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Zone One [Anglais] [Broché]

Colson Whitehead
5.0 étoiles sur 5  Voir tous les commentaires (1 commentaire client)
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Description de l'ouvrage

10 juillet 2012

A pandemic has devastated the planet, sorting humanity into two types: the uninfected and the infected, the living and the living dead. After the worst of the plague is over, armed forces stationed in Chinatown’s Fort Wonton have successfully reclaimed the island south of Canal Street—aka Zone One. Mark Spitz is a member of one of the three-person civilian sweeper units tasked with clearing lower Manhattan of the remaining feral zombies. Zone One unfolds over three surreal days in which Spitz is occupied with the mundane mission of straggler removal, the rigors of Post-Apocalyptic Stress Disorder (PASD), and the impossible task of coming to terms with a fallen world. And then things start to go terribly wrong…

At once a chilling horror story and a literary novel by a contemporary master, Zone One is a dazzling portrait of modern civilization in all its wretched, shambling glory.

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Descriptions du produit


He always wanted to live in New York. His Uncle Lloyd lived downtown on Lafayette, and in the long stretches between visits he daydreamed about living in his apartment. When his mother and father dragged him to the city for that season's agreed-upon exhibit or good-for-you Broadway smash, they usually dropped in on Uncle Lloyd for a quick hello. These afternoons were preserved in a series of photographs taken by strangers. His parents were holdouts in an age of digital multiplicity, raking the soil in lonesome areas of resistance: a coffee machine that didn't tell time, dictionaries made out of paper, a camera that only took pictures. The family camera did not transmit their coordinates to an orbiting satellite. It did not allow them to book airfare to beach resorts with close access to rain forests via courtesy shuttle. There was no prospect of video, high-def or otherwise. The camera was so backward that every lurching specimen his father enlisted from the passersby was able to operate it sans hassle, no matter the depth of cow-eyed vacancy in their tourist faces or local wretchedness inverting their spines. His family posed on the museum steps or beneath the brilliant marquee with the poster screaming over their left shoulders, always the same composition. The boy stood in the middle, his parents' hands dead on his shoulders, year after year. He didn't smile in every picture, only that percentage culled for the photo album. Then it was in the cab to his uncle's and up the elevator once the doorman screened them. Uncle Lloyd dangled in the doorframe and greeted them with a louche "Welcome to my little bungalow."

As his parents were introduced to Uncle Lloyd's latest girlfriend, the boy was down the hall, giddy and squeaking on the leather of the cappuccino sectional and marveling over the latest permutations in home entertainment. He searched for the fresh arrival first thing. This visit it was the wireless speakers haunting the corners like spindly wraiths, the next he was on his knees before a squat blinking box that served as some species of multimedia brainstem. He dragged a finger down their dark surfaces and then huffed on them and wiped the marks with his polo shirt. The televisions were the newest, the biggest, levitating in space and pulsing with a host of extravagant functions diagrammed in the unopened owner's manuals. His uncle got every channel and maintained a mausoleum of remotes in the storage space inside the ottoman. The boy watched TV and loitered by the glass walls, looking out on the city through smoky anti-UV glass, nineteen stories up.

The reunions were terrific and rote, early tutelage in the recursive nature of human experience. "What are you watching?" the girlfriends asked as they padded in bearing boutique seltzer and chips, and he'd say "The buildings," feeling weird about the pull the skyline had on him. He was a mote cycling in the wheels of a giant clock. Millions of people tended to this magnificent contraption, they lived and sweated and toiled in it, serving the mechanism of metropolis and making it bigger, better, story by glorious story and idea by unlikely idea. How small he was, tumbling between the teeth. But the girlfriends were talking about the monster movies on TV, the women in the monster movies bolting through the woods or shriveling in the closet trying not to make a sound or vainly flagging down the pickup that might rescue them from the hillbilly slasher. The ones still standing at the credit roll made it through by dint of an obscure element in their character. "I can't stand these scary stories," the girlfriends said before returning to the grown-ups, attempting an auntly emanation as if they might be the first of their number promoted to that office. His father's younger brother was fastidious when it came to expiration dates.

He liked to watch monster movies and the city churning below. He fixed on odd details. The ancient water towers lurking atop obstinate old prewars and, higher up, the massive central-air units that hunkered and coiled on the striving high-rises, glistening like extruded guts. The tar-paper pates of tenements. He spotted the occasional out-of-season beach chair jackknifed on gravel, seemingly gusted up from the street below. Who was its owner? This person staked out corners of the city and made a domain. He squinted at the slogans cantering along stairwell entrances, the Day-Glo threats and pidgin manifestos, a.k.a.'s of impotent revolutionaries. Blinds and curtains were open, half open, shut, voids in a punch card decipherable only by defunct mainframes lodged in the crust of unmarked landfills. Pieces of citizens were on display in the windows, arranged by a curator with a taste for non sequitur: the splayed pinstriped legs of an urban golfer putting into a colander; half a lady's torso, wrapped in a turquoise blazer, as glimpsed through a trapezoid; a fist trembling on a titanium desk. A shadow bobbed behind a bathroom's bumpy glass, steam slithering through the slit.

He remembered how things used to be, the customs of the skyline. Up and down the island the buildings collided, they humiliated runts through verticality and ambition, sulked in one another's shadows. Inevitability was mayor, term after term. Yesterday's old masters, stately named and midwifed by once-famous architects, were insulted by the soot of combustion engines and by technological advances in construction. Time chiseled at elegant stonework, which swirled or plummeted to the sidewalk in dust and chips and chunks. Behind the façades their insides were butchered, reconfigured, rewired according to the next era's new theories of utility. Classic six into studio honeycomb, sweatshop killing floor into cordoned cubicle mill. In every neighborhood the imperfect in their fashion awaited the wrecking ball and their bones were melted down to help their replacements surpass them, steel into steel. The new buildings in wave upon wave drew themselves out of rubble, shaking off the past like immigrants. The addresses remained the same and so did the flawed philosophies. It wasn't anyplace else. It was New York City.

The boy was smitten. His family stopped by Uncle Lloyd's every couple of months. He drank the seltzer, he watched monster movies, he was a sentry at the window. The building was a totem sheathed in blue metal, a changeling in the nest of old walk-ups. The zoning commission had tucked the bribes into their coats, and now there he was, floating over the tapering island. There was a message there, if he could teach himself the language. On rainy-day visits the surfaces of the buildings were pitiless and blank, as they were this day, years later. With the sidewalks hidden from view, the boy conjured an uninhabited city, where no one lived behind all those miles and miles of glass, no one caught up with loved ones in living rooms filled with tasteful and affirming catalog furniture, and all the elevators hung like broken puppets at the end of long cables. The city as ghost ship on the last ocean at the rim of the world. It was a gorgeous and intricate delusion, Manhattan, and from crooked angles on overcast days you saw it disintegrate, were forced to consider this tenuous creature in its true nature.

If you'd asked him on any of those childhood afternoons what he wanted to be when he grew up--tapping his shoulder as the family car inserted itself into the queue for the Midtown Tunnel or as they hummed toward their exit on the Long Island Expressway--he would have had nothing to offer with regards to profession or avocation. His father wanted to be an astronaut when he was a kid, but the boy had never been anything but earthbound, kicking pebbles. All he was truly sure of was that he wanted to live in a city gadget, something well-stocked and white-walled, equipped with rotating bosomy beauties. His uncle's apartment resembled the future, a brand of manhood waiting on the other side of the river. When his unit finally started sweeping beyond the wall--whenever that was--he knew he had to visit Uncle Lloyd's apartment, to sit on the sectional one last time and stare at the final, empty screen in the series. His uncle's building was only a few blocks past the barrier and he found himself squinting at it when it strode into view. He searched for the apartment, counting metallic blue stories and looking for movement. The dark glass relinquished nothing. He hadn't seen his uncle's name on any of the survivor rolls and prayed against a reunion, the slow steps coming down the hall.

If you'd asked him about his plans at the time of the ruin, the answer would have come easily: lawyering. He was bereft of attractive propositions, constitutionally unaccustomed to enthusiasm, and generally malleable when it came to his parents' wishes, adrift on that gentle upper-middle-class current that kept its charges cheerfully bobbing far from the shoals of responsibility. It was time to stop drifting. Hence, law. He was long past finding it ironic when his unit swept a building in that week's grid and they came upon a den of lawyers. They slogged through the blocks day after day and there had been too many firms in too many other buildings for it to have any novelty. But this day he paused. He slung his assault rifle over his shoulder and parted the blinds at the end of the corridor. All he wanted was a shred of uptown. He tried to orient himself: Was he looking north or south? It was like dragging a fork through gruel. The ash smeared the city's palette into a gray hush on the best of days, but introduce clouds and a little bit of precip and the city became an altar to obscurity. He was an insect exploring a gravestone: the words and names were crevasses to get lost in, looming and meaningless.

This was the fourth day of rain, Friday afternoon, and a conditioned part of him submitted to end-of-the-week lassitude, even if Fridays had lost their meaning. Hard to believe that reconstruction had progressed so far that clock-watching had returned, the slacker's code, the concept of weekend. It had been a humdrum couple of days, reaffirming his belief in reincarnatio...

Revue de presse

“It's a book you want to read rather than one you should read…while still providing the chilling, fleshy pleasures of zombies who lurch, pursue, hunger. . . . One of the best books of the year.” —Esquire

"Whitehead writes with economy, texture and punch. . . . A cool, thoughtful and, for all its ludic violence, strangely tender novel, a celebration of modernity and a pre-emptive wake for its demise." —The New York Times Book Review

 “Uniquely affecting. . . . A rich mix of wartime satire and darkly funny social commentary. . . . Whether charged with bleak sadness or bone-dry humor, sentences worth savoring pile up faster than the body count.” —The Los Angeles Times

"A zombie story with brains. . . . [Whitehead is a] certifiably hip writer who can spin gore into macabre poetry.” —The Washington Post

"Zone One is not the work of a serious novelist slumming it with some genre-novel cash-in, but rather a lovely piece of writing...Whitehead picks at our nervousness about order's thin grip, suggesting just how flimsy the societal walls are that make possible our hopes and dreams and overly complicated coffee orders." —Entertainment Weekly
"Colson Whitehead's Zone One isn't your typical zombie novel; it trades fright-night fodder for empathy and chilling realism…yielding a haunting portrait of a lonely, desolate, and uncertain city." —Elle
"The stylistic exuberance on display would be overwhelming if it weren't so well controlled, shifting weightlessly from M*A*S*H-style battle narrative to a melancholic Blade Runner-like vision of Urban devastation. . . . The smallest of details is marked by originality of language." —The New Statesman
“Leave it to the supremely thoughtful and snarkily funny Whitehead to do interesting things with a topic that lately has seated itself in the public’s imagination. . . . Not just a juicy experiment in genre fiction but a brilliantly disguised meditation on a ‘flatlined culture’ in need of its own rejuvenating psychic jolt.” —The Seattle Times
“If you’re going to break down and read a zombie novel, make it this one.” —The Wall Street Journal
“Stylishly entertaining. . . . [Whitehead’s] sentences are interesting, his plotting brisk, his descriptions lucid, and his asides clever.” —The Plain Dealer
“In precise, elegant prose [Whitehead] deliberately layers the ever more disturbing elements of the story, one upon the other, allowing the reader to discover the horror in the same fragmentary manner we imagine frantic survivors might. . . . Resembles Cormac McCarthy’s The Road. . . . An intense meditation on the way we cope with disaster and the stubborn, often inexplicable, persistence of the human will to survive.” —Minneapolis Star-Tribune
 “A sharp commentary on the rat race of contemporary life. . . . Zone One lifts all the gore and gunfire and oozy bits one might expect from the genre. But this is Whitehead, so there’s also popular culture to critique and parallels to draw between zombies and contemporary society.” —The Houston Chronicle
[Whitehead] takes the genre of horror fiction, mines both its sense of humor and self-seriousness, and emerges with a brilliant allegory of New York living.” —New York Observer
"Highbrow novelist Colson Whitehead plunges into the unstoppable zombie genre in this subtle meditation on loss and love in a post-apocalyptic Manhattan, which has become the city that never dies." —USA Today

"For-real literary—gory, lyrical, human, precise." —GQ

"A satirist so playful that you often don't even feel his scalpel, Whitehead toys with the shards of contemporary culture with an infectious glee. Here he upends the tropes of the zombie story in the canyons of lower Manhattan. Horror has rarely been so unsettling, and never so grimly funny." —The Daily Beast

Détails sur le produit

  • Broché: 336 pages
  • Editeur : Anchor; Édition : Reprint (10 juillet 2012)
  • Langue : Anglais
  • ISBN-10: 9780307455178
  • ISBN-13: 978-0307455178
  • ASIN: 0307455173
  • Dimensions du produit: 20,3 x 13,2 x 1,8 cm
  • Moyenne des commentaires client : 5.0 étoiles sur 5  Voir tous les commentaires (1 commentaire client)
  • Classement des meilleures ventes d'Amazon: 101.851 en Livres anglais et étrangers (Voir les 100 premiers en Livres anglais et étrangers)
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1 internautes sur 1 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Not what you'd expect 30 mai 2012
Loved this story. Certainly not what I'd expect from Colson. But very well put together, and continues to show what a wordsmith he is. Well done.
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Commentaires client les plus utiles sur (beta) 2.9 étoiles sur 5  371 commentaires
128 internautes sur 144 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
3.0 étoiles sur 5 Coulda' been a contenda... 28 octobre 2011
Par Robert Johnson - Publié sur
Format:Format Kindle|Achat vérifié
Did I like this book? Yes, actually. Instead of splatter, gore and terror, the author chose to think out (which seems to trouble some reviewers no end) what it would be like to try to live within a collapsed society, with a collapsed psyche and collapsed dreams. Instead of inventing heroic and invincible characters to slash and crash their way through hopeless situations, Whitehead's characters, each one flawed and vulnerable, bumble and stumble their way to another day of survival, which is how most real human beings are, after all. The idea of this zombie book was not to be like the other ones, but to work out daily life in which all norms have been shattered, and in which the common and regular are - then as now - the pawns of the great and mighty.

That said, Whitehead is this book's worst enemy. He takes every opportunity to show off his inventiveness, preen his considerable literary plumage and display his intimate acquaintance with the thesaurus. In playing with the narrative thread and timeline, sometimes just because he can, he adds unnecessary stress to what is not a terribly sturdy plot in the first place. Perhaps as he matures, he will write to make the story the thing instead of himself. If this book had 35% less exhibitionism and 30% more plot, it could have been a real showpiece. Instead, it is a pleasant, if sometimes tedious diversion written by an obviously talented, but all-too-self-indulgent author.
121 internautes sur 143 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
3.0 étoiles sur 5 a tedious but amusing read 10 septembre 2011
Par Jordan Michel - Publié sur
Format:Relié|Commentaire client Vine pour produit gratuit (De quoi s'agit-il?)
If like me you were excited to hear that a well-respected, intellectual author has ventured into the apocalypse genre, I should warn you, Zone One is not The Road (Oprah's Book Club). The Road had characters and a relationship that you could connect to and an engaging plot. Zone One has none of that. It has a main character whose most notable feature is his mediocrity, a few moments of mild suspense, and an unbearably tedious pace.

It seems that the reviews for this book are distinctly divided. Fans of the zombie/apocalypse genre have offered some pretty scathing reviews and low ratings. Fans of "literary fiction" are giving it a bit more credit. I'm generally more aligned with the literary fiction readers, but I think the zombie fans have some legitimate criticisms.

The main criticism against this book seems to be the lack of plot, and I can't disagree. A lot of the book is mildly amusing; it's just not very compelling. Even the (rare) engaging passages are frequently interrupted by reflections about the past, which significantly slow the pace. It took me about three time as long as it should have to finish the book, because I literally fell asleep within a few pages nearly every time I picked it up.

Although there's little plot, the book's main character is somewhat interesting. He's survived a long time since the "Last Night." His survival, though, is not due to his courage, strength, or cleverness. He's completely average with the exception of his cockroach-like survival instinct. Although readers are unlikely to fall in love with Mark Spitz, he provides an amusing lens for this story.
22 internautes sur 26 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 This Is A Literary Novel 2 décembre 2012
Par Charlie - Publié sur
I've never reviewed anything on Amazon before, but I felt compelled because of the misconceptions.

After reading 30 or 40 low reviews I found that almost every one of them was angry that this book was not a typical zombie novel. Most low reviewers seem to be reviewing this book as if it were trying to be a cliche zombie novel and it failed. THIS BOOK IS NOT TRYING TO BE A TYPICAL ZOMBIE NOVEL! IT IS A LITERARY NOVEL! To those who are judging this book for not being something that it is not trying to be: please stop.

If your idea of a good author is Stephen King, this book is definitely not for you. If your idea of a good author is Cormac McCarthy, Ian McEwan, or Jonathan Franzen, you will love this book. If you enjoy plot-driven Agatha Christie-like page turners, do not buy this book. If you enjoy insightful character-driven literary indulgences, buy this book now. If you are turned off by big words or intelligent authors, don't buy this book. If you admire someone who uses the English language like a fine art, you will fall in love with Colson Whitehead. If you enjoy the zombie subculture but wish that it was not so cliche and everything not so completely predictable, this book was written for you. If you love the predictable, get off on the gore, and fantasize about George A. Romero's seventh installment in the Living Dead series please don't buy this book. And for the love of all that is good please (PLEASE!) don't give this book a negative review because it fails to be another addition to the cliche zombie canon.
88 internautes sur 112 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Whitehead's Best Book Since "The Intuitionist" 27 août 2011
Par A. Ross - Publié sur
Format:Relié|Commentaire client Vine pour produit gratuit (De quoi s'agit-il?)
Where to begin? I suppose I should start by saying that while I come from that tribe of geeks that love all things zombie-related (films, comics, videogames, boardgames, etc.), I ran out of enthusiasm for the genre a few years ago. The template for the zombie story is just too confining, there's not that much new or different to be done with it. However, despite this weariness for the genre, I immediately picked this up because it was a Colson Whitehead book. He's one of the few authors whom I will actually rush out to buy (others include Michael Chabon, Nick Hornby, and George Pelecanos, just to name a few -- Jonathan Lethem used to be on the list, but no longer). That said, my experience with his books has been a slow slide of diminishing returns: I loved (and still love) his debut The Intuitionist, his second book (John Henry Days) is flawed but still fully engaging, the third book (Apex Hides the Hurt) felt like a slight trifle, and his most recent book (Sag Harbor) was just too personal for me to connect with. However, this is an excellent book in which Whitehead combines his controlled freestyling prose with the unforgiving, bleak tone of Cormac McCarthy's The Road or No Country for Old Men, in order to document the downfall of his beloved Manhattan, and indeed, the American empire. Many people (including the publicist who wrote the back cover copy) seem to be mistakenly using the word "satire" to describe the book -- it's not a satire, it's a scathing, raging critique of modern America.

Don't pick this up expecting a literary "take" on the zombie action thriller, a few scenes aside, there isn't much action. The bulk of the book takes place inside the protagonist's head, as he trudges around a mostly-safe part of Manhattan as part of a three-person militia unit "sweeping" the blocks for stray zombies the Marines missed when they secured this part of the island. As they clear Manhattan for the impending resettlement, he mentally documents the pre-"Last Night" world and its ridiculous concerns, ranging from consumer items to real estate to sitcoms, and so on. There are plenty of flashbacks to his year on the run in the wilderness, and we get plenty of stories from other characters about where they were when it all came crashing down. These provide the necessary "what would I do" moments which are integral to the zombie genre (and many other horror genres for that matter), but make no mistake, this book is only headed to one place. There's only three ways a zombie story can end, good, bad, or setup for the sequel, and I'm not spoiling anything by telling you that Whitehead is not interested in building any suspense, because every so often he'll slip in a direct statement that tells you it's not going to end well. The book is told from the perspective of a Sunday, and the "action" mainly unfolds over the previous two days, with lots of flashbacks to earlier times. I suppose this flashback within a flashback chronology might be confusing to some people, but I never had a problem with it.

It's nothing new to use genre forms to tell allegorical tales, and American materialism has been skewered by the zombie-maestro himself, George Romero, in Dawn of the Dead. But the sheer skill at work here makes this well worth reading, whether you're a zombie enthusiast, a fan of Whitehead's, or just a lover of interesting fiction.
18 internautes sur 21 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
1.0 étoiles sur 5 Many Words Do Not a Story Make 26 avril 2012
Par D. Julian - Publié sur
Format:Format Kindle
I think Whitehead suffers from a problem which is all too common among those who hold their own intellect in the highest regard. He's boring, and he doesn't know it. He holds forth like an armchair philosopher at a dinner party while his audience is secretly hoping for another drink.

He also apparently suffers from a complete lack of knowledge of humanity. Perhaps this is an unfortunate philosophical commitment on Whitehead's part. His characters are fixed, static, cesspools--they do not change; they do not learn; they do not grow. Perhaps he thinks this is the way in which all people really operate. If so, I feel badly for him.

Worse yet--a post-apocalyptic tale involving zombies (and involving even zombies that do not move or threaten harm) offers a wide range of philosophical and ethical issues with which to grapple. Somehow, the author misses most of these and chooses to focus on one issue--that the protagonist is mediocre and therefore somehow apt for the situation at hand. It's infuriating and ultimately demoralizing. John Gardner put it best: "Fiddling with the hairs on an elephant's nose is indecent when the elephant happens to be standing on the baby."

I really wanted to like Zone One. I forced myself through to the end in the hopes that at some point it would move beyond mere character sketch and into the realm of story. It never did. This likely results from what I just mentioned--his characters never learn, change, or grow. If they did, this sketch would move towards story.

In Zone One, Whitehead demonstrated that he can obviously write, but he cannot tell a story.
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