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Wool [Anglais] [Relié]

Hugh Howey
4.2 étoiles sur 5  Voir tous les commentaires (23 commentaires client)
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Descriptions du produit



The children were playing while Holston climbed to his death; he could hear them squealing as only happy children do. While they thundered about frantically above, Holston took his time, each step methodical and ponderous, as he wound his way around and around the spiral staircase, old boots ringing out on metal treads.

The treads, like his father’s boots, showed signs of wear. Paint clung to them in feeble chips, mostly in the corners and undersides, where they were safe. Traffic elsewhere on the staircase sent dust shivering off in small clouds. Holston could feel the vibrations in the railing, which was worn down to the gleaming metal. That always amazed him: how centuries of bare palms and shuffling feet could wear down solid steel. One molecule at a time, he supposed. Each life might wear away a single layer, even as the silo wore away that life.

Each step was slightly bowed from generations of traffic, the edge rounded down like a pouting lip. In the center, there was almost no trace of the small diamonds that once gave the treads their grip. Their absence could only be inferred from the pattern to either side, the small pyramidal bumps rising from the flat steel with their crisp edges and flecks of paint.

Holston lifted an old boot to an old step, pressed down, and did it again. He lost himself in what the untold years had done, the ablation of molecules and lives, layers and layers ground to fine dust. And he thought, not for the first time, that neither life nor staircase had been meant for such an existence. The tight confines of that long spiral, threading through the buried silo like a straw in a glass, had not been built for such abuse. Like much of their cylindrical home, it seemed to have been made for other purposes, for functions long since forgotten. What was now used as a thoroughfare for thousands of people, moving up and down in repetitious daily cycles, seemed more apt in Holston’s view to be used only in emergencies and perhaps by mere dozens.

Another floor went by—-a pie-shaped division of dormitories. As Holston ascended the last few levels, this last climb he would ever take, the sounds of childlike delight rained down even louder from above. This was the laughter of youth, of souls who had not yet come to grips with where they lived, who did not yet feel the press of the earth on all sides, who in their minds were not buried at all, but alive. Alive and unworn, dripping happy sounds down the stairwell, trills that were incongruous with Holston’s actions, his decision and determination to go outside.

As he neared the upper level, one young voice rang out above the others, and Holston remembered being a child in the silo—-all the schooling and the games. Back then, the stuffy concrete cylinder had felt, with its floors and floors of apartments and workshops and hydroponic gardens and purification rooms with their tangles of pipes, like a vast universe, a wide expanse one could never fully explore, a labyrinth he and his friends could get lost in forever.

But those days were more than thirty years distant. Holston’s childhood now felt like something two or three lifetimes ago, something someone else had enjoyed. Not him. He had an entire lifetime as sheriff weighing heavy, blocking off that past. And more recently, there was this third stage of his life—-a secret life beyond childhood and being sheriff. It was the last layers of himself ground to dust; three years spent silently waiting for what would never come, each day longer than any month from his happier lifetimes.

At the top of the spiral stairway, Holston’s hand ran out of railing. The curvy bar of worn steel ended as the stairwell emptied into the widest rooms of the entire silo complex: the cafeteria and the adjoining lounge. The playful squeals were level with him now. Darting bright shapes zagged between scattered chairs, playing chase. A handful of adults tried to contain the chaos. Holston saw Emma picking up scattered chalk and crayon from the stained tiles. Her husband, Clarke, sat behind a table arranged with cups of juice and bowls of cornflour cookies. He waved at Holston from across the room.

Holston didn’t think to wave back, didn’t have the energy or the desire. He looked past the adults and playing children to the blurry view beyond, projected on the cafeteria wall. It was the largest uninterrupted vista of their inhospitable world. A morning scene. Dawn’s dim light coated lifeless hills that had hardly changed since Holston was a boy. They sat, just as they always had, while he had gone from playing chase among the cafeteria tables to whatever empty thing he was now. And beyond the stately rolling crests of these hills, the top of a familiar and rotting skyline caught the morning rays in feeble glints. Ancient glass and steel stood distantly where people, it was suspected, had once lived aboveground.

A child, ejected from the group like a comet, bumped into Holston’s knees. He looked down and moved to touch the kid—-Susan’s boy—-but just like a comet the child was gone again, pulled back into the orbit of the others.

Holston thought suddenly of the lottery he and Allison had won the year of her death. He still had the ticket; he carried it everywhere. One of these kids—-maybe he or she would be two by now and tottering after the older children—-could’ve been theirs. They had dreamed, like all parents do, of the double fortune of twins. They had tried, of course. After her implant was removed, they had spent night after glorious night trying to redeem that ticket, other parents wishing them luck, other lottery hopefuls silently praying for an empty year to pass.

Knowing they only had a year, he and Allison had invited superstition into their lives, looking to anything for help. Tricks, like hanging garlic over the bed, that supposedly increased fertility; two dimes under the mattress for twins; a pink ribbon in Allison’s hair; smudges of blue dye under Holston’s eyes—-all of it ridiculous and desperate and fun. The only thing crazier would have been to not try everything, to leave some silly séance or tale untested.

But it wasn’t to be. Before their year was even out, the lottery had passed to another couple. It hadn’t been for a lack of trying; it had been a lack of time. A sudden lack of wife.

Holston turned away from the games and the blurry view and walked toward his office, situated between the cafeteria and the silo’s airlock. As he covered that ground, his thoughts went to the struggle that once took place there, a struggle of ghosts he’d had to walk through every day for the last three years. And he knew, if he turned and hunted that expansive view on the wall, if he squinted past the ever-worsening blur of cloudy camera lenses and airborne grime, if he followed that dark crease up the hill, that wrinkle that worked its way over the muddy dune toward the city beyond, he could pick out her quiet form. There, on that hill, his wife could be seen. She lay like a sleeping boulder, the air and toxins wearing away at her, her arms curled under her head.


It was difficult to see, hard to make out clearly even back before the blurring had begun anew. And besides, there was little to trust in that sight. There was much, in fact, to doubt. So Holston simply chose not to look. He walked through that place of his wife’s ghostly struggle, where bad memories lay eternal, that scene of her sudden madness, and entered his office.

“Well, look who’s up early,” Marnes said, smiling.

Holston’s deputy closed a metal drawer on the filing cabinet, a lifeless cry singing from its ancient joints. He picked up a steaming mug, then noted Holston’s solemn demeanor. “You feeling okay, boss?”

Holston nodded. He pointed to the rack of keys behind the desk. “Holding cell,” he said.

The deputy’s smile drooped into a confused frown. He set down the mug and turned to retrieve the key. While his back was turned, Holston rubbed the sharp, cool steel in his palm one last time, then placed the star flat on the desk. Marnes turned and held out the key. Holston took it.

“You need me to grab the mop?” Deputy Marnes jabbed a thumb back toward the cafeteria. Unless someone was in cuffs, they only went into the cell to clean it.

“No,” Holston said. He jerked his head toward the holding cell, beckoning his deputy to follow.

He turned, the chair behind the desk squeaking as Marnes rose to join him, and Holston completed his march. The key slid in with ease. There was a sharp clack from the well-built and well-maintained inner organs of the door, the barest squeak from the hinges, a determined step, a shove and a clank, and the ordeal was over.


Holston held the key between the bars. Marnes looked down at it, unsure, but his palm came up to accept.

“What’s going on, boss?”

“Get the mayor,” Holston said. He let out a sigh, that heavy breath he’d been holding for three years.

“Tell her I want to go outside.”


The view from the holding cell wasn’t as blurry as it had been in the cafeteria, and Holston spent his final day in the silo puzzling over this. Could it be that the camera on that side was shielded against the toxic wind? Did each cleaner, condemned to death, put more care into preserving the view they’d enjoyed on their last day? Or was the extra effort a gift to the next cleaner, who would spend their final day in that same cell?

Holston preferred this last explanation. It made him think longingly of his wife. It reminded him why he was there, on the wrong side of those bars, and willingly.

As his thoughts drifted to Allison, he sat and stared out at the dead world some ancient peoples had left behin... --Ce texte fait référence à l'édition Broché .

Revue de presse

"Wool is ace and YAY it's a trilogy." (Stuff magazine)

"I picked the serious up after the publication of Wool and Shift, and found myself counting the days until Dust came out in October." (Observer)

"A thrilling sci-fi novel, equally adept at world-building, pulling the rug out from under its readers, and commenting in classic sci-fi fashion on our own present day." (The Slate)

"Spoken about in the same breath as The Hunger Games and The Passage." (Independent on Sunday)

"Howey can really write ... frightening, intriguing, and mysterious ... it's easy to see why Wool captured readers so quickly." (Guardian)

"The massive underground hit ... Just don't read it in the dark." (Sunday Telegraph)

"Frightening yet completely believable ... I can't wait to see how Howey develops Wool into his prequel and sequel." (Sunday Express)

"Exhilarating, intense, addictive. A novel you will never forget." (SJ Watson, author of Before I Go to Sleep)

"A small and zippy vehicle with impressive narrative force...[Howey's] plot twists like a thrashing serpent in a fisherman's net." (Sunday Business Post)

"With Wool Hugh Howey has created a new science fiction classic! The riveting storyline and detailed prose sucks you in immediately and makes you feel like you're right there in the silo with his characters. But unlike them, you'll be in no hurry to leave." (Ernie Cline, bestselling author of Ready Player One)

"The characters are well-drawn, and even the villains have a sympathetic side. Secrets unfold with just the right pacing, and I had to set the book down several times and say, 'Wow,' when a major twist was revealed ... If you're looking for a good read, you can't do much better than Wool." (Rick Riordan, #1 New York Times bestselling author)

"In Wool, Hugh Howey delivers the key elements of great science fiction: an authentic and detailed future-world; realistic, relatable characters to live in it; and a taut, thoughtful story. Howey's supple, muscular writing is the icing on the cake." (Jonathan Hayes, author of Precious Blood)

"Written in a warm style that never attempts to get too clever, this is the kind of terrific read that's both respectful towards and transcendent of its own genre." (Sydney Morning Herald)

"The other reason to have an early night. A must-read." (Glamour)

"If I read anything better in 2013 in any genre I'll be very, very surprised." (Rick O'Shea)

"Wool is incredible ... the best science fiction series I've read in years." (Douglas Preston)

"Perhaps the biggest commercial hit so far to have started life as a self-published e-book." (A N Wilson, Reader's Digest)

"A compulsive, accessible journey into a sharply realised and well-crafter dystopian world." (SFX)

"A warm old-fashioned sort of yarn" (The Sunday Times)

"I took a chance on Wool, and found myself engrossed." (Huffington Post)

"This is one of those rare occasions where not only does the book live up to the hype, it exceeds it." (Bit the Book Blog, Australia)

"One of the most hotly-anticipated books of 2013." (Irish Times)

"Thrilling, thought-provoking and memorable ... one of dystopian fiction's masterpieces alongside the likes of 1984 and Brave New World." (Daily Express)

Détails sur le produit

  • Relié: 576 pages
  • Editeur : Century (17 janvier 2013)
  • Langue : Inconnu
  • ISBN-10: 1780891237
  • ISBN-13: 978-1780891231
  • Dimensions du produit: 16,2 x 3,7 x 24 cm
  • Moyenne des commentaires client : 4.2 étoiles sur 5  Voir tous les commentaires (23 commentaires client)
  • Classement des meilleures ventes d'Amazon: 25.442 en Livres anglais et étrangers (Voir les 100 premiers en Livres anglais et étrangers)
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Commentaires client les plus utiles
5 internautes sur 5 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
Par Guinea Pig VOIX VINE
Format:Format Kindle|Achat vérifié
"Wool Omnibus" regroupe 5 récits, publiés également séparément, mais qui sont absolument faits pour être lus à la suite, car ils forment un ensemble très homogène, une histoire complète.
Le premier récit, très court, comme une nouvelle, se lit d'une traite, avec fascination. Il pose les bases et les mystères de la société humaine de "Wool" : un groupe assez important, mais tout de même très limité aux yeux du lecteur, qui vit depuis - toujours ? - dans un monumental silo enseveli sous la surface de la terre. Cette dernière est post-apocalyptique : ciel plombé, vents incessants, collines décharnées, toxines mortelles...
Les humains du silo connaissant la terre par l'intermédiaire de quelques caméras qui dispensent toujours et encore le même paysage dévasté et désolé. "Dehors" est tabou : en parler, y penser, souhaiter l'explorer - n'en parlons même pas. Mais comme ces vues de l'extérieur sont jugées indispensables à l'équilibre humain, les caméras extérieures doivent être nettoyées régulièrement. Ces "cleaning", jours de fêtes où les enfants n'ont pas école et pendant lesquels de nombreuses personnes font le pélerinage pour admirer la vue toute propre, sont assurés par les condamnés à mort.
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1 internautes sur 1 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Pas "the next Hunger Games", mais the next "1984" ! 23 août 2014
Par Piment coloré TOP 500 COMMENTATEURS
Alors... J'ai acheté Wool en librairie attiré par le macaron "The next Hunger Games", et ne l'achetez pas si vous vous attendez à Katniss lançant des flèches enflammées sur des guêpes mutantes... Pour ça, voyez plutôt du côté de "Divergent" ou de "Legend" ! C'est une dystopie, certes, mais beaucoup plus dans l'esprit "1984" de Georges Orwell et l'écriture m'a souvent fait penser à Isaac Asimov et ses "Cavernes d'Acier".
L'écriture est "sérieuse", c'est un livre qui vise un public adulte et non ado, et l'on se trouve, au début, un peu perdu, un homme monte les escaliers d'un "silo", on ne comprend pas vraiment qui c'est, ni s'il a le droit de grimper ces escaliers ou s'il est en train de commettre un acte répréhensible. Lorsque l'on termine la première partie du livre, on se dit "c'est un livre de nouvelles, en fait !" - et pas du tout ! On suit alors un autre personnage du "silo" qui descend les escaliers cette fois, mais on commence à comprendre, à être un peu glacé... puis la mécanique se met en place, inexorable, le livre est lent, l'atmosphère oppressante, on ne peut plus le lâcher mais on a besoin de respirer entre les chapitres tant la tension est pesante, tant le stress est palpable...
Un livre passionnant, une aventure humaine, qui n'est pas si éloigné du chemin des possibles pour l'humanité... à lire !
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2 internautes sur 2 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
Format:Format Kindle|Achat vérifié
J'ai beaucoup tardé à lire "Wool". D'abord le titre ne m'attirait absolument pas. Et la couverture ne m'inspirait pas. Enfin on m'annonçait qu'il s'agissait d'un recueil de récits, quand j'adore passer des milliers de pages avec les mêmes personnages.

J'ai quand même tenté, et j'ai adoré. J'ai dévoré chaque page en ayant envie de tourner la page suivante de manière irrépressible.

D'abord la crainte concernant le recueil de récits n'est pas fondée, il s'agit d'un même livre, narrant en cinq parties en ordre chronologique l'éveil d'une population. On retrouve les mêmes personnages d'une partie à une autre (enfin, sauf ceux qui se sont sacrifiés).

Ensuite, une fois que j'ai compris que le livre aurait pu s'écrire "Silo", j'ai été beaucoup plus à l'aise. Ce roman qui je croyais racontait l'histoire de personnages enfermés sous terre raconte en fait l'histoire de personnages regroupés dans une immense structure verticale où tout l'univers nécessaire à leur survie a été reconstruit: plantes, animaux, eau bien sûr, arbres fruitiers même, sans compter la technologie nécessaire pour gérer tout ce petit monde.

Je craignais de subir un sentiment d'étouffement, en côtoyant dans l'imaginaire des personnages pris dans une énorme boîte de conserve, mais leur "boîte" est tellement vaste que le sentiment est plus proche du vertige (pour parcourir tous les étages) que de l'étouffement, en tout cas physique.

S'il y a étouffement, c'est plutôt de l'ordre du politique.
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5.0 étoiles sur 5 Great
What a pleasure to read the breathless adventures of Juliette and her Silo ! Though usually not a great sci-fi fan, I adored this thrilling book and look forward to reading the... Lire la suite
Publié il y a 26 jours par Christophe
4.0 étoiles sur 5 Good read - but I did not enjoy the second half as much
Nice book, great idea, you really want to know what is going on and what is hidden from most people, where is all comes from,... So it is a good page turner. Lire la suite
Publié il y a 3 mois par Gnondpom
4.0 étoiles sur 5 Bonne SF
Dans un monde post apocalyptique, une société s'est développée dans un silo, sorte d'abri contre un extérieur hostile. Lire la suite
Publié il y a 6 mois par Blaggapar
2.0 étoiles sur 5 Moyen et trop dilué
Je déconseille la lecture de ce livre.

Le début du livre est accrocheur, et le contexte prenant. Lire la suite
Publié il y a 6 mois par MattMatt
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Wow! Nice modern sci-fi novel for modern people
I really, really enjoyed reading this first part of the trilogy, it was easy to read (not over complicated), kept me interested/hooked all the time, even surprised me a few times... Lire la suite
Publié il y a 6 mois par Felipe Medina
3.0 étoiles sur 5 Les 50 premières pages sont top
Dommage, on part d'une nouvelle au succès mérité avec l'histoire d'un shériff qui nous dépeint, en arrière plan de son histoire, le... Lire la suite
Publié il y a 7 mois par Dlra Haou
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Absolute must read!
Really really enjoyed this - so pleased I found it! Great characters and very thought provoking
Have bought shift already :)
Publié il y a 7 mois par Amazon Customer
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Great story!
Once you start it you will suffer your way through it with the suffering of the main characters. A suffering turning into a literary pleasure. Great work!
Publié il y a 9 mois par Waltika
3.0 étoiles sur 5 Bonne science fiction dans le style après l'apocalypse
Bien écrit, suspens bien mené, histoire prenante, quelques longueurs mais m'a donné envie de lire autre chose de cet auteur.
Publié il y a 10 mois par Mme M biton kornbluh
3.0 étoiles sur 5 Moyen et un peu long
Les prémisses étaient prometteurs, le début intéressant, mais les longueurs se font vite sentir. Lire la suite
Publié il y a 10 mois par Gilles V
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