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In One Person: A Novel
 
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In One Person: A Novel [Format Kindle]

John Irving
3.4 étoiles sur 5  Voir tous les commentaires (12 commentaires client)

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Descriptions du produit

Extrait

I’m going to begin by telling you about Miss Frost. While I say to everyone that I became a writer because I read a certain novel by Charles Dickens at the formative age of fifteen, the truth is I was younger than that when I first met Miss Frost and imagined having sex with her, and this moment of my sexual awakening also marked the fitful birth of my imagination. We are formed by what we desire. In less than a minute of excited, secretive longing, I desired to become a writer and to have sex with Miss Frost—not necessarily in that order.
 
I met Miss Frost in a library. I like libraries, though I have difficulty pronouncing the word—both the plural and the singular. It seems there are certain words I have considerable trouble pronouncing: nouns, for the most part—people, places, and things that have caused me preternatural excitement, irresolvable conflict, or utter panic. Well, that is the opinion of various voice teachers and speech therapists and psychiatrists who’ve treated me—alas, without success. In elementary school, I was held back a grade due to “severe speech impairments”—an overstatement. I’m now in my late sixties, almost seventy; I’ve ceased to be interested in the cause of my mispronunciations. (Not to put too fine a point on it, but fuck the etiology.)
 
I don’t even try to say the etiology word, but I can manage to struggle through a comprehensible mispronunciation of library or libraries—the botched word emerging as an unknown fruit. (“Liberry,” or “liberries,” I say—the way children do.)
 
It’s all the more ironic that my first library was undistinguished. This was the public library in the small town of First Sister, Vermont—a compact red-brick building on the same street where my grandparents lived. I lived in their house on River Street—until I was fifteen, when my mom remarried. My mother met my stepfather in a play.
 
The town’s amateur theatrical society was called the First Sister Players; for as far back as I can remember, I saw all the plays in our town’s little theater. My mom was the prompter—if you forgot your lines, she told you what to say. (It being an amateur theater, there were a lot of forgotten lines.) For years, I thought the prompter was one of the actors—someone mysteriously offstage, and not in costume, but a necessary contributor to the dialogue.
 
My stepfather was a new actor in the First Sister Players when my mother met him. He had come to town to teach at Favorite River Academy—the almost-prestigious private school, which was then all boys. For much of my young life (most certainly, by the time I was ten or eleven), I must have known that eventually, when I was “old enough,” I would go to the academy. There was a more modern and better-lit library at the prep school, but the public library in the town of First Sister was my first library, and the librarian there was my first librarian. (Incidentally, I’ve never had any trouble saying the librarian word.)
 
Needless to say, Miss Frost was a more memorable experience than the library. Inexcusably, it was long after meeting her that I learned her first name. Everyone called her Miss Frost, and she seemed to me to be my mom’s age—or a little younger—when I belatedly got my first library card and met her. My aunt, a most imperious person, had told me that Miss Frost “used to be very good-looking,” but it was impossible for me to imagine that Miss Frost could ever have been better-looking than she was when I met her—notwithstanding that, even as a kid, all I did was imagine things. My aunt claimed that the available men in the town used to fall all over themselves when they met Miss Frost. When one of them got up the nerve to introduce himself—to actually tell Miss Frost his name—the then-beautiful librarian would look at him coldly and icily say, “My name is Miss Frost. Never been married, never want to be.”
 
With that attitude, Miss Frost was still unmarried when I met her; inconceivably, to me, the available men in the town of First Sister had long stopped introducing themselves to her.
 
THE CRUCIAL DICKENS NOVEL
THE one that made me want to be a writer, or so I’m always saying—was Great Expectations. I’m sure I was fifteen, both when I first read it and when I first reread it. I know this was before I began to attend the academy, because I got the book from the First Sister town library—twice. I won’t forget the day I showed up at the library to take that book out a second time; I’d never wanted to reread an entire novel before.
Miss Frost gave me a penetrating look. At the time, I doubt I was as tall as her shoulders. “Miss Frost was once what they call ‘statuesque,’” my aunt had told me, as if even Miss Frost’s height and shape existed only in the past. (She was forever statuesque to me.)
 
Miss Frost was a woman with an erect posture and broad shoulders, though it was chiefly her small but pretty breasts that got my attention. In seeming contrast to her mannish size and obvious physical strength, Miss Frost’s breasts had a newly developed appearance—the improbable but budding look of a young girl’s. I couldn’t understand how it was possible for an older woman to have achieved this look, but surely her breasts had seized the imagination of every teenage boy who’d encountered her, or so I believed when I met her—when was it?—in 1955. Furthermore, you must understand that Miss Frost never dressed suggestively, at least not in the imposed silence of the forlorn First Sister Public Library; day or night, no matter the hour, there was scarcely anyone there.
 
I had overheard my imperious aunt say (to my mother): “Miss Frost is past an age where training bras suffice.” At thirteen, I’d taken this to mean that—in my judgmental aunt’s opinion—Miss Frost’s bras were all wrong for her breasts, or vice versa. I thought not! And the entire time I was internally agonizing over my and my aunt’s different fixations with Miss Frost’s breasts, the daunting librarian went on giving me the aforementioned penetrating look.
 
I’d met her at thirteen; at this intimidating moment, I was fifteen, but given the invasiveness of Miss Frost’s long, lingering stare, it felt like a two-year penetrating look to me. Finally she said, in regard to my wanting to read Great Expectations again, “You’ve already read this one, William.”
 
“Yes, I loved it,” I told her—this in lieu of blurting out, as I almost did, that I loved her. She was austerely formal—the first person to unfailingly address me as William. I was always called Bill, or Billy, by my family and friends.
 
I wanted to see Miss Frost wearing only her bra, which (in my interfering aunt’s view) offered insufficient restraint. Yet, in lieu of blurting out such an indiscretion as that, I said: “I want to reread Great Expectations.” (Not a word about my premonition that Miss Frost had made an impression on me that would be no less devastating than the one that Estella makes on poor Pip.)
 
So soon?” Miss Frost asked. “You read Great Expectations only a month ago!”
 
“I can’t wait to reread it,” I said.
 
“There are a lot of books by Charles Dickens,” Miss Frost told me. “You should try a different one, William.”
 
“Oh, I will,” I assured her, “but first I want to reread this one.”
 
Miss Frost’s second reference to me as William had given me an instant erection—though, at fifteen, I had a small penis and a laughably disappointing hard-on. (Suffice it to say, Miss Frost was in no danger of noticing that I had an erection.)
 
My all-knowing aunt had told my mother I was underdeveloped for my age. Naturally, my aunt had meant “underdeveloped” in other (or in all) ways; to my knowledge, she’d not seen my penis since I’d been an infant—if then. I’m sure I’ll have more to say about the penis word. For now, it’s enough that you know I have extreme difficulty pronouncing “penis,” which in my tortured utterance emerges—when I can manage to give voice to it at all—as “penith.” This rhymes with “zenith,” if you’re wondering. (I go to great lengths to avoid the plural.)
 
In any case, Miss Frost knew nothing of my sexual anguish while I was attempting to check out Great Expectations a second time. In fact, Miss Frost gave me the impression that, with so many books in the library, it was an immoral waste of time to reread any of them.
 
“What’s so special about Great Expectations?” she asked me.
 
She was the first person I told that I wanted to be a writer “because of” Great Expectations, but it was really because of her.
 
“You want to be a writer!” Miss Frost exclaimed; she didn’t sound happy about it. (Years later, I would wonder if Miss Frost might have expressed indignation at the sodomizer word had I suggested that as a profession.)
 
“Yes, a writer—I think so,” I said to her.
 
“You can’t possibly know that you’re going to be a writer!” Miss Frost said. “It’s not a career choice.”
 
She was certainly right about that, but I didn’t know it at the time....

Revue de presse

"This tender exploration of nascent desire, of love and loss, manages to be sweeping, brilliant, political, provocative, tragic, and funny—it is precisely the kind of astonishing alchemy we associate with a John Irving novel. The unfolding of the AIDS epidemic in the United States in the '80s was the defining moment for me as a physician. With my patients’ deaths, almost always occurring in the prime of life, I would find myself cataloging the other losses—namely, what these people might have offered society had they lived the full measure of their days: their art, their literature, the children they might have raised. In One Person is the novel that for me will define that era. A profound truth is arrived at in these pages. It is Irving at his most daring, at his most ambitious. It is America and American writing, both at their very best.”

Abraham Verghese

"In One Person is a novel that makes you proud to be human. It is a book that not only accepts but also loves our differences. From the beginning of his career, Irving has always cherished our peculiarities—in a fierce, not a saccharine, way. Now he has extended his sympathies—and ours—still further into areas that even the misfits eschew. Anthropologists say that the interstitial—whatever lies between two familiar opposites—is usually declared either taboo or sacred. John Irving in this magnificent novel—his best and most passionate since The World According to Garp—has sacralized what lies between polarizing genders and orientations. And have I mentioned it is also a gripping page-turner and a beautifully constructed work of art?"

Edmund White

"His most daringly political, sexually transgressive, and moving novel in well over a decade."—Vanity Fair

"A brave and affecting depiction of how in one life (sexual and otherwise) we contain multitudes."—Elle

In One Person is a rich and absorbing book, even beautiful.”—Esquire

“[In One Person] is a staggeringly ambitious work, and its success reaffirms Irving’s place among our greatest working novelists.” BookPage (Fiction Top Pick, May 2012)

“Few writers can craft misfits with the tenderness of Irving, and this tragicomic portrait of a bisexual man is a masterpiece of sympathy and imagination.”—Departures

“Gorgeous…Irving remains a master builder when it comes to constructing an epic plot filled with satisfying twists.” –Entertainment Weekly

“It is impossible to imagine the American – or international – literary landscape without John Irving….He has sold tens of millions of copies of his books, books that have earned descriptions like epic and extraordinary and controversial and sexually brave. And yet, unlike so many writers in the contemporary canon, he manages to write books that are both critically acclaimed and beloved for their sheer readability. He is as close as one gets to a contemporary Dickens in the scope of his celebrity and the level of his achievement.” Time

Détails sur le produit


En savoir plus sur l'auteur

John Irving, né en 1942, a grandi dans le New Hampshire. Depuis la parution du Monde selon Garp, l'auteur accumule les succès tant auprès du public que de la critique. Dernière nuit à Twisted River est le 12ème roman de J Irving, également auteur d'un recueil de nouvelles, d'un récit.

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Commentaires client les plus utiles
2 internautes sur 2 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
3.0 étoiles sur 5 Pas le meilleur Irving 5 février 2013
Format:Format Kindle|Achat vérifié
In One Person est intéressant, on parvient sans peine à le finir, mais on reste sur sa faim. Les personnages les plus intrigants sont traités superficiellement, les va-et-vient entre les différentes époques nous donnent à croire que certains épisodes seront développés par la suite, mais finalement, on reste quasiment "bloqués" dans l'adolescence du narrateur tout le livre.
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1 internautes sur 1 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
4.0 étoiles sur 5 Etre bilingue rapporte 13.12 € 20 juin 2013
Par Long John Silver VOIX VINE
Format:Broché|Achat vérifié
Encore un excellent opus de ce cher John Irving, iconoclaste et pourfendeur des bonnes mœurs, un vrai régal pour un anticonformiste.
Ce bon vieux John arrive toujours à nous faire rire... et pleurer aussi.
Mais pourquoi la version française coûte-t-elle près de 3 fois (2.73) le prix de la version en V.O. ? Ce n'est pas un problème pour moi, mais je devrai choisir à qui je le prête.
Le plus grand bonheur de la lecture est de la partager et d'en parler ensemble. Ici, ce bonheur est gâché pour le prix de deux gallons de super. Minable.
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5.0 étoiles sur 5 A colorful story 3 février 2014
Par Te
Format:Format Kindle
In One Person is an interesting story written on an interesting premise that has been very little explored. Overall it is a well-crafted story, with Irving at its best once again. It is a piece that deserves to be treated with respect. This well-observed story is replete with witty lines, a great plot, colorful setting and fast pacing. I will move on to Triple Agent, Double Cross, which is another recommendation. So far it is making me have trust in the person who recommended them.
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5.0 étoiles sur 5 Excellent 19 novembre 2013
Par BRICE
Format:Format Kindle
Un livre qui, je l'espère, fera ouvrir les yeux aux plus conservateurs d'entre nous.
Irving y développe entre autres, l'acceptation de soi et des autres sans être manichéen ou moralisateur.
Les thèmes sont abordés avec finesse même si le langage est parfois cru.
C'est bien écrit, c'est drôle, je le recommande.
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4.0 étoiles sur 5 du pur John irving 13 octobre 2013
Par Dominique
Format:Format Kindle|Achat vérifié
Il y a tout: l'humour, Vienne, la lutte, la différence et l'acceptation de la différence, de la folie, bref irving comme on l'aime...
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3.0 étoiles sur 5 La sexualite hors norme 8 octobre 2013
Par Jvp
Format:Format Kindle
Pase en revue tous les problemes lies a l homosexualite
Un trop systematique pour mon gout
On y rencontre toutes les aventures hors normes
Le chapitresur le sida fait froif dans le dos
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