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Shogun
 
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Shogun [Format Kindle]

James Clavell
3.9 étoiles sur 5  Voir tous les commentaires (12 commentaires client)

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Descriptions du produit

Extrait

Chapter One


Blackthorne was suddenly awake. For a moment he thought he was dreaming because he was ashore and the room unbelievable. It was small and very clean and covered with soft mats. He was lying on a thick quilt and another was thrown over him. The ceiling was polished cedar and the walls were lathes of cedar, in squares, covered with an opaque paper that muted the light pleasantly. Beside him was a scarlet tray bearing small bowls. One contained cold cooked vegetables and he wolfed them, hardly noticing the piquant taste. Another contained a fish soup and he drained that. Another was filled with a thick porridge of wheat or barley and he finished it quickly, eating with his fingers. The water in an odd-shaped gourd was warm and tasted curious—slightly bitter but savory.

Then he noticed the crucifix in its niche.

This house is Spanish or Portuguese, he thought aghast. Is this the Japans? or Cathay?

A panel of the wall slid open. A middle-aged, heavy-set, round-faced woman was on her knees beside the door and she bowed and smiled. Her skin was golden and her eyes black and narrow and her long black hair was piled neatly on her head. She wore a gray silk robe and short white socks with a thick sole and a wide purple band around her waist.

"Goshujinsama, gokibun wa ikaga desu ka?" she said. She waited as he stared at her blankly, then said it again.

"Is this the Japans?" he asked. "Japans? Or Cathay?"

She stared at him uncomprehendingly and said something else he could not understand. Then he realized that he was naked. His clothes were nowhere in sight. With sign language he showed her that he wanted to get dressed. Then he pointed at the food bowls and she knew that he was still hungry.

She smiled and bowed and slid the door shut.

He lay back exhausted, the untoward, nauseating nonmotion of the floor making his head spin. With an effort he tried to collect himself. I remember getting the anchor out, he thought. With Vinck. I think it was Vinck. We were in a bay and the ship had nosed a shoal and stopped. We could hear waves breaking on the beach but everything was safe. There were lights ashore and then I was in my cabin and blackness. I don't remember anything. Then there were lights through the blackness and strange voices. I was talking English, then Portuguese. One of the natives talked a little Portuguese. Or was he Portuguese? No, I think he was a native. Did I ask him where we were? I don't remember. Then we were back in the reef again and the big wave came once more and I was carried out to sea and drowning—it was freezing—no, the sea was warm and like a silk bed a fathom thick. They must have carried me ashore and put me here.

"It must have been this bed that felt so soft and warm," he said aloud. "I've never slept on silk before." His weakness overcame him and he slept dreamlessly.

When he awoke there was more food in earthenware bowls and his clothes were beside him in a neat pile. They had been washed and pressed and mended with tiny, exquisite stitching.

But his knife was gone, and so were his keys.

I'd better get a knife and quickly, he thought. Or a pistol.

His eyes went to the crucifix. In spite of his dread, his excitement quickened. All his life he had heard legends told among pilots and sailormen about the incredible riches of Portugal's secret empire in the East, how they had by now converted the heathens to Catholicism and so held them in bondage, where gold was as cheap as pig iron, and emeralds, rubies, diamonds, and sapphires as plentiful as pebbles on a beach.

If the Catholic part's true, he told himself, perhaps the rest is too. About the riches. Yes. But the sooner I'm armed and back aboard Erasmus and behind her cannon, the better.

He consumed the food, dressed, and stood shakily, feeling out of his element as he always did ashore. His boots were missing. He went to the door, reeling slightly, and put out a hand to steady himself but the light, square lathes could not bear his weight and they shattered, the paper ripping apart. He righted himself. The shocked woman in the corridor was staring up at him.

"I'm sorry," he said, strangely ill at ease with his clumsiness. The purity of the room was somehow defiled.

"Where are my boots?"

The woman stared at him blankly. So, patiently, he asked her again with sign language and she hurried down a passage, knelt and opened another lathe door, and beckoned him. Voices were nearby, and the sound of running water. He went through the doorway and found himself in another room, also almost bare. This opened onto a veranda with steps leading to a small garden surrounded by a high wall. Beside this main entrance were two old women, three children dressed in scarlet robes, and an old man, obviously a gardener, with a rake in his hand. At once they all bowed gravely and kept their heads low.

To his astonishment Blackthorne saw that the old man was naked but for a brief, narrow loincloth, hardly covering his organs.

"Morning," he said to them, not knowing what to say.

They stayed motionless, still bowing.

Nonplussed, he stared at them, then, awkwardly he bowed back to them. They all straightened and smiled at him. The old man bowed once more and went back to work in the garden. The children stared at him, then, laughing, dashed away. The old women disappeared into the depths of the house. But he could feel their eyes on him.

He saw his boots at the bottom of the steps. Before he could pick them up, the middle-aged woman was there on her knees, to his embarrassment, and she helped him to put them on.

"Thank you," he said. He thought a moment and then pointed at himself. "Blackthorne," he said deliberately. "Blackthorne." Then he pointed at her. "What's your name?"

She stared at him uncomprehendingly.

"Black-thorne," he repeated carefully, pointing at himself, and again pointed at her. "What's your name?"

She frowned, then with a flood of understanding pointed at herself and said, "Onna! Onna!"

"Onna!" he repeated, very proud of himself as she was with herself. "Onna."

She nodded happily. "Onna!"

The garden was unlike anything he had ever seen: a little waterfall and stream and small bridge and manicured pebbled paths and rocks and flowers and shrubs. It's so clean, he thought. So neat.

"Incredible," he said.

"'Nkerriberr?" she repeated helpfully.

"Nothing," he said. Then not knowing what else to do, he waved her away. Obediently she bowed politely and left.

Blackthorne sat in the warm sun, leaning against a post. Feeling very frail, he watched the old man weeding an already weedless garden. I wonder where the others are. Is the Captain-General still alive? How many days have I been asleep? I can remember waking and eating and sleeping again, the eating unsatisfactory like the dreams.

The children flurried past, chasing one another, and he was embarrassed for them at the gardener's nakedness, for when the man bent over or stooped you could see everything and he was astounded that the children appeared not to notice. He saw tiled and thatched roofs of other buildings over the wall and, far off, high mountains. A crisp wind broomed the sky and kept the cumulus advancing. Bees were foraging and it was a lovely spring day. His body begged for more sleep but he pushed himself erect and went to the garden door. The gardener smiled and bowed and ran to open the door and bowed and closed it after him.

The village was set around the crescent harbor that faced east, perhaps two hundred houses unlike any he'd ever seen nestling at the beginning of the mountain which spilled down to the shore. Above were terraced fields and dirt roads that led north and south. Below, the waterfront was cobbled and a stone launching ramp went from the shore into the sea. A good safe harbor and a stone jetty, and men and women cleaning fish and making nets, a uniquely designed boat being built at the northern side. There were islands far out to sea, to the east and to the south. The reefs would be there or beyond the horizon.

In the harbor were many other quaintly shaped boats, mostly fishing craft, some with one large sail, several being sculled—the oarsmen standing and pushing against the sea, not sitting and pulling as he would have done. A few of the boats were heading out to sea, others were nosing at the wooden dock, and Erasmus was anchored neatly, fifty yards from shore, in good water, with three bow cables. Who did that? he asked himself. There were boats alongside her and he could see native men aboard. But none of his. Where could they be?

He looked around the village and became conscious of the many people watching him. When they saw that he had noticed them they all bowed and, still uncomfortable, he bowed back. Once more there was happy activity and they passed to and fro, stopping, bargaining, bowing to each other, seemingly oblivious of him, like so many multicolored butterflies. But he felt eyes studying him from every window and doorway as he walked toward the shore.

What is it about them that's so weird? he asked himself. It's not just their clothes and behavior. It's—they've no weapons, he thought, astounded. No swords or guns! Why is that?

Open shops filled with odd goods and bales lined the small street. The floors of the shops were raised and the sellers and the buyers knelt or squatted on the clean wooden floors. He saw that most had clogs or rush sandals, some with the same white socks with the thick sole that were split between the big toe and the next to hold the thongs, but they left the clogs and sandals outside in the dirt. Those who were barefoot cleansed their feet and slipped on clean, indoor sandals that were waiting for them. That's very sensible if ...

Revue de presse

"Superbly crafted...grips the reader like a riptide...gets the juices flowing!"—Washington Star

"Exciting, totally absorbing...be prepared for late nights, meals unlasting, buisness unattended..."—Philadelphia Inquirer

"Adventure and action, the suspense of danger, shocking, touching human relationships...a climactic human story." —Los Angeles Times

“A tale surging with action, intrigue and love...a huge cast…vast and dramatic ...stunning…savage...beautiful...an extraordinary performance.”
Publishers Weekly

“I can’t remember when a novel has seized my mind like this one....It’s not only something you read–you live it.” –New York Times Book Review

Détails sur le produit

  • Format : Format Kindle
  • Taille du fichier : 2353 KB
  • Nombre de pages de l'édition imprimée : 1010 pages
  • Pagination - ISBN de l'édition imprimée de référence : 0385343248
  • Editeur : Dell; Édition : Reissue (19 février 2009)
  • Vendu par : Amazon Media EU S.à r.l.
  • Langue : Anglais
  • ASIN: B002UBRFDC
  • Synthèse vocale : Activée
  • X-Ray :
  • Word Wise: Activé
  • Moyenne des commentaires client : 3.9 étoiles sur 5  Voir tous les commentaires (12 commentaires client)
  • Classement des meilleures ventes d'Amazon: n°13.575 dans la Boutique Kindle (Voir le Top 100 dans la Boutique Kindle)
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Commentaires en ligne

3.9 étoiles sur 5
3.9 étoiles sur 5
Commentaires client les plus utiles
8 internautes sur 8 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Machiavel au Pays du Soleil Levant 19 janvier 2006
Format:Poche
L'arrivée au Japon du premier navigateur Anglais dans un Japon en pleine période de trouble politique pour la succession au pouvoir, et qui aboutira à la bataille de Sekihagara en 1600. Parfaite description de la vie japonaise et de la classe militaire à laquelle on déplorera l’ajout d’une histoire amoureuse romancée et incohérente historiquement et socialement pour les mœurs japonaises de l’époque. Le livre retrace avec une grande finesse les trésors de patience et les manœuvres politiques du seigneur Toranaga (le Tokugawa Iyeasu historique), dignes d’un Machiavel, avec le point de vue du parfait ignorant qu’est le héros et narrateur, pour notre plus grand plaisir.
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7 internautes sur 7 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Un barbare au Japon 30 mai 2004
Format:Broché
James Clavell livre ici une fresque épique au sens noble du terme sur le Japon médiéval, alors encore connu que des Jésuites Portugais qui essayaient de christianiser le pays. Or un navigateur Hollandais arrive par hasard sur les côtes et découvre un pays dont il adopte les coutumes, et se lie d'amitié avec un Shogun.
Clavell a une connaissance qu'on pourrait dire intime de ce pays et de ses coutumes, comme s'il y avait vécu.
Un livre pendant la lecture duquel on ne se lasse pas une minute.
De la grande littérature.
A lire en VO évidemment, le style est vraiment accessible à tout lecteur ayant un minimum l'habitude de lire en Anglais (ou Américain). Le vocabulaire de base sur le Japon est finalement assez réduit et facile à assimiler.
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3 internautes sur 3 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Une merveille ! 22 mai 2009
Format:Poche|Achat vérifié
Ce livre dense et intelligent nous projette dans la période de la grande guerre civile japonaise, la sengoku, en modifiant les noms mais en conservant les personnages. Nous découvrons toute la subtilité de ces seigneurs de guerre et de leurs alliances à double tranchant par les yeux du pilote anglais Blackthorne échoué au Japon, et par ceux des féodaux japonais eux-mêmes, manipulateurs et machiavéliques. Un grand roman d'aventure doublé d'une description très juste du Japon médieval et de ses conflits de pouvoir. Fascinant et impossible à lâcher.
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1 internautes sur 1 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 version originale 19 septembre 2012
Format:Broché|Achat vérifié
Le roman Shogun a été traduit en français.La traduction est trop littérale et ne rend pas la qualité de la version orinale en anglo américain.Por ceux qui dominent suffisamment la langue de Shakespeare je recommande la version originale.
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3 internautes sur 4 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
Format:Poche
saviez vous que James Clavel, qui a écrit ce livre, a survécu aux camps de concentration japonais durant la deuxième guerre mondiale?
Et pourtant, on sait aujourd'hui que ces camps étaient parmi les pires! Le taux de survie était des plus faibles.
Et l'auteur de ce livre est non seulement sorti vivant de ce camp, mais il est devenu un expert de la culture japonaise.
Ce livre est au coeur de la question. Il oppose sans arrêt le personnage occidental et le personnage oriental, leur mentalité et leur culture, et par cette opposition, tout doucement, il nous convainc de la beauté du monde et de la pensée orientale.
En plus, et bien sûr, il s'agit d'une grande aventure, d'une histoire d'amour passionnée, et d'une saga...
Donc cela ne peut que plaire à tout le monde non?
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5.0 étoiles sur 5 belle épopée 11 août 2014
Format:Format Kindle|Achat vérifié
un livre sur une période très interessante avec un choc des cultures toujours présent aujourd'hui.
une épopée avec des ramifications très riches, sans être trop brouillon, qui captive pendant toute la durée du livre (qui est un sacré pavé)
des livres comme on en fait plus beaucoup...
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