Dash & Lily's Book of Dares (Anglais) Broché – 11 octobre 2011
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You're in your favorite bookstore, scanning the shelves. You get to the section where a favorite author's books reside, and there, nestled in comfortably between the incredibly familiar spines, sits a red notebook.
What do you do?
The choice, I think, is obvious:
You take down the red notebook and open it.
And then you do whatever it tells you to do.
It was Christmastime in New York City, the most detestable time of the year. The moo-like crowds, the endless visits from hapless relatives, the ersatz cheer, the joyless attempts at joyfulness--my natural aversion to human contact could only intensify in this context. Wherever I went, I was on the wrong end of the stampede. I was not willing to grant "salvation" through any "army." I would never care about the whiteness of Christmas. I was a Decemberist, a Bolshevik, a career criminal, a philatelist trapped by unknowable anguish--whatever everyone else was not, I was willing to be. I walked as invisibly as I could through the Pavlovian spend-drunk hordes, the broken winter breakers, the foreigners who had flown halfway across the world to see the lighting of a tree without realizing how completely pagan such a ritual was.
The only bright side of this dim season was that school was shuttered (presumably so everyone could shop ad nauseam and discover that family, like arsenic, works best in small doses . . . unless you prefer to die). This year I had managed to become a voluntary orphan for Christmas, telling my mother that I was spending it with my father, and my father that I was spending it with my mother, so that each of them booked nonrefundable vacations with their post-divorce paramours. My parents hadn't spoken to each other in eight years, which gave me a lot of leeway in the determination of factual accuracy, and therefore a lot of time to myself.
I was popping back and forth between their apartments while they were away--but mostly I was spending time in the Strand, that bastion of titillating erudition, not so much a bookstore as the collision of a hundred different bookstores, with literary wreckage strewn over eighteen miles of shelves. All the clerks there saunter-slouch around distractedly in their skinny jeans and their thrift-store button-downs, like older siblings who will never, ever be bothered to talk to you or care about you or even acknowledge your existence if their friends are around . . . which they always are. Some bookstores want you to believe they're a community center, like they need to host a cookie-making class in order to sell you some Proust. But the Strand leaves you completely on your own, caught between the warring forces of organization and idiosyncrasy, with idiosyncrasy winning every time. In other words, it was my kind of graveyard.
I was usually in the mood to look for nothing in particular when I went to the Strand. Some days I would decide that the afternoon was sponsored by a particular letter, and would visit each and every section to check out the authors whose last names began with that letter. Other days, I would decide to tackle a single section, or would investigate the recently unloaded tomes, thrown in bins that never really conformed to alphabetization. Or maybe I'd only look at books with green covers, because it had been too long since I'd read a book with a green cover.
I could have been hanging out with my friends, but most of them were hanging out with their families or their Wiis. (Wiis? Wiii? What is the plural?) I preferred to hang out with the dead, dying, or desperate books--used we call them, in a way that we'd never call a person, unless we meant it cruelly. ("Look at Clarissa . . . she's such a used girl.")
I was horribly bookish, to the point of coming right out and saying it, which I knew was not socially acceptable. I particularly loved the adjective bookish, which I found other people used about as often as ramrod or chum or teetotaler.
On this particular day, I decided to check out a few of my favorite authors, to see if any irregular editions had emerged from a newly deceased person's library sale. I was perusing a particular favorite (he shall remain nameless, because I might turn against him someday) when I saw a peek of red. It was a red Moleskine--made of neither mole nor skin, but nonetheless the preferred journal of my associates who felt the need to journal in non-electronic form. You can tell a lot about a person from the page she or she chooses to journal on--I was strictly a college-ruled man myself, having no talent for illustration and a microscopic scrawl that made wide-ruled seem roomy. The blank pages were usually the most popular--I only had one friend, Thibaud, who went for the grid. Or at least he did until the guidance counselors confiscated his journals to prove that he had been plotting to kill our history teacher. (This is a true story.)
There wasn't any writing on the spine of this particular journal--I had to take it off the shelf to see the front, where there was a piece of masking tape with the words DO YOU DARE? written in black Sharpie. When I opened the covers, I found a note on the first page.
I've left some clues for you.
If you want them, turn the page.
If you don't, put the book back on the shelf, please.
The handwriting was a girl's. I mean, you can tell. That enchanted cursive. Either way, I would've endeavored to turn the page.
So here we are.
1. Let's start with French Pianism.
I don't really know what it is,
but I'm guessing
nobody's going to take it off the shelf.
Charles Timbrell's your man.
Do not turn the page
until you fill in the blanks
(just don't write in the notebook, please)
From the Hardcover edition.
Revue de presse
Another surefire hit from the creators of Nick & Norah's Infinite Playlist. --Booklist --Ce texte fait référence à une édition épuisée ou non disponible de ce titre.
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Bon, je dois dire que je ne m'y suis - franchement! - pas prise à la bonne période pour lire ce livre. L'intrigue commence le 21 Décembre soit le « jour avant le jour avant le jour avant le jour de Noël » comme dirait Lily et on est donc en plein dans la période de Noël, soit une ambiance pas vraiment vraiment adaptée à notre mois de Juin.... Mais ça ne m'a pas plus posé problème que ça (surtout que je suis un peu comme Lily une grosse fanatique de Noël).
Premier point très positif que je relève de ce livre : les personnages qui sont, à mon avis, géniaux.Lire la suite ›
De l'humour ? Alors Dash and Lily's Book of Dares est le bon livre ! Je me suis tapée des barres ! Et quand je ne me tapais plus de barres - pas parce que ça fait mal, hein, c'est une expression - Boomer était là pour me relancer !
Si vous cherchez une jolie romance qui fait swooner, un livre loin des clichés, passez votre chemin.
J'ai vraiment cru, sur la première moitié du livre, que j'allais avoir un quasi coup de coeur. Je me suis beaucoup marrée, et j'ai beaucoup aimé le concept du "book of dares" - ou du livre des défis, comme vous voulez.
Dash est un garçon asocial, qui transpire l'intelligence par la narration. Avec Boomer, il était selon moi le point fort du roman, parce que Lily, un peu madame-je-sais-tout, trop propre sur elle-même, qui tente de ne pas avoir confiance en elle, mais vraiment, ça n'a pas marché, n'est pas un personnage que je peux qualifier d'attachant.
Je ne l'ai pas trop aimée en fait.
MAIS C'ÉTAIT MARRANT VOUS VOYEZ ! Puis la romance semblait chouette et originale.
Quand soudain, le cliché.
Je me suis pris un mur de déception. Ce livre qui partait si bien, avec une si bonne idée, a trouvé la route du basique. Ma note de 9 est descendue à 6, j'ai dû fermer le livre pour me calmer un jour. Ou deux.
POURQUOI RACHEL COHN ? POURQUOI DAVID LEVITHAN ?Lire la suite ›
Commentaires client les plus récents
i bought this and the cover is not the same as in this picture and my book came with some page corned and broken i was just soooo disappointed that i wanted to turned back but it's... Lire la suitePublié il y a 14 mois par maddyson quet
Il est arrivé en parfait état mais je ne l'ai pas encore lu.
Je le recommande en tout cas.