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Wuthering Heights [Anglais] [Relié]

Emily Brontë
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Description de l'ouvrage

6 novembre 2008 Clothbound Classics
Part of Penguin's beautiful hardback Clothbound Classics series, designed by the award-winning Coralie Bickford-Smith, these delectable and collectible editions are bound in high-quality colourful, tactile cloth with foil stamped into the design. In a house haunted by memories, the past is everywhere ...As darkness falls, a man caught in a snowstorm is forced to shelter at the strange, grim house Wuthering Heights. It is a place he will never forget. There he will come to learn the story of Cathy: how she was forced to choose between her well-meaning husband and the dangerous man she had loved since she was young. How her choice led to betrayal and terrible revenge - and continues to torment those in the present. How love can transgress authority, convention, even death.

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Descriptions du produit

Extrait

CHAPTER 1



1801--I have just returned from a visit to my landlord--the solitary neighbour that I shall be troubled with. This is certainly a beautiful country! In all England, I do not believe that I could have fixed on a situation so completely removed from the stir of society. A perfect misanthropist's Heaven: and Mr. Heathcliff and I are such a suitable pair to divide the desolation between us. A capital fellow! He little imagined how my heart warmed towards him when I beheld his black eyes withdraw so suspiciously under their brows, as I rode up, and when his fingers sheltered themselves, with a jealous resolution, still further in his waistcoat, as I announced my name.

'Mr. Heathcliff?' I said.

A nod was the answer.

'Mr. Lockwood, your new tenant, sir. I do myself the honour of calling as soon as possible after my arrival, to express the hope that I have not inconvenienced you by my perseverance in soliciting the occupation of Thrushcross Grange: I heard yesterday you had had some thoughts--'

'Thrushcross Grange is my own, sir,' he interrupted, wincing. 'I should not allow any one to inconvenience me, if I could hinder it--walk in!'

The 'walk in' was uttered with closed teeth, and expressed the sentiment, 'Go to the Deuce': even the gate over which he leant manifested no sympathizing movement to the words; and I think that circumstance determined me to accept the invitation: I felt interested in a man who seemed more exaggeratedly reserved than myself.

When he saw my horse's breast fairly pushing the barrier, he did pull out his hand to unchain it, and then suddenly preceded me up the causeway, calling, as we entered the court,--

'Joseph, take Mr. Lockwood's horse; and bring up some wine.'

'Here we have the whole establishment of domestics, I suppose,' was the reflection, suggested by this compound order. 'No wonder the grass grows up between the flags, and cattle are the only hedge-cutters.'

Joseph was an elderly, nay, an old man: very old, perhaps, though hale and sinewy.

'The Lord help us!' he soliloquised in an undertone of peevish displeasure, while relieving me of my horse: looking, meantime, in my face so sourly that I charitably conjectured he must have need of divine aid to digest his dinner, and his pious ejaculation had no reference to my unexpected advent.

Wuthering Heights is the name of Mr. Heathcliff's dwelling. 'Wuthering' being a significant provincial adjective, descriptive of the atmospheric tumult to which its station is exposed in stormy weather. Pure, bracing ventilation they must have up there at all times, indeed: one may guess the power of the north wind blowing over the edge, by the excessive slant of a few stunted firs at the end of the house; and by a range of gaunt thorns all stretching their limbs one way, as if craving alms of the sun. Happily, the architect had foresight to build it strong: the narrow windows are deeply set in the wall, and the corners defended with large jutting stones.

Before passing the threshold, I paused to admire a quantity of grotesque carving lavished over the front, and especially about the principal door; above which, among a wilderness of crumbling griffins and shameless little boys, I detected the date '1500,' and the name 'Hareton Earnshaw.' I would have made a few comments, and requested a short history of the place from the surly owner; but his attitude at the door appeared to demand my speedy entrance, or complete departure, and I had no desire to aggravate his impatience previous to inspecting the penetralium.

One step brought us into the family sitting-room, without any introductory lobby or passage: they call it here 'the house' pre-eminently. It includes kitchen and parlour, generally; but I believe at Wuthering Heights the kitchen is forced to retreat altogether into another quarter: at least I distinguished a chatter of tongues, and a clatter of culinary utensils, deep within; and I observed no signs of roasting, boiling, or baking, about the huge fire-place; nor any glitter of copper saucepans and tin cullenders on the walls. One end, indeed, reflected splendidly both light and heat from ranks of immense pewter dishes, interspersed with silver jugs and tankards, towering row after row, on a vast oak dresser, to the very roof. The latter had never been underdrawn: its entire anatomy lay bare to an inquiring eye, except where a frame of wood laden with oatcakes and clusters of legs of beef, mutton, and ham, concealed it. Above the chimney were sundry villanous old guns, and a couple of horse-pistols: and, by way of ornament, three gaudily painted canisters disposed along its ledge. The floor was of smooth, white stone; the chairs, high-backed, primitive structures, painted green: one or two heavy black ones lurking in the shade. In an arch under the dresser, reposed a huge, liver-coloured bitch pointer, surrounded by a swarm of squealing puppies; and other dogs haunted other recesses.

The apartment and furniture would have been nothing extraordinary as belonging to a homely, northern farmer, with a stubborn countenance, and stalwart limbs set out to advantage in knee-breeches and gaiters. Such an individual seated in his armchair, his mug of ale frothing on the round table before him, is to be seen in any circuit of five or six miles among these hills, if you go at the right time after dinner. But Mr. Heathcliff forms a singular contrast to his abode and style of living. He is a dark-skinned gipsy in aspect, in dress and manners a gentleman: that is, as much a gentleman as many a country squire: rather slovenly, perhaps, yet not looking amiss with his negligence, because he has an erect and handsome figure; and rather morose. Possibly, some people might suspect him of a degree of underbred pride; I have a sympathetic chord within that tells me it is nothing of the sort: I know by instinct, his reserve springs from an aversion to showy displays of feeling--to manifestations of mutual kindliness. He'll love and hate equally under cover, and esteem it a species of impertinence to be loved or hated again. No. I'm running on too fast: I bestow my own attributes over liberally on him. Mr. Heathcliff may have entirely dissimilar reasons for keeping his hand out of the way when he meets a would-be acquaintance, to those which actuate me. Let me hope my constitution is almost peculiar: my dear mother used to say I should never have a comfortable home; and only last summer I proved myself perfectly unworthy of one.

While enjoying a month of fine weather at the seacoast, I was thrown into the company of a most fascinating creature: a real goddess in my eyes, as long as she took no notice of me. I 'never told my love' vocally; still, if looks have language, the merest idiot might have guessed I was over head and ears: she understood me at last, and looked a return--the sweetest of all imaginable looks. And what did I do? I confess it with shame--shrunk icily into myself, like a snail; at every glance retired colder and farther; till finally the poor innocent was led to doubt her own senses, and, overwhelmed with confusion at her supposed mistake, persuaded her mamma to decamp.

By this curious turn of disposition I have gained the reputation of deliberate heartlessness; how undeserved, I alone can appreciate.

I took a seat at the end of the hearthstone opposite that towards which my landlord advanced, and filled up an interval of silence by attempting to caress the canine mother, who had left her nursery, and was sneaking wolfishly to the back of my legs, her lip curled up, and her white teeth watering for a snatch.

My caress provoked a long, guttural gnarl.

'You'd better let the dog alone,' growled Mr. Heathcliff in unison, checking fiercer demonstrations with a punch of his foot. 'She's not accustomed to be spoiled--not kept for a pet.'

Then, striding to a side door, he shouted again--'Joseph!'--

Joseph mumbled indistinctly in the depths of the cellar, but gave no intimation of ascending; so his master dived down to him, leaving me vis-a-vis the ruffianly bitch and a pair of grim shaggy sheep-dogs, who shared with her a jealous guardianship over all my movements.

Not anxious to come in contact with their fangs, I sat still; but, imagining they would scarcely understand tacit insults, I unfortunately indulged in winking and making faces at the trio, and some turn of my physiognomy so irritated madam, that she suddenly broke into a fury, and leapt on my knees. I flung her back, and hastened to interpose the table between us. This proceeding roused the whole hive. Half-a-dozen four-footed fiends, of various sizes and ages, issued from hidden dens to the common centre. I felt my heels and coat-laps peculiar subjects of assault; and, parrying off the larger combatants as effectually as I could with the poker, I was constrained to demand, aloud, assistance from some of the household in re-establishing peace.

Mr. Heathcliff and his man climbed the cellar steps with vexatious phlegm: I don't think they moved one second faster than usual, though the hearth was an absolute tempest of worrying and yelping.

Happily, an inhabitant of the kitchen made more dispatch: a lusty dame, with tucked-up gown, bare arms, and fire-flushed cheeks, rushed into the midst of us flourishing a frying-pan: and used that weapon, and her tongue, to such purpose, that the storm subsided magically, and she only remained, heaving like a sea after a high wind, when her master entered on the scene.

'What the devil is the matter?' he asked, eyeing me in a manner I could ill endure after this inhospitable treatment.

'What the devil, indeed!' I muttered. 'The herd of possessed swine could have had no worse spirits in them than those animals of yours, sir. You might as well leave a stranger with a brood of tigers!'

'They won't meddle with persons who touch nothing,' he remarked, putting the bottle before me, and restoring the displaced table. 'The dogs do right to be vigilant. Take a glass of wine?'

'No, thank you.'--Ce texte fait référence à l'édition Broché .

Revue de presse

"It is as if Emily Brontë could tear up all that we know human beings by, and fill these unrecognizable transparencies with such a gust of life that they transcend reality."
—Virginia Woolf --Ce texte fait référence à l'édition Broché .

Détails sur le produit

  • Relié: 416 pages
  • Editeur : Penguin Classics; Édition : Re-issue (6 novembre 2008)
  • Collection : Clothbound Classics
  • Langue : Anglais
  • ISBN-10: 0141040351
  • ISBN-13: 978-0141040356
  • Dimensions du produit: 5,4 x 7,9 x 1,4 cm
  • Moyenne des commentaires client : 4.5 étoiles sur 5  Voir tous les commentaires (12 commentaires client)
  • Classement des meilleures ventes d'Amazon: 32.854 en Livres anglais et étrangers (Voir les 100 premiers en Livres anglais et étrangers)
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Couverture | Copyright | Table des matières | Extrait | Quatrième de couverture
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4.5 étoiles sur 5
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7 internautes sur 7 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 quand amour rime avec vengeance 16 septembre 2011
Par Gwen COMMENTATEUR N° 1 1ER COMMENTATEUR DU HALL D'HONNEUR
Format:Poche
Comment ne pas avoir le coeur étreint par l'émotion en songeant au tragique destin d'Emily Brontë? Son talent était aussi grand que sa vie fut courte. Lorsque la tuberculose l'emporta par une bien triste journée de l'hiver 1848, elle avait à peine trente ans, mais ce météorique séjour sur Terre lui aura suffi pour nous léguer l'un des plus immortels chefs-d'oeuvre de la Littérature... Ah, j'ose à peine rêver à tous les autres sublimes romans qu'elle portait sans doute en elle et qu'elle n'aura pas eu le temps de coucher sur le papier... Mais, me direz-vous, qu'a-t-elle de si exceptionnel, cette histoire d'amour et de vengeance dans les landes du Yorkshire? Eh bien, c'est un peu le mystère des grandes oeuvres: on ne sait trop à quoi précisément attribuer leur magie, mais à peine y pose-t-on le regard que celle-ci s'impose comme une évidence. Une séduction singulière plane sur ce livre. Dès les premiers mots, un charme se crée, que plus rien ne viendra rompre. Est-ce la force de son histoire qui nous envoûte? La violence de ses personnages? La fureur de leurs passions? Ou tout simplement la splendeur de cette écriture à la fois si naturelle et si travaillée que traversent des fulgurances poétiques d'une pureté inouïe? Allez savoir... Quel bonheur, en tout cas, que de se laisser emporter par le flot tumultueux de cette intrigue somptueusement romantique, d'un romantisme non pas mièvre et fade, mais au contraire fiévreux, tourmenté, crépusculaire, beethovenien! Cette chère Emily était, paraît-il, d'un caractère effacé... Lire la suite ›
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1 internautes sur 1 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Un grand classique de la littérature anglaise 4 novembre 2010
Par gobolina
Format:Broché
La première fois que j'ai lu ce livre - il y a quelques années - je l'ai trouvé bien trop long et bien trop riche... Et trop compliqué pour mon niveau en anglais à l'époque. Mais c'est justement sa richesse qui en fait un Grand livre. Puis je l'ai relu, et ç'a été le coup de foudre et Wuthering Heights maintenant un incontournable pour moi: c'est ce genre de livre qu'on ne se lasse pas de lire et relire, même en le connaissant par cœur (je suppose que tout le monde éprouve cela envers un livre).
Le décor: la lande anglaise, très humide et très froide. Une atmosphère sombre, très gothique. Et bien entendu, des âmes sœurs déchirées entre la passion et la haine. Ce livre est d'une puissance incroyable. On ne sait pas si c'est la passion de Cathy et Heathcliff qui déchaine les tempêtes ou si c'est l'inverse. En tout cas tout ce que j'ai à dire c'est que ce livre plaira à tous les amoureux de livres à ambiance gothique et aux histoires d'amour éternel.
Si comme moi vous avez du mal à la première lecture, attendez quelques années... vous verrez, il vous retournera les tripes.
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7 internautes sur 9 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Les vents de la passion. 31 août 2004
Format:Poche
Wuthering Heights (Les Hauts de Hurlevent) est une des plus belles célébrations à la passion. Un récit plein d'émotions violentes, aussi violentes que le paysage anglais où l'action se passe. C'est une histoire d'amour passioné, charnel, que ni même la mort pourra empêcher.
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4.0 étoiles sur 5 livre en anglais 16 janvier 2014
Par afl_bv
Format:Broché|Achat authentifié par Amazon
L'auteur garantit la qualité de ce livre. Pour ce qui connaisent les soeurs Bronté, ce livre ne sera pas une surprise.
Pas grand chose a dire. Très bon livre!
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Format:Broché|Achat authentifié par Amazon
Cet unique roman d'Emily Brontë est une petite merveille que je relis régulièrement. C'est un classique à lire au moins une fois dans sa vie; l'histoire d'amour est magnifique et on se régale du style d'Emily Brontë ! Les personnages sont bien décrits et ont de multiples facettes (notamment Heathcliff, Catherine, Cathy, Edgar Linton...). Si vous voulez lire un roman portant sur les thèmes de l'amour, de la vengeance,de la famille et de la folie, c'est le livre qu'il vous faut !
La lecture de ce texte en anglais peut néanmoins s'avérer difficile si on ne lit pas anglais couramment car le vocabulaire utilisé peut parfois paraître désuet (mais ce qui fait le charme de ce roman). Il faut donc privilégier la lecture en anglais si la lecture de l'anglais n'est pas un obstacle pour vous !
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5.0 étoiles sur 5 When an act of kindness brings forth a tragedy 24 octobre 2013
Par Omnes
Format:Broché
When Wuthering Heights first came out, readers were shocked by the violence and the passion of its story, that is the strange romance between the mysterious Heathcliff and Catherine Earnchaw, the daughter of Mr. Earnshaw who adopted Heathcliff. The scandal was so much that Emily Bronte, when she died, thought that her book was a failure. Fortunately for her, and for its first readers, the story's reputation grew among literary circles, became an important reading for people like Virginia Wolf, and even became a movie in 1939, starring the great Laurence Olivier and Merle Oberon. As such, the book's reputation has now become an important piece of art around the world, influencing important artists in their works (ex:Jane Campion's The Piano, J K Rowling's Harry Potter, etc.)

Most people tend to focus solely on the romance between Heathcliff and Catherine and they tend to think that the story is simply a love story, which is what they did with the Laurence Olivier movie. However, Wuthering Heights must be considered, at least that's what I think, as a tragedy which shows how a simple act of kindness from a good man brought forth discord, jealousy and a story of revenge whose victims, the Earnshaw and the Linton families, soon suffer the wrath of someone who never received the most decent sense of love. Not only that, Wuthering Heights shows how certain families, in distant regions positioned far from big cities, act between themselves as they bring upon each other their own laws. Having had grandparents who lived in regions resembling as much as the moors surrounding Wuthering Heights, I wasn't that much surprised by the cruelty that some of the Earnshaw and the Linton brought forth on Heathcliff.
So for me, that book, was a pleasure to read again and again.
Lire la suite ›
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