home grounds where the Norway maples were in flower and smelling of honey. She drew in the scent with deep breaths, as if seeking consolation in the spring, but her senses were dulled. I'm as if dead, too, she thought as she turned on her heel and walked determinedly to the ward sister's door. She knocked and just had time to think, please let it be Märta.

It was Sister Märta, the only one she knew here. They greeted each other like old friends, then the daughter sat in the visitor's chair and was just about to start asking when she was overwhelmed by emotion.

"I don't want to start crying," she said, then did.

"It's not easy," said the sister, pushing the box of tissues across.

"I want to know how much she understands," said the daughter, adding her hope of being recognized and the questions she'd asked her mother, who didn't understand, yet did.
Sister Märta listened with no surprise.

"I think the old understand in a way we find difficult to grasp. Like newborn infants. You've had two babies yourself, so you know they take everything in, anxieties and joys. Well, you must remember?"

No, she didn't remember. She remembered nothing but her own overwhelming feeling of tenderness and inadequacy, though she knew what the nurse was talking about. She had learned a great deal from her grandchildren.

Then Sister Märta talked about the old woman's general condition in consoling terms. They had gotten rid of her bedsores, so she was in no physical pain.

"But she's rather uneasy at night," she said. "She seems to have nightmares. She wakes up screaming."

"She dreams?"

"But of course she dreams, everyone does. The pity is we can never find out what they're dreaming, our patients."

Anna thought about the cat they'd had at home, a lovely creature leaping up out of its sleep, hissing, its claws extended. Then she was ashamed of the thought. But Sister Märta didn't notice her embarrassment.

"Considering Johanna's poor condition, we prefer not to give her tranquilizers. I also think perhaps she needs her dreams."


Sister Märta pretended to ignore the surprise in the other woman's voice.

"We're thinking of giving her a room of her own," she went on. "As things are, she's disturbing the others in the ward."

"A room of her own? Is that possible?"

"We're waiting out Emil in number seven," said the nurse, lowering her eyes.

Not until the daughter was backing the car out of the parking lot did she take in what had been said about Emil, the old priest whose hymns she'd heard over the years. She hadn't thought about it today, that there'd been no sound from his room. For years, she'd heard him singing about life in the valley of the shadow of death, and the Lord waiting with his terrible judgments.

Johanna's secret world followed the clock. It opened at three in the morning and closed again at dawn.

Her world contained a wealth of images, filled with colors, scents, and voices. Other sounds, too. The roar of the falls, the wind singing in the tops of the maples, and the forest rejoicing with birdsong.

On this night the pictures she sees tremble with excitement. It is summer and early morning, with slanting rays of the sun and long shadows.

"You must be mad,"shouts the voice she knows best, her father's. He's red in the face and frightening in his agitation. She's afraid and flings her arms around his leg. He lifts her up, runs his hand over her head.

"Don't you think, girl?"he says.

But her eldest brother is standing in the middle of the room, handsome, with shiny buttons and high boots, and he's shouting, too.

"To the cave, all of you, and today, too. They might already be here tomorrow."

Then another voice, resourceful.

"Listen now, lad. Would Axel and Ole come here from Moss and would Astrid's lad come here from Fredrikshald to shoot us?"

"Yes, Mother."

"I think you've gone mad," says the voice, but now it's uncertain. And her father looks at the soldier, eye meets eye, and the old man can't mistake the gravity in the young man's eyes.

"Then we'll do as you say."

Then the pictures change, start moving. Feet stomp, burdens are lifted. She sees the earth cellar and store emptied. The great barrel of salt pork is carried out, the herring barrel, the potato bin, the cloudberry jar, the butter in its wooden tub, the hard round slabs of crispbread, all out on the ground, then carried down toward the boat. Sacks filled with blankets and clothes, all the wool in the cottage going the same way, down the slope toward the lake. She sees the brothers rowing. It's heavy going toward the promontory, easier back.
"The oil lamps!" It's her mother calling out on her way indoors.

But the soldier stops her, calling, too, "No, Mother, we'll have to do without light."

The child is wide-eyed and anxious. But then a brimstone butterfly lands on her hand.

The picture changes again; the daylight is miserly, and she's perched on her father's back. As so often, she's being carried up the slopes to the mountain lakes, so secretive and introverted they are, quite different from the great lake with its light and blue glitter. But just above the mill, the largest of the dark lakes breaks the stillness and looks as if i...

Revue de presse

"Brilliant . . . Hanna's Daughters outlines the lives of three generations of women and their complicated relationships with one another."
--USA Today

"I LOVED HANNA'S DAUGHTERS FROM THE VERY FIRST PAGE, and I absolutely could not put it down. . . . Written with grace and wit, this novel deserves to be read, discussed, and cherished by future generations of mothers and daughters."
     Author of Ordinary People and Errands

"AN UPLIFTING FAMILY SAGA . . . Fredriksson provides a satisfyingly complex . . . chronicle of women and the burdens imposed by their family history, their gender and themselves. . . . Its message of reconciliation is transcendent."

Détails sur le produit

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 et rechercher une autre édition de ce livre.
Parcourir les pages échantillon
Couverture | Copyright | Extrait | Quatrième de couverture
Rechercher dans ce livre:

Vendre une version numérique de ce livre dans la boutique Kindle.

Si vous êtes un éditeur ou un auteur et que vous disposez des droits numériques sur un livre, vous pouvez vendre la version numérique du livre dans notre boutique Kindle. En savoir plus

Commentaires en ligne 

Il n'y a pas encore de commentaires clients sur Amazon.fr
5 étoiles
4 étoiles
3 étoiles
2 étoiles
1 étoiles
Commentaires client les plus utiles sur Amazon.com (beta)
Amazon.com: 3.8 étoiles sur 5  70 commentaires
20 internautes sur 20 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
3.0 étoiles sur 5 Women's saga 21 mai 2001
Par Sharon Knutson - Publié sur Amazon.com
Hanna's Daughters is a tale spanning three generation's of a Swedish family. It is told by Anna, who in a last ditch effort to understand her mother, gathers letter, diaries, and journals to read about her mother and grandmother's life.
The story is told through a series of flashbacks with can be disconcerting until you catch the rhythm of the story. The life of the three women revolves around mother-daughter relationships and the path our lives take as a result of the decisions we make.
Each woman struggles with similar heartbreaks (although they don't always know what the other one is/has gone through) They struggle with marriage, children, death, and finding ones self worth in a sometimes harsh world.
While I enjoyed the story (possibly due to my Swedish heritage!) I still felt the story plodded in some sections so I only gave it a three star rating.
20 internautes sur 22 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 A touching story about a woman's life without being kitsch 21 août 1998
Par Un client - Publié sur Amazon.com
This book has been sitting on my bookshelf for quite a time - I never had time to read, but one nicht I grabbed it and could not stop reading. For a few days and nights I lived with Hanna, Anna, and Johanna - all three of them remarkable women in their times. It is very much a "women's book", I cannot picture men liking it that much, because they don't know (and they CAN'T) anything about the sometimes difficult relationships between mothers and daughters. This book even taught me a lesson: talk to each other as long as there is time, don't put it off. It's a wonderful book that makes you laugh and cry! withought being KITSCH.
11 internautes sur 11 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Powerful story of three generations of Swedish women. 21 février 1999
Par Un client - Publié sur Amazon.com
The author claims this is not autobiographical, yet her insights into the depth of her characters might suggest otherwise. Not only the events of their lives and their families, but their feelings and thoughts at each moment along the way. While some of my book group did not like the interlacing of Anna's story into that of her mother's and grandmother's, I found this both a great literary device for this story(ies) and a way of keeping me from losing the continuity of the three lives and how the past repeats itself. The translation from Swedish resulted in rather terse and unembellished prose, but I liked this also. Being of Scandinavian heritage and knowing the story of my grandmother's hard life in Denmark and Minnesota, I could relate to the level of detachment women used as a defense mechanism and their stoic and silent way of bearing all things. The richness of the characters and story have stayed with me long after reading the last page. This is my test of a good novel.
9 internautes sur 9 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 A must for any grandmother, mother or daughter 14 janvier 2000
Par Un client - Publié sur Amazon.com
"The years came and went, the children came and left. The worst of getting old is not tiredness and aches and pains, but that time rushes on, so quickly that in the end it doesn't seemto exist. It's Christmas and then it's Easter. It's a clear winter's day and then a hot summer's day. In between is a vacuum." The writing is beautiful, the characters unforgettable, a wonderful generational story. A bit confusing at first, trying to keep track of who's who, but worth the effort. No matter where in the world, this story shows the great opression of women throughout history and their roles as mothers, wives, daughters and granddaughters.
8 internautes sur 8 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Excellent reading for daughters, mothers and grandmothers 25 février 2000
Par Un client - Publié sur Amazon.com
I loved the book! I gave it to my mother and grandmother to read and they enjoyed it just as much as I did. Being Swedish helped us relate to the book but I think women of all generations and nationalities can recognize themselves. It makes you realize that your mother and grandmother were your age once and that their thoughts weren't far from your own. READ IT!
Ces commentaires ont-ils été utiles ?   Dites-le-nous

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
Première publication:
Aller s'identifier

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

Rechercher des articles similaires par rubrique


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