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The Thirteenth Tale (Anglais) Broché – 1 novembre 2007


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Extrait

The Letter

It was November. Although it was not yet late, the sky was dark when I turned into Laundress Passage. Father had finished for the day, switched off the shop lights and closed the shutters; but so I would not come home to darkness he had left on the light over the stairs to the flat. Through the glass in the door it cast a foolscap rectangle of paleness onto the wet pavement, and it was while I was standing in that rectangle, about to turn my key in the door, that I first saw the letter. Another white rectangle, it was on the fifth step from the bottom, where I couldn't miss it.

I closed the door and put the shop key in its usual place behind Bailey's Advanced Principles of Geometry. Poor Bailey. No one has wanted his fat gray book for thirty years. Sometimes I wonder what he makes of his role as guardian of the bookshop keys. I don't suppose it's the destiny he had in mind for the masterwork that he spent two decades writing.

A letter. For me. That was something of an event. The crisp-cornered envelope, puffed up with its thickly folded contents, was addressed in a hand that must have given the postman a certain amount of trouble. Although the style of the writing was old-fashioned, with its heavily embellished capitals and curly flourishes, my first impression was that it had been written by a child. The letters seemed untrained. Their uneven strokes either faded into nothing or were heavily etched into the paper. There was no sense of flow in the letters that spelled out my name. Each had been undertaken separately -- M A R G A R E T L E A -- as a new and daunting enterprise. But I knew no children. That is when I thought, It is the hand of an invalid.

It gave me a queer feeling. Yesterday or the day before, while I had been going about my business, quietly and in private, some unknown person -- some stranger -- had gone to the trouble of marking my name onto this envelope. Who was it who had had his mind's eye on me while I hadn't suspected a thing?

Still in my coat and hat, I sank onto the stair to read the letter. (I never read without making sure I am in a secure position. I have been like this ever since the age of seven when, sitting on a high wall and reading The Water Babies, I was so seduced by the descriptions of underwater life that I unconsciously relaxed my muscles. Instead of being held buoyant by the water that so vividly surrounded me in my mind, I plummeted to the ground and knocked myself out. I can still feel the scar under my fringe now. Reading can be dangerous.)

I opened the letter and pulled out a sheaf of half a dozen pages, all written in the same laborious script. Thanks to my work, I am experienced in the reading of difficult manuscripts. There is no great secret to it. Patience and practice are all that is required. That and the willingness to cultivate an inner eye. When you read a manuscript that has been damaged by water, fire, light or just the passing of the years, your eye needs to study not just the shape of the letters but other marks of production. The speed of the pen. The pressure of the hand on the page. Breaks and releases in the flow. You must relax. Think of nothing. Until you wake into a dream where you are at once a pen flying over vellum and the vellum itself with the touch of ink tickling your surface. Then you can read it. The intention of the writer, his thoughts, his hesitations, his longings and his meaning. You can read as clearly as if you were the very candlelight illuminating the page as the pen speeds over it.

Not that this letter was anything like as challenging as some. It began with a curt "Miss Lea"; thereafter the hieroglyphs resolved themselves quickly into characters, then words, then sentences.

This is what I read:

I once did an interview for the Banbury Herald. I must look it out one of these days, for the biography. Strange chap they sent me. A boy, really. As tall as a man, but with the puppy fat of youth. Awkward in his new suit. The suit was brown and ugly and meant for a much older man. The collar, the cut, the fabric, all wrong. It was the kind of thing a mother might buy for a boy leaving school for his first job, imagining that her child will somehow grow into it. But boys do not leave their boyhood behind when they leave off their school uniform.

There was something in his manner. An intensity. The moment I set eyes on him, I thought, "Aha, what's he after?"

I've nothing against people who love truth. Apart from the fact that they make dull companions. Just so long as they don't start on about storytelling and honesty, the way some of them do. Naturally that annoys me. But provided they leave me alone, I won't hurt them.

My gripe is not with lovers of the truth but with truth herself. What succor, what consolation is there in truth, compared to a story? What good is truth, at midnight, in the dark, when the wind is roaring like a bear in the chimney? When the lightning strikes shadows on the bedroom wall and the rain taps at the window with its long fingernails? No. When fear and cold make a statue of you in your bed, don't expect hard-boned and fleshless truth to come running to your aid. What you need are the plump comforts of a story. The soothing, rocking safety of a lie.

Some writers don't like interviews of course. They get cross about it. "Same old questions," they complain. Well, what do they expect? Reporters are hacks. We writers are the real thing. Just because they always ask the same questions, it doesn't mean we have to give them the same old answers, does it? I mean, making things up, it's what we do for a living. So I give dozens of interviews a year. Hundreds over the course of a lifetime. For I have never believed that genius needs to be locked away out of sight to thrive. My genius is not so frail a thing that it cowers from the dirty fingers of the newspapermen.

In the early years they used to try to catch me out. They would do research, come along with a little piece of truth concealed in their pocket, draw it out at an opportune moment and hope to startle me into revealing more. I had to be careful. Inch them in the direction I wanted them to take, use my bait to draw them gently, imperceptibly, toward a prettier story than the one they had their eye on. A delicate operation. Their eyes would start to shine, and their grasp on the little chip of truth would loosen, until it dropped from their hand and fell, disregarded, by the wayside. It never failed. A good story is always more dazzling than a broken piece of truth.
Afterward, once I became famous, the Vida Winter interview became a sort of rite of passage for journalists. They knew roughly what to expect, would have been disappointed to leave without the story. A quick run through the normal questions (Where do you get your inspiration? Are your characters based on real people? How much of your main character is you?) and the shorter my answers the better they liked it. (Inside my head. No. None.) Then, the bit they were waiting for, the thing they had really come for. A dreamy, expectant look stole across their faces. They were like little children at bedtime. And you, Miss Winter, they said. Tell me about yourself.

And I told. Simple little stories really, not much to them. Just a few strands, woven together in a pretty pattern, a memorable motif here, a couple of sequins there. Mere scraps from the bottom of my ragbag. Hundreds more where they came from. Offcuts from novels and stories, plots that never got finished, stillborn characters, picturesque locations I never found a use for. Odds and ends that fell out in the editing. Then it's just a matter of neatening the edges, stitching in the ends, and it's done. Another brand-new biography.

They went away happy, clutching their notebooks in their paws like children with sweets at the end of a birthday party. It would be something to tell their grandchildren. "One day I met Vida Winter, and she told me a story."

Anyway, the boy from the Banbury Herald. He said, "Miss Winter, tell me the truth." Now, what kind of appeal is that? I've had people devise all kinds of stratagems to trick me into telling, and I can spot them a mile off, but that? Laughable. I mean, whatever did he expect?

A good question. What did he expect? His eyes were glistening with an intent fever. He watched me so closely. Seeking. Probing. He was after something quite specific, I was sure of it. His forehead was damp with perspiration. Perhaps he was sickening for something. Tell me the truth, he said.

I felt a strange sensation inside. Like the past coming to life. The watery stirring of a previous life turning in my belly, creating a tide that rose in my veins and sent cool wavelets to lap at my temples. The ghastly excitement of it. Tell me the truth.

I considered his request. I turned it over in my mind, weighed up the likely consequences. He disturbed me, this boy, with his pale face and his burning eyes.

"All right," I said.

An hour later he was gone. A faint, absentminded good-bye and no backward glance.

I didn't tell him the truth. How could I? I told him a story. An impoverished, malnourished little thing. No sparkle, no sequins, just a few dull and faded patches, roughly tacked together with the edges left frayed. The kind of story that looks like real life. Or what people imagine real life to be, which is something rather different. It's not easy for someone of my talent to produce a story like that.

I watched him from the window. He shuffled away up the street, shoulders drooping, head bowed, each step a weary effort. All that energy, the charge, the verve, gone. I had killed it. Not that I take all the blame. He should have known better than to believe me.

I never saw him again.

That feeling I had, the current in my stomach, my temples, my fingertips -- it remained with me for quite a while. It rose and fell, with the memory of the boy's words. Tell me the truth. "No,"... --Ce texte fait référence à une édition épuisée ou non disponible de ce titre.

Revue de presse

“Confident, creepy and absorbing.” —Sunday Times (UK)

“Whimsical, moving and consciously nostalgic, Diane Setterfield knows the limits of enchantment, even as she tries to break them.” —Times Literary Supplement

“Graceful storytelling.” - Publishers Weekly
“A gothic novel . . . [that] grabs the reader with its damp, icy fingers and doesn't let go until the last shocking secret has been revealed. . . . Setterfield's first novel is equally suited to a rainy afternoon on the couch or a summer day on the beach.” —Library Journal
“[This] is a book for people who both love books and know the importance of stories… Diane Setterfield works that magic in her book. . . . Setterfield spins her tale with the skill and confidence of a born storyteller. . . . If the reader craves stories, Setterfield’s tale will satisfy their hunger. A solid debut from a writer readers will want to hear more from.” — Edmonton Journal

"Setterfield has crafted an homage to the romantic heroines of du Maurier, Collins and the Brontes ... enchanting Goth for the 21st century."
Kirkus

"Diane Setterfield has created a remarkably compelling debut… Although The Thirteenth Tale has a trance-like feel, the plot is razor-sharp and becomes more complex towards the end; the twists and turns in the final few chapters of this novel demand that the reader pay close attention to every word before being left shaken and surprised by the turn of events…. This is an extraordinary, unusual and atmospheric story with a sense of timelessness about it. It is rare to be able to smell a book as well as read it, but this one is steeped in the aroma of old houses in remote places with strange faded furnishings and little natural light. It will appeal to anybody with a love of literature and a passion for the feel and smell of old books."
Scotland on Sunday

"The Thirteenth Tale is a cleverly plotted, beautifully written homage to the classic romantic mystery novel… Gothic elements are skilfully re-imagined in a peculiar tale of madness, murder, incest and dark secrets…. It is a remarkable first book, a book about the joy of books, a riveting multi-layered mystery that twists and turns, and weaves a quite magical spell for most of its length."
The Independent

"A remarkable first novel… a reader’s dream… Only five short chapters into Setterfield’s deft, enthralling narrative, her readers too have been transported… Richly atmospheric and deeply satisfying… Old-fashioned in the best sense, it’s an urgently readable novel that’s nearly impossible to put down."
Barnes & Noble Recommends --Ce texte fait référence à une édition épuisée ou non disponible de ce titre.



Détails sur le produit

  • Broché: 480 pages
  • Editeur : Orion (an Imprint of The Orion Publishing Group Ltd ); Édition : New Ed (1 novembre 2007)
  • Langue : Anglais
  • ISBN-10: 0752881671
  • ISBN-13: 978-0752881676
  • Dimensions du produit: 13 x 3,1 x 19,8 cm
  • Moyenne des commentaires client : 4.6 étoiles sur 5  Voir tous les commentaires (23 commentaires client)
  • Classement des meilleures ventes d'Amazon: 137.220 en Livres (Voir les 100 premiers en Livres)
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24 internautes sur 24 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile  Par Mark Wakely le 23 octobre 2006
Format: Relié
When a first novel is immediately (and enthusiastically) compared to the works of such literary luminaries as the Bronte sisters, Jane Austen and Charles Dickens, a large dose of skepticism is in order. I read this book with a jaundiced eye, expecting to eventually uncover at least one unconvincing character, a plot twist that failed to surprise, or a passage less than vivid, unworthy of the masters.

I did not.

Diane Setterfield's The Thirteenth Tale carries the reader along like a turbulent river, with unexpected eddies and undertows you can't escape. The characters are absolutely true to the worlds of Dickens and Austen, but they're originals, not derivatives. They grieve and you do, they rejoice and you do, they die and you do- almost. The whole atmosphere of the book is powerful and sweeping, in the manner of Henry James or even Joseph Conrad. (Well, minus all those ships, of course.) If I had to pick one story that gave the same overall effect as Setterfield's book, I'd pick The Turn of the Screw, since the ghost element in Setterfield's book is equally shocking and unique, although James's classic novella lacks the grand span and scope of The Thirteenth Tale. Then again, Setterfield's characters could just as easily find a home in Dickens' dangerous London squalor or in the halls of a Bronte mansion, the air thick with secrets and heavy with troubled specters anxious to make themselves known.

Intriguing, daring and even downright heart pounding at times, The Thirteenth Tale might well give you nightmares at the end, but they'll be the best- and most original- nightmares you've ever had.

-Mark Wakely, author of An Audience for Einstein
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13 internautes sur 13 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile  Par Ceridwenn le 16 octobre 2008
Format: Broché Achat vérifié
J'ai vraiment aimé ce livre qui nous emporte dans le passé d'une auteur à succès pleine de secrets. Une atmosphère proche des classiques anglais du 19e siècle avec cette grande maison isolée "in the Moors", ce qui n'est pas sans rappeler Wuthering Heights(les Hauts de Hurlevent). L'intrigue est bien ficelée et ne déçoit pas! L'auteur nous fait voyager entre passé et présent avec une narratrice qui a elle aussi sa part de secret. Si vous aimez les histoires de famille et les histoires en général, ce livre est pour vous.
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9 internautes sur 9 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile  Par Amie Mouneimne le 17 juillet 2009
Format: Broché Achat vérifié
This story was written with such intelligence and depth. Throughout the book there is a creepy under toe pulling at you like a slow but strong current. The characters are three-dimensional, vivid, real. You feel like the only privileged soul with access to this secret history. Every untied knot gets tied by the end but leaves you craving for more. It's a story that leaves a residue. You will find yourself contemplating the characters and everything that happened for a good day or two. A little time is needed before you feel ready to start another book! I can't wait to see what she writes next. Thank you!
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2 internautes sur 2 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile  Par La revue littéraire des copines le 27 janvier 2011
Format: Broché Achat vérifié
Margret Lea vit et travaille dans la boutique de livres anciens de son père ; elle rédige également des essais sur des personnes mortes et oubliées retrouvées dans des documents anciens et dont elle retrace la biographie. C'est en cette qualité de biographe que Vida Winter, une auteure à succès fait appel à elle. Vida Winter et célèbre pour ses entretiens et pour les interviews qu'elle a données tout au long de sa carrière. Chaque journaliste voulait aller chercher son « histoire », car jamais Vida Winter n'a raconté ou écrit quoi que ce soit de vrai. Mais à la fin de sa vie, elle ressent le besoin de tout dire.

Margaret Lea va donc se retrouver embarquée dans une époque révolue pour dissiper le mystère qui enveloppe cette célébrité et il va lui falloir faire la part des choses entre ce qui est vrai et ce qui tient du conte. Quel est donc ce treizième conte qui n'a jamais été publié ?

Cette histoire de famille et de fantômes a un côté suranné qui l'a fait comparer à Jane Eyre, l'environnement des Moors anglais et d'une grande demeure victorienne s'y prêtent bien, alors pourquoi pas.

J'ai pris du plaisir à lire ce livre, je n'irais cependant pas jusqu'à dire que j'ai adoré. J'y ai trouvé quelques longueurs. L'intrigue est très bien fichue, les personnages sont intéressants, mais j'ai l'impression que pour ce qui est de l'histoire, elle est allée un peu trop loin et on a un peu de peine à y croire.

Lecture agréable
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2 internautes sur 2 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile  Par Léa33 le 9 avril 2010
Format: Broché Achat vérifié
Impossible de lâcher ce livre une fois qu'on l'a commencé.
L'histoire est brillamment construite, avec ce récit à 2 niveaux, celui de la narratrice et celui de Vida Winter.
Les personnages sont fascinants et le fait de ne pas être capable de situer précisemment à quelle époque se déroulent les faits pourrait être frustrant ou déroutant, or c'est tout le contraire, cela rajoute de la magie et du mystère à l'intrigue.
Quant au dénouement final, je m'en souviendrai très très longtemps !

Allez y les yeux fermés, vous passerez un excellent moment.
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