Aucun appareil Kindle n'est requis. Téléchargez l'une des applis Kindle gratuites et commencez à lire les livres Kindle sur votre smartphone, tablette ou ordinateur.

  • Apple
  • Android
  • Windows Phone
  • Android

Pour obtenir l'appli gratuite, saisissez votre numéro de téléphone mobile.

Prix Kindle : EUR 20,99

Économisez
EUR 16,83 (45%)

TVA incluse

Ces promotions seront appliquées à cet article :

Certaines promotions sont cumulables avec d'autres offres promotionnelles, d'autres non. Pour en savoir plus, veuillez vous référer aux conditions générales de ces promotions.

Envoyer sur votre Kindle ou un autre appareil

Envoyer sur votre Kindle ou un autre appareil

The Collected Autobiographies of Maya Angelou par [Angelou, Maya]
Publicité sur l'appli Kindle

The Collected Autobiographies of Maya Angelou Format Kindle

5.0 étoiles sur 5 1 commentaire client

Voir les 4 formats et éditions Masquer les autres formats et éditions
Prix Amazon
Neuf à partir de Occasion à partir de
Format Kindle
"Veuillez réessayer"
EUR 20,99

Longueur : 1186 pages Word Wise: Activé Composition améliorée: Activé
Page Flip: Activé Langue : Anglais

Quels sont les autres articles que les clients achètent après avoir regardé cet article?


Description du produit

Extrait

Prologue

"What you looking at me for?
I didn't come to stay . . ."

I hadn't so much forgot as I couldn't bring myself to remember. Other things were more important.

"What you looking at me for?
I didn't come to stay . . ."

Whether I could remember the rest of the poem or not was immaterial. The truth of the statement was like a wadded-up handkerchief, sopping wet in my fists, and the sooner they accepted it the quicker I could let my hands open and the air would cool my palms.

"What you looking at me for . . . ?"

The children's section of the Colored Methodist Episcopal Church was wiggling and giggling over my well-known forgetfulness.

The dress I wore was lavender taffeta, and each time I breathed it rustled, and now that I was sucking in air to breathe out shame it sounded like crepe paper on the back of hearses.

As I'd watched Momma put ruffles on the hem and cute little tucks around the waist, I knew that once I put it on I'd look like a movie star. (It was silk and that made up for the awful color.) I was going to look like one of the sweet little white girls who were everybody's dream of what was right with the world. Hanging softly over the black Singer sewing machine, it looked like magic, and when people saw me wearing it they were going to run up to me and say, "Marguerite [sometimes it was 'dear Marguerite'], forgive us, please, we didn't know who you were," and I would answer generously, "No, you couldn't have known. Of course I forgive you."

Just thinking about it made me go around with angel's dust sprinkled over my face for days. But Easter's early morning sun had shown the dress to be a plain ugly cut-down from a white woman's once-was-purple throwaway. It was old-lady-long too, but it didn't hide my skinny legs, which had been greased with Blue Seal Vaseline and powdered with the Arkansas red clay. The age-faded color made my skin look dirty like mud, and everyone in church was looking at my skinny legs.

Wouldn't they be surprised when one day I woke out of my black ugly dream, and my real hair, which was long and blond, would take the place of the kinky mass that Momma wouldn't let me straighten? My light-blue eyes were going to hypnotize them, after all the things they said about "my daddy must of been a Chinaman" (I thought they meant made out of china, like a cup) because my eyes were so small and squinty. Then they would understand why I had never picked up a Southern accent, or spoke the common slang, and why I had to be forced to eat pigs' tails and snouts. Because I was really white and because a cruel fairy stepmother, who was understandably jealous of my beauty, had turned me into a too-big Negro girl, with nappy black hair, broad feet and a space between her teeth that would hold a number-two pencil.

"What you looking ..." The minister's wife leaned toward me, her long yellow face full of sorry. She whispered, "I just come to tell you, it's Easter Day." I repeated, jamming the words together, "Ijustcometotellyouit'sEasterDay," as low as possible. The giggles hung in the air like melting clouds that were waiting to rain on me. I held up two fingers, close to my chest, which meant that I had to go to the toilet, and tiptoed toward the rear of the church. Dimly, somewhere over my head, I heard ladies saying, "Lord bless the child," and "Praise God." My head was up and my eyes were open, but I didn't see anything. Halfway down the aisle, the church exploded with "Were you there when they crucified my Lord?" and I tripped over a foot stuck out from the children's pew. I stumbled and started to say something, or maybe to scream, but a green persimmon, or it could have been a lemon, caught me between the legs and squeezed. I tasted the sour on my tongue and felt it in the back of my mouth. Then before I reached the door, the sting was burning down my legs and into my Sunday socks. I tried to hold, to squeeze it back, to keep it from speeding, but when I reached the church porch I knew I'd have to let it go, or it would probably run right back up to my head and my poor head would burst like a dropped watermelon, and all the brains and spit and tongue and eyes would roll all over the place. So I ran down into the yard and let it go. I ran, peeing and crying, not toward the toilet out back but to our house. I'd get a whipping for it, to be sure, and the nasty children would have something new to tease me about. I laughed anyway, partially for the sweet release; still, the greater joy came not only from being liberated from the silly church but from the knowledge that I wouldn't die from a busted head.

If growing up is painful for the Southern Black girl, being aware of her displacement is the rust on the razor that threatens the throat.

It is an unnecessary insult.


Chapter 1

When I was three and Bailey four, we had arrived in the musty little town, wearing tags on our wrists which instructed--"To Whom It May Concern"--that we were Marguerite and Bailey Johnson Jr., from Long Beach, California, en route to Stamps, Arkansas, c/o Mrs. Annie Henderson.

Our parents had decided to put an end to their calamitous marriage, and Father shipped us home to his mother. A porter had been charged with our welfare--he got off the train the next day in Arizona--and our tickets were pinned to my brother's inside coat pocket.

I don't remember much of the trip, but after we reached the segregated southern part of the journey, things must have looked up. Negro passengers, who always traveled with loaded lunch boxes, felt sorry for "the poor little motherless darlings" and plied us with cold fried chicken and potato salad.

Years later I discovered that the United States had been crossed thousands of times by frightened Black children traveling alone to their newly affluent parents in Northern cities, or back to grandmothers in Southern towns when the urban North reneged on its economic promises.

The town reacted to us as its inhabitants had reacted to all things new before our coming. It regarded us a while without curiosity but with caution, and after we were seen to be harmless (and children) it closed in around us, as a real mother embraces a stranger's child. Warmly, but not too familiarly.

We lived with our grandmother and uncle in the rear of the Store (it was always spoken of with a capital s), which she had owned some twenty-five years.

Early in the century, Momma (we soon stopped calling her Grandmother) sold lunches to the sawmen in the lumberyard (east Stamps) and the seedmen at the cotton gin (west Stamps). Her crisp meat pies and cool lemonade, when joined to her miraculous ability to be in two places at the same time, assured her business success. From being a mobile lunch counter, she set up a stand between the two points of fiscal interest and supplied the workers' needs for a few years. Then she had the Store built in the heart of the Negro area. Over the years it became the lay center of activities in town. On Saturdays, barbers sat their customers in the shade on the porch of the Store, and troubadours on their ceaseless crawlings through the South leaned across its benches and sang their sad songs of The Brazos while they played juice harps and cigarbox guitars.

The formal name of the Store was the Wm. Johnson General Merchandise Store. Customers could find food staples, a good variety of colored thread, mash for hogs, corn for chickens, coal oil for lamps, light bulbs for the wealthy, shoestrings, hair dressing, balloons, and flower seeds. Anything not visible had only to be ordered.

Until we became familiar enough to belong to the Store and it to us, we were locked up in a Fun House of Things where the attendant had gone home for life.


Each year I watched the field across from the Store turn caterpillar green, then gradually frosty white. I knew exactly how long it would be before the big wagons would pull into the front yard and load on the cotton pickers at daybreak to carry them to the remains of slavery's plantations.

During the picking season my grandmother would get out of bed at four o'clock (she never used an alarm clock) and creak down to her knees and chant in a sleep-filled voice, "Our Father, thank you for letting me see this New Day. Thank you that you didn't allow the bed I lay on last night to be my cooling board, nor my blanket my winding sheet. Guide my feet this day along the straight and narrow, and help me to put a bridle on my tongue. Bless this house, and everybody in it. Thank you, in the name of your Son, Jesus Christ, Amen."

Before she had quite arisen, she called our names and issued orders, and pushed her large feet into homemade slippers and across the bare Iye-washed wooden floor to light the coal-oil lamp.

The lamplight in the Store gave a soft make-believe feeling to our world which made me want to whisper and walk about on tiptoe. The odors of onions and oranges and kerosene had been mixing all night and wouldn't be disturbed until the wooded slat was removed from the door and the early morning air forced its way in with the bodies of people who had walked miles to reach the pickup place.

"Sister, I'll have two cans of sardines."

"I'm gonna work so fast today I'm gonna make you look like you standing still."

"Lemme have a hunk uh cheese and some sody crackers."

"Just gimme a couple them fat peanut paddies." That would be from a picker who was taking his lunch. The greasy brown paper sack was stuck behind the bib of his overalls. He'd use the candy as a snack before the noon sun called the workers to rest.

In those tender mornings the Store was full of laughing, joking, boasting and bragging. One man was going to pick two hundred pounds of cotton, and another three hundred. Even the children were promising to bring home fo' bits and six bits.

The champion picker of the day before was the hero of the dawn. If he prophesied that the cotton in today's field was going to be sparse and stick to the bolls like glue, every listener would grunt a hearty agreement.

The sound of the empty cotton sacks dragging over the floor and the murmurs of waking people were sliced by the cash register as we rang up the five-cent sales.

If the morning sounds and smells were touched with the supernatural, the late afternoon had all the features of the normal Arkansas life. In the dying sunlight the people dragged, rather than their empty cotton sacks.

Brought back to the Store, the pickers would step out of the backs of trucks and fold down, dirt-disappointed, to the ground. No matter how much they had picked' it wasn't enough. Their wages wouldn't even get them out of debt to my grandmother, not to mention the staggering bill that waited on them at the white commissary downtown.

The sounds of the new morning had been replaced with grumbles about cheating houses, weighted scales, snakes, skimpy cotton and dusty rows. In later years I was to confront the stereotyped picture of gay song-singing cotton pickers with such inordinate rage that I was told even by fellow Blacks that my paranoia was embarrassing. But I had seen the fingers cut by the mean little cotton bolls, and I had witnessed the backs and shoulders and arms and legs resisting any further demands.

Some of the workers would leave their sacks at the Store to be picked up the following morning, but a few had to take them home for repairs. I winced to picture them sewing the coarse material under a coal-oil lamp with fingers stiffening from the day's work. In too few hours they would have to walk back to Sister Henderson's Store, get vittles and load, again, onto the trucks. Then they would face another day of trying to earn enough for the whole year with the heavy knowledge that they were going to end the season as they started it. Without the money or credit necessary to sustain a family for three months. In cotton-picking time the late afternoons revealed the harshness of Black Southern life, which in the early morning had been softened by nature's blessing of grogginess, forgetfulness and the soft lamplight.

Revue de presse

“This testimony from a black sister marks the beginning of a new era in the minds and hearts of all black men and women. . . . I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings liberates the reader into life simply because Maya Angelou confronts her own life with such a moving wonder, such a luminous dignity. I have no words for this achievement, but I know that not since the days of my childhood, when the people in books were more real than the people one saw every day, have I found myself so moved. . . . Her portrait is a biblical study in life in the midst of death.”—James Baldwin

“Simultaneously touching and comic.”—The New York Times

“It is a heroic and beautiful book.”—The Plain Dealer

“Maya Angelou is a natural writer with an inordinate sense of life and she has written and exceptional autobiographical narrative . . . a beautiful book—an unconditionally involving memoir for our time or any time.”—Kirkus Reviews

Détails sur le produit

  • Format : Format Kindle
  • Taille du fichier : 4951 KB
  • Nombre de pages de l'édition imprimée : 1186 pages
  • Editeur : Modern Library; Édition : Modern Library Ed (18 avril 2012)
  • Vendu par : Amazon Media EU S.à r.l.
  • Langue : Anglais
  • ASIN: B005FGUXGU
  • Synthèse vocale : Activée
  • X-Ray :
  • Word Wise: Activé
  • Lecteur d’écran : Pris en charge
  • Composition améliorée: Activé
  • Moyenne des commentaires client : 5.0 étoiles sur 5 1 commentaire client
  • Classement des meilleures ventes d'Amazon: n°185.599 dans la Boutique Kindle (Voir le Top 100 dans la Boutique Kindle)
  • Voulez-vous nous parler de prix plus bas?

click to open popover

Commentaires en ligne

5.0 étoiles sur 5
5 étoiles
1
4 étoiles
0
3 étoiles
0
2 étoiles
0
1 étoile
0
Voir le commentaire client
Partagez votre opinion avec les autres clients

Meilleurs commentaires des clients

Format: Format Kindle Achat vérifié
Maya Angelou has written her Life story simply and intellligently......l cannot remember when l have enjoyed a book as much.
Remarque sur ce commentaire Avez-vous trouvé ce commentaire utile ? Oui Non Commentaire en cours d'envoi...
Merci pour votre commentaire.
Désolé, nous n'avons pas réussi à enregistrer votre vote. Veuillez réessayer
Signaler un abus

Commentaires client les plus utiles sur Amazon.com (beta) (Peut contenir des commentaires issus du programme Early Reviewer Rewards)

Amazon.com: 4.8 étoiles sur 5 210 commentaires
7 internautes sur 7 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 My favorite book 16 octobre 2015
Par Minzi Taylor - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Relié Achat vérifié
These books, collected into 1 book, are excellent and life changing. So disappointed to see Maya's book ' I know why the caged bird sings ' on the banned book list. It is specifically for her mentioning her child rape. I would recommend this for older teens and this should be REQUIRED reading for young girls. Maya was truly 'fake it till you make it'. I had no idea how awesome she was. She never let any opportunity pass her by. You need a creole cook ? sure, that's me. It wasn't, but she took a weekend to learn some stuff, and she did it. Broadway star ? you got it. Documentary producer ? yep. She went to the library, read some books on TV - boom. She did it. Her ambition was endless. Her optimism was amazing. Her writing style is beautiful. I absolutely loved this book. It was one of the best books I have ever read.
1 internautes sur 1 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 What a Talent !! 18 avril 2017
Par Rusty Runner - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Relié Achat vérifié
This a collection of all 6 books & make an almost continuous narrative of Maya's early to mid-life, when she was in her early forties. What shines through is her enormous talent to face numerous challenges in life, albeit certain periods of depression. She doesn't deny that, beside a 2-year training in dance & song, she's not qualified for any profession. BUT, maybe because of it she learns basics of several languages, attracts friends, jobs & boyfriends so quickly & efficiently. It's truly amazing. I think the highest point in her life was being accepted & trained, on the spot, to perform a leading role in the first international performance of Gershwin's Porgy & Bess. It's shockingly eye-openning that it was in her late thirties that she realized there're quite a few white people who understand the blacks' incredible injustices in this country & are prepared to devote money & time to make a difference. The book is printed on excellent paper, with very good readable font. I highly recommend it to ALL people who can go through 1166 pages at any pace. For me it was page-turner : a unique story of a unique talent.
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Incredible, inspiring collection!! 22 avril 2017
Par M M - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Relié Achat vérifié
This is a truly incredible collection by the amazing Maya Angelou.
I friend recommended this book and to be honest I had never read Maya Angelou before and was doubtful I would read the entire collection - it's very long! But then, one by one, I became completely entranced and fascinated by Maya's amazing tales, adventures, twists, turns and wisdom from her life. Following her from the deep south of Alabama, to Europe, to Africa, to so many poignant highs and lows was entrancing. I found myself some 1,000 pages later sad that the book ended, I had so enjoyed, and learned so much from being in Maya's world ...

This collection feels like a deeply inspiring gift from such an amazing woman: her honesty, wit, her wise, wild ways of exploring life head on, all left me feeling lucky to have been on this remarkable journey with Maya Angelou.

Begin with "I know Why the Caged Bird Sings" and I think you will also find yourself on a much longer adventure.
15 internautes sur 16 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE THIS COLLECTION!!! 21 mai 2014
Par GeminiGirrl - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Format Kindle Achat vérifié
As a woman, having grown up in the south and being raised by my Grandmother I TOTALLY relate to Maya's story of her early childhood, however anyone who reads this will be touched and amazed at the things Ms. Angelou went through and how she made it to where she is today. This collection takes you through REAL struggles and amazing triumphs of one our true modern day icons. I can not say enough about this collection in a review, but it changed my life. READ IT!
3 internautes sur 3 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Blown Away by her Life 30 août 2014
Par S. Sarabasha - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Format Kindle Achat vérifié
and her fortitude, grit and ability to bounce back time and time and time again. Family does win out. Her grandmother taught her to be proud of herself, and how to learn from books. Her mother, to know she could do anything she set her mind to. "To hope for the best but be prepared for the worst." How one woman knew and made friends with so many influential people is like a fairy story but oh so real. I wish I could thank her personally for such an incredibly well written set of autobiographies.
Ces commentaires ont-ils été utiles ? Dites-le-nous