Commencez à lire Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal? sur votre Kindle dans moins d'une minute. Vous n'avez pas encore de Kindle ? Achetez-le ici Ou commencez à lire dès maintenant avec l'une de nos applications de lecture Kindle gratuites.

Envoyer sur votre Kindle ou un autre appareil

 
 
 

Essai gratuit

Découvrez gratuitement un extrait de ce titre

Envoyer sur votre Kindle ou un autre appareil

Tout le monde peut lire les livres Kindle, même sans un appareil Kindle, grâce à l'appli Kindle GRATUITE pour les smartphones, les tablettes et les ordinateurs.
Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal?
 
Agrandissez cette image
 

Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal? [Format Kindle]

Jeanette Winterson
4.4 étoiles sur 5  Voir tous les commentaires (8 commentaires client)

Prix conseillé : EUR 10,06 De quoi s'agit-il ?
Prix éditeur - format imprimé : EUR 12,05
Prix Kindle : EUR 7,04 TTC & envoi gratuit via réseau sans fil par Amazon Whispernet
Économisez : EUR 5,01 (42%)

Auteurs, publiez directement sur Kindle !

KDP
Via notre service de Publication Directe sur Kindle, publiez vous-même vos livres dans la boutique Kindle d'Amazon. C'est rapide, simple et totalement gratuit.




Les clients ayant acheté cet article ont également acheté


Descriptions du produit

Extrait

When my mother was angry with me, which was often, she said, ‘The Devil led us to the wrong crib.’
 
The image of Satan taking time off from the Cold War and McCarthyism to visit Manchester in 1960 – purpose of visit: to deceive Mrs Winterson – has a flamboyant theatricality to it. She was a flamboyant depressive; a woman who kept a revolver in the duster drawer, and the bullets in a tin of Pledge. A woman who stayed up all night baking cakes to avoid sleeping in the same bed as my father. A woman with a prolapse, a thyroid condition, an enlarged heart, an ulcerated leg that never healed, and two sets of false teeth – matt for everyday, and a pearlised set for ‘best’.
 
I do not know why she didn’t/couldn’t have children. I know that she adopted me because she wanted a friend (she had none), and because I was like a flare sent out into the world – a way of saying that she was here – a kind of X Marks the Spot.
 
She hated being a nobody, and like all children, adopted or not, I have had to live out some of her unlived life. We do that for our parents – we don’t really have any choice.
 
She was alive when my first novel, Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit, was published in 1985. It is semiautobiographical, in that it tells the story of a young girl adopted by Pentecostal parents. The girl is supposed to grow up and be a missionary. Instead she falls in love with a woman. Disaster. The girl leaves home, gets herself to Oxford University, returns home to find her mother has built a broadcast radio and is beaming out the Gospel to the heathen. The mother has a handle – she’s called ‘Kindly Light’.
 
The novel begins: ‘Like most people I lived for a long time with my mother and father. My father liked to watch the wrestling, my mother liked to wrestle.
 
For most of my life I’ve been a bare-knuckle fighter. The one who wins is the one who hits the hardest. I was beaten as a child and I learned early never to cry. If I was locked out overnight I sat on the doorstep till the milkman came, drank both pints, left the empty bottles to enrage my mother, and walked to school. We always walked. We had no car and no bus money. For me, the average was five miles a day: two miles for the round trip to school; three miles for the round trip to church.
 
Church was every night except Thursdays.
 
I wrote about some of these things in Oranges, and when it was published, my mother sent me a furious note in her immaculate copperplate handwriting demanding a phone call.
 
We hadn’t seen each other for several years. I had left Oxford, was scraping together a life, and had written Oranges young – I was twenty-five when it was published.
 
I went to a phone box – I had no phone. She went to a phone box – she had no phone.
 
I dialled the Accrington code and number as instructed, and there she was – who needs Skype? I could see her through her voice, her form solidifying in front of me as she talked.
 
She was a big woman, tallish and weighing around twenty stone. Surgical stockings, flat sandals, a Crimplene dress and a nylon headscarf. She would have done her face powder (keep yourself nice), but not lipstick (fast and loose).
 
She filled the phone box. She was out of scale, larger than life. She was like a fairy story where size is approximate and unstable. She loomed up. She expanded. Only later, much later, too late, did I understand how small she was to herself. The baby nobody picked up. The uncarried child still inside her.
 
But that day she was borne up on the shoulders of her own outrage. She said, ‘It’s the first time I’ve had to order a book in a false name.’
 
I tried to explain what I had hoped to do. I am an ambitious writer – I don’t see the point of being anything; no, not anything at all, if you have no ambition for it. 1985 wasn’t the day of the memoir – and in any case, I wasn’t writing one. I was trying to get away from the received idea that women always write about ‘experience’ – the compass of what they know – while men write wide and bold – the big canvas, the experiment with form. Henry James did no good when he said that Jane Austen wrote on four inches of ivory – i.e. tiny observant minutiae. Much the same was said of Emily Dickinson and Virginia Woolf. Those things made me angry. In any case, why could there not be experience and experiment? Why could there not be the observed and the imagined? Why should a woman be limited by anything or anybody? Why should a woman not be ambitious for literature? Ambitious for herself ?
 
Mrs Winterson was having none of it. She knew full well that writers were sex-crazed bohemians who broke the rules and didn’t go out to work. Books had been forbidden in our house – I’ll explain why later – and so for me to have written one, and had it published, and had it win a prize . . . and be standing in a phone box giving her a lecture on literature, a polemic on feminism . . .
 
The pips – more money in the slot – and I’m thinking, as her voice goes in and out like the sea, ‘Why aren’t you proud of me?’
 
The pips – more money in the slot – and I’m locked out and sitting on the doorstep again. It’s really cold and I’ve got a newspaper under my bum and I’m huddled in my duffel coat.
 
A woman comes by and I know her. She gives me a bag of chips. She knows what my mother is like.
 
Inside our house the light is on. Dad’s on the night shift, so she can go to bed, but she won’t sleep. She’ll read the Bible all night, and when Dad comes home, he’ll let me in, and he’ll say nothing, and she’ll say nothing, and we’ll act like it’s normal to leave your kid outside all night, and normal never to sleep with your husband. And normal to have two sets of false teeth, and a revolver in the duster drawer . . .
 
We’re still on the phone in our phone boxes. She tells me that my success is from the Devil, keeper of the wrong crib. She confronts me with the fact that I have used my own name in the novel – if it is a story, why is the main character called Jeanette?
 
Why?
 
I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t setting my story against hers. It was my survival from the very beginning. Adopted children are self-invented because we have to be; there is an absence, a void, a question mark at the very beginning of our lives. A crucial part of our story is gone, and violently, like a bomb in the womb.
 
The baby explodes into an unknown world that is only knowable through some kind of a story – of course that is how we all live, it’s the narrative of our lives, but adoption drops you into the story after it has started. It’s like reading a book with the first few pages missing. It’s like arriving after curtain up. The feeling that something is missing never, ever leaves you – and it can’t, and it shouldn’t, because something is missing.
 
That isn’t of its nature negative. The missing part, the missing past, can be an opening, not a void. It can be an entry as well as an exit. It is the fossil record, the imprint of another life, and although you can never have that life, your fingers trace the space where it might have been, and your fingers learn a kind of Braille.
 
There are markings here, raised like welts. Read them. Read the hurt. Rewrite them. Rewrite the hurt.
 
It’s why I am a writer – I don’t say ‘decided’ to be, or ‘became’. It was not an act of will or even a conscious choice. To avoid the narrow mesh of Mrs Winterson’s story I had to be able to tell my own. Part fact part fiction is what life is. And it is always a cover story. I wrote my way out.
 
She said, ‘But it’s not true . . .’
 
Truth? This was a woman who explained the flashdash of mice activity in the kitchen as ectoplasm.
 
There was a terraced house in Accrington, in Lancashire – we called those houses two-up twodown: two rooms downstairs, two rooms upstairs. Three of us lived together in that house for sixteen years. I told my version – faithful and invented, accurate and misremembered, shuffled in time. I told myself as hero like any shipwreck story. It was a shipwreck, and me thrown on the coastline of humankind, and finding it not altogether human, and rarely kind.
 
And I suppose that the saddest thing for me, thinking about the cover version that is Oranges, is that I wrote a story I could live with. The other one was too painful. I could not survive it.

Revue de presse

WINNER 2012 – Independent Booksellers’ Week Book Award (Adult Category)
WINNER 2012 – Stonewall Awards Writer of the Year
FINALIST 2012 – South Bank Sky Arts Awards—Literature Award
LONGLISTED 2011 – Green Carnation Prize
FINALIST 2013 – ABA Indies Choice Book Awards


“A fierce and funny exploration of her past and of what it means to belong.”
The Telegraph
 
“At every turn . . . her fresh, vivid way of putting things stops one dead in admiration.”
The New York Times
 
“She writes in flights of poetry. . . . She is equally deft with straightforward prose, in which she makes sharp, wry observations on her myriad themes—love, sex, technology, society, art, the life and death of the spirit.”
San Francisco Chronicle

“Blazingly good.”
Daily Mail
 
“Arguably the finest and most hopeful memoir to emerge in many years, and, as such, it really should not be missed.”
The Times
 
“Breathtaking: witty, biblical, chatty and vigorous all at once.... Powerful.”
Financial Times
 
“Remarkable…. Brave and beautiful, a testament to the forces of intelligence, heart and imagination. It is a marvellous book and a generous one.”
The Spectator

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.

Commentaires en ligne 

4.4 étoiles sur 5
4.4 étoiles sur 5
Commentaires client les plus utiles
3 internautes sur 3 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Un beau pied de nez à la sacro-sainte normalité 9 août 2012
Format:Broché|Achat vérifié
Oui, on peut être heureux en étant "anormal". D'une phrase terrible, crachée par une mère adoptive rigide et dominatrice, humiliée par les amours homosexuelles de sa fille unique, cette autobiographie démontre avec audace qu'aucune chaîne n'est trop pesante pour qui a juré de s'en défaire...
La petite fille d'ouvriers du nord de l'Angleterre, élevée dans l'attente du Jugement Dernier (je ne gâcherai pas le plaisir en en disant davantage...) découvrira le bonheur de la lecture et apprendra, envers et malgré son environnement, qu'elle n'est pas seule: il y aura toujours les mots.
A lire absolument, si vous aussi croyez au pouvoir rédempteur de la littérature...
Avez-vous trouvé ce commentaire utile ?
1 internautes sur 1 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 a must 24 janvier 2013
Par musik
Format:Broché|Achat vérifié
What an awesome title ! an unbelievable story, once you have started you can't stop, a live with books everywhere.
Avez-vous trouvé ce commentaire utile ?
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Very frank and touching book 11 mars 2014
Format:Broché|Achat vérifié
I am encouraged to read JW's other books having read this one. I heard her on the radio and liked what I heard so decided to find out more and was not disappointed. Life is clearly a lottery and a 'normal' childhood is far from guaranteed. Her beginnings led her to where she is today - a successful writer and highly educated woman but she sure as hell suffered enormously due to what can only be described as child abuse in her adoptive family in order to be able to write so eloquently about her experiences in later life. I look forward to reading 'Oranges'.
Avez-vous trouvé ce commentaire utile ?
5.0 étoiles sur 5 This is an excellent and moving true story. 13 février 2014
Par chrissie
Format:Broché|Achat vérifié
We heard Jeanette Winterson talking about her book recently on the radio (or You-Tube) and we very much wanted to read it - we have not been disappointed! Thank you Jeanette for this honest and moving account of your life and good luck for the future! We previously have seen the TV series, "Oranges are not the only fruit". This book is the reality.
Avez-vous trouvé ce commentaire utile ?
Vous voulez voir plus de commentaires sur cet article ?
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
Thème:
Première publication:
Aller s'identifier
 

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


Rechercher des articles similaires par rubrique