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The Memory Keeper's Daughter [Anglais] [Broché]

Kim Edwards
4.6 étoiles sur 5  Voir tous les commentaires (7 commentaires client)
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Description de l'ouvrage

26 avril 2007
The multi-million copy bestseller, Kim Edwards' The Memory Keeper's Daughter is a moving and poignant novel about grief, family and betrayal.Families have secrets they hide even from themselves...It should have been an ordinary birth, the start of an ordinary happy family. But the night Dr David Henry delivers his wife's twins is a night that will haunt five lives for ever.For though David's son is a healthy boy, his daughter has Down's syndrome. And, in a shocking act of betrayal whose consequences only time will reveal, he tells his wife their daughter died while secretly entrusting her care to a nurse.As grief quietly tears apart David's family, so a little girl must make her own way in the world as best she can.'Crafted with language so lovely you have to reread the passages just to be captivated all over again . . . this is simply a beautiful book' Jodi Picoult 'I loved this riveting story with its intricate characters and beautiful language' Sue Monk Kidd, author of the best-selling, The Secret Life of Bees Kim Edwards is the author of the short-story collection The Secrets of the Fire King, which was an alternate for the 1998 PEN/Hemingway Award, and has won the Whiting Award and the Nelson Algren Award. Her second novel, The Lake of Dreams, is available from Penguin. She is an assistant professor of English at the University of Kentucky.

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Descriptions du produit

Extrait

1964
March 1964
I

THE SNOW STARTED TO FALL SEVERAL HOURS BEFORE HER labor began. A few flakes first, in the dull gray late-afternoon sky, and then wind-driven swirls and eddies around the edges of their wide front porch. He stood by her side at the window, watching sharp gusts of snow billow, then swirl and drift to the ground. All around the neighborhood, lights came on, and the naked branches of the trees turned white.

After dinner he built a fire, venturing out into the weather for wood he had piled against the garage the previous autumn. The air was bright and cold against his face, and the snow in the driveway was already halfway to his knees. He gathered logs, shaking off their soft white caps and carrying them inside. The kindling in the iron grate caught fire immediately, and he sat for a time on the hearth, cross-legged, adding logs and watching the flames leap, blue-edged and hypnotic. Outside, snow continued to fall quietly through the darkness, as bright and thick as static in the cones of light cast by the streetlights. By the time he rose and looked out the window, their car had become a soft white hill on the edge of the street. Already his footprints in the driveway had filled and disappeared.

He brushed ashes from his hands and sat on the sofa beside his wife, her feet propped on pillows, her swollen ankles crossed, a copy of Dr. Spock balanced on her belly. Absorbed, she licked her index finger absently each time she turned a page. Her hands were slender, her fingers short and sturdy, and she bit her bottom lip lightly, intently, as she read. Watching her, he felt a surge of love and wonder: that she was his wife, that their baby, due in just three weeks, would soon be born. Their first child, this would be. They had been married just a year.

She looked up, smiling, when he tucked the blanket around her legs.

"You know, I've been wondering what it's like," she said. "Before we're born, I mean. It's too bad we can't remember." She opened her robe and pulled up the sweater she wore underneath, revealing a belly as round and hard as a melon. She ran her hand across its smooth surface, firelight playing across her skin, casting reddish gold onto her hair. "Do you suppose it's like being inside a great lantern? The book says light permeates my skin, that the baby can already see."

"I don't know," he said.

She laughed. "Why not?" she asked. "You're the doctor."

"I'm just an orthopedic surgeon," he reminded her. "I could tell you the ossification pattern for fetal bones, but that's about it." He lifted her foot, both delicate and swollen inside the light blue sock, and began to massage it gently: the powerful tarsal bone of her heel, the metatarsals and the phalanges, hidden beneath skin and densely layered muscles like a fan about to open. Her breathing filled the quiet room, her foot warmed his hands, and he imagined the perfect, secret, symmetry of bones. In pregnancy she seemed to him beautiful but fragile, fine blue veins faintly visible through her pale white skin.

It had been an excellent pregnancy, without medical restrictions. Even so, he had not been able to make love to her for several months. He found himself wanting to protect her instead, to carry her up flights of stairs, to wrap her in blankets, to bring her cups of custard. "I'm not an invalid," she protested each time, laughing. "I'm not some fledgling you discovered on the lawn." Still, she was pleased by his attentions. Sometimes he woke and watched her as she slept: the flutter of her eyelids, the slow even movement of her chest, her outflung hand, small enough that he could enclose it completely with his own.

She was eleven years younger than he was. He had first seen her not much more than a year ago, as she rode up an escalator in a department store downtown, one gray November Saturday while he was buying ties. He was thirty-three years old and new to Lexington, Kentucky, and she had risen out of the crowd like some kind of vision, her blond hair swept back in an elegant chignon, pearls glimmering at her throat and on her ears. She was wearing a coat of dark green wool, and her skin was clear and pale. He stepped onto the escalator, pushing his way upward through the crowd, struggling to keep her in sight. She went to the fourth floor, lingerie and hosiery. When he tried to follow her through aisles dense with racks of slips and brassieres and panties, all glimmering softly, a sales clerk in a navy blue dress with a white collar stopped him, smiling, to ask if she could help. A robe, he said, scanning the aisles until he caught sight of her hair, a dark green shoulder, her bent head revealing the elegant pale curve of her neck. A robe for my sister who lives in New Orleans. He had no sister, of course, or any living family that he acknowledged.

The clerk disappeared and came back a moment later with three robes in sturdy terry cloth. He chose blindly, hardly glancing down, taking the one on top. Three sizes, the clerk was saying, and a better selection of colors next month, but he was already in the aisle, a coral-colored robe draped over his arm, his shoes squeaking on the tiles as he moved impatiently between the other shoppers to where she stood.

She was shuffling through the stacks of expensive stockings, sheer colors shining through slick cellophane windows: taupe, navy, a maroon as dark as pig's blood. The sleeve of her green coat brushed his and he smelled her perfume, something delicate and yet pervasive, something like the dense pale petals of lilacs outside the window of the student rooms he'd once occupied in Pittsburgh. The squat windows of his basement apartment were always grimy, opaque with steel-factory soot and ash, but in the spring there were lilacs blooming, sprays of white and lavender pressing against the glass, their scent drifting in like light.

He cleared his throat—he could hardly breathe—and held up the terry cloth robe, but the clerk behind the counter was laughing, telling a joke, and she did not notice him. When he cleared his throat again she glanced at him, annoyed, then nodded at her customer, now holding three thin packages of stockings like giant playing cards in her hand.

"I'm afraid Miss Asher was here first," the clerk said, cool and haughty.

Their eyes met then, and he was startled to see they were the same dark green as her coat. She was taking him in—the solid tweed overcoat, his face clean-shaven and flushed with cold, his trim fingernails. She smiled, amused and faintly dismissive, gesturing to the robe on his arm.

"For your wife?" she asked. She spoke with what he recognized as a genteel Kentucky accent, in this city of old money where such distinctions mattered. After just six months in town, he already knew this. "It's all right, Jean," she went on, turning back to the clerk. "Go on and take him first. This poor man must feel lost and awkward, in here with all the lace." "It's for my sister," he told her, desperate to reverse the bad impression he was making. It had happened to him often here; he was too forward or direct and gave offense. The robe slipped to the floor and he bent to pick it up, his face flushing as he rose. Her gloves were lying on the glass, her bare hands folded lightly next to them. His discomfort seemed to soften her, for when he met her eyes again, they were kind.

He tried again. "I'm sorry. I don't seem to know what I'm doing. And I'm in a hurry. I'm a doctor. I'm late to the hospital."

Her smiled changed then, grew serious.

"I see," she said, turning back to the clerk. "Really, Jean, do take him first."

She agreed to see him again, writing her name and phone number in the perfect script she'd been taught in third grade, her teacher an ex-nun who had engraved the rules of penmanship in her small charges. Each letter has a shape, she told them, one shape in the world and no other, and it is your responsibility to make it perfect. Eight years old, pale and skinny, the woman in the green coat who would become his wife had clenched her small fingers around the pen and practiced cursive writing alone in her room, hour after hour, until she wrote with the exquisite fluidity of running water. Later, listening to that story, he would imagine her head bent beneath the lamplight, her fingers in a painful cluster around the pen, and he would wonder at her tenacity, her belief in beauty and in the authoritative voice of the ex-nun. But on that day he did not know any of this. On that day he carried the slip of paper in the pocket of his white coat through one sickroom after another, remembering her letters flowing one into another to form the perfect shape of her name. He phoned her that same evening and took her to dinner the next night, and three months later they were married.

Now, in these last months of her pregnancy, the soft coral robe fit her perfectly. She had found it packed away and had held it up to show him. But your sister died so long ago, she exclaimed, suddenly puzzled, and for an instant he had frozen, smiling, the lie from a year before darting like a dark bird through the room. Then he shrugged, sheepish. I had to say something, he told her. I had to find a way to get your name. She smiled then, and crossed the room and embraced him.

The snow fell. For the next few hours, they read and talked. Sometimes she caught his hand and put it on her belly to feel the baby move. From time to time he got up to feed the fire, glancing out the window to see three inches on the ground, then five or six. The streets were softened and quiet, and there were few cars.

At eleven she rose and went to bed. He stayed downstairs, reading the latest issue of The Journal of Bone and Joint Surgery. He was known to be a very good doctor, with a talent for diagnosis and a reputation for skillful work. He had graduated first in his class.

Still, h...

--Ce texte fait référence à l'édition Broché .

Revue de presse

Crafted with language so lovely you have to reread the passages just to be captivated all over again . . . this is simply a beautiful book (Jodi Picoult)

I loved this riveting story with its intricate characters and beautiful language (Sue Monk Kidd, author of the best-selling The Secret Life of Bees)

Détails sur le produit

  • Broché: 432 pages
  • Editeur : Penguin; Édition : Reprint (26 avril 2007)
  • Langue : Anglais
  • ISBN-10: 0141030143
  • ISBN-13: 978-0141030142
  • Dimensions du produit: 12,9 x 2,6 x 19,8 cm
  • Moyenne des commentaires client : 4.6 étoiles sur 5  Voir tous les commentaires (7 commentaires client)
  • Classement des meilleures ventes d'Amazon: 34.369 en Livres anglais et étrangers (Voir les 100 premiers en Livres anglais et étrangers)
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THE SNOW STARTED TO FALL SEVERAL HOURS BEFORE HER labor began. Lire la première page
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Couverture | Copyright | Extrait | Quatrième de couverture
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4 internautes sur 4 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 IT TOUCHES THE HEART 5 juillet 2007
Format:Broché
The gardens all along the alley were thick with flowers, hollyhocks and irises in every colour, their white and purple tongues vivid against the grass. In the garden a woman was working, tending a row of lush tomato plants. A hedge of lilac bushes grew up behind her, the leaves flashing their pale green undersides in a breeze that pushed the hot air without cooling it." "Is that her?" Paul asked

This is a touching story that goes right to the heart. As I read it I could not help seeing myself in these circumstances and wondering how I would have handled such a challenge, if it came my way.
Dr.David Henry and his wife Norah are a bright and almost perfect couple, but things are likely to change as she gives birth, at least a year after their marriage. When Norah gives birth to a twin, Dr. Henry does the delivery and the first child makes her debut into the world. Right away David notices that the child is a victim of Down's syndrome. With panic in his heart he gives the child to one of the nurses Caroline, asking her to take it to an infirmary, where she would be looked after with expert care. Following the birth of the second child David must tell his wife something about the first child so he decides to tell her that the child was born dead. This story hinges on this little girl's entrance into this world. You will see how the telling of one lie has influenced the life of so many people in this book. It's unbelievable.
I recommend this book as a gift for anyone.
Heather Marshall Negahdar (SUGAR-CANE 24-03-2010)
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3 internautes sur 3 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
4.0 étoiles sur 5 Une histoire bien racontée, pleine de tact 6 novembre 2011
Format:Format Kindle|Achat authentifié par Amazon
En lisant le résumé "un père abandonne son enfant trisomique en racontant a la mère que sa fille est morte a la naissance, se secret pèse sur leur vie de couple et de famille", j'ai pensé que j'allais rapidement m'ennuyer. Ce n'est pas la cas. Les chapitres racontant la vie de cette famille Henry qui se dissous sont mis en regard avec la vie d'une autre famille qui se construit, la famille adoptive de Phoebe. Le thème est émouvant mais on ne tombe pas dans le mélo. Les sentiments sont biens décrits, et on est continuellement tenus en suspens: le secret va-t-il finalement être révélé ?
Un quatre étoile seulement car il y a parfois quelques longueurs surtout sur la fin.
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2 internautes sur 2 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Magnifique 7 décembre 2008
Par meloock
Format:Broché
Un livre que j'ai dévoré en français, un petit pavé qui se déguste tout s'implement. En fançais "l'enfant de tous les silences".
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1 internautes sur 1 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Un livre que j'ai lu traduit en français...Excellent 17 novembre 2008
Format:Broché
L'enfant de tous les silences de Kim Edwards, traduit en français....un ouvrage épais mais absolument passionnant. Je le conseille.
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