• Tous les prix incluent la TVA.
Habituellement expédié sous 1 à 4 mois.
Expédié et vendu par Amazon. Emballage cadeau disponible.
+ EUR 2,99 (livraison en France métropolitaine)
D'occasion: Bon | Détails
Vendu par Nearfine
État: D'occasion: Bon
Commentaire: Peut contenir des notes ou être un ancien livre de bibliothèque. Livraison prévue entre 2 et 3 semaines.
Vous l'avez déjà ?
Repliez vers l'arrière Repliez vers l'avant
Ecoutez Lecture en cours... Interrompu   Vous écoutez un extrait de l'édition audio Audible
En savoir plus
Voir cette image

The Death of Ivan Ilyich and Other Stories (Anglais) Relié – 17 novembre 2009

Rentrée scolaire 2017 : découvrez notre boutique de livres, fournitures, cartables, ordinateurs, vêtements ... Voir plus.


Voir les 5 formats et éditions Masquer les autres formats et éditions
Prix Amazon
Neuf à partir de Occasion à partir de
Format Kindle
"Veuillez réessayer"
Relié
"Veuillez réessayer"
EUR 26,81
EUR 26,81 EUR 22,87
Note: Cet article est éligible à la livraison en points de collecte. Détails
Récupérer votre colis où vous voulez quand vous voulez.
  • Choisissez parmi 17 000 points de collecte en France
  • Les membres du programme Amazon Prime bénéficient de livraison gratuites illimitées
Comment commander vers un point de collecte ?
  1. Trouvez votre point de collecte et ajoutez-le à votre carnet d’adresses
  2. Sélectionnez cette adresse lors de votre commande
Plus d’informations

rentrée scolaire 2017 rentrée scolaire 2017

click to open popover

Offres spéciales et liens associés


Description du produit

Extrait

Hadji Murat

-

I was returning home through the fields. It was the very middle of summer. The meadows had been mowed, and they were just
about to reap the rye.

There is a delightful assortment of flowers at that time of year: red, white, pink, fragrant, fluffy clover; impudent marguerites; milk-white “love-me-love-me-nots” with bright yellow centers and a fusty, spicy stink; yellow wild rape with its honey smell; tall-standing, tulip-shaped campanulas, lilac and white; creeping vetch; neat scabious, yellow, red, pink, and lilac; plantain with its faintly pink down and faintly perceptible, pleasant smell; cornflowers, bright blue in the sun and in youth, and pale blue and reddish in the evening and when old; and the tender, almond-scented, instantly wilting flowers of the bindweed.

I had gathered a big bouquet of various flowers and was walking home, when I noticed in a ditch, in full bloom, a wonderful crimson thistle of the kind which is known among us as a “Tartar” and is carefully mowed around, and, when accidentally mowed down, is removed from the hay by the mowers, so that it will not prick their hands. I took it into my head to pick this thistle and put it in the center of the bouquet. I got down into the ditch and, having chased away a hairy bumblebee that had stuck itself into the center of the flower and sweetly and lazily fallen asleep there, I set about picking the flower. But it was very difficult: not only was the stem prickly on all sides, even through the handkerchief I had wrapped around my hand, but it was so terribly tough that I struggled with it for some five minutes, tearing the fibers one by one. When I finally tore off the flower, the stem was all ragged, and the flower no longer seemed so fresh and beautiful. Besides, in its coarseness and gaudiness it did not fit in with the delicate flowers of the bouquet. I was sorry that I had vainly destroyed and thrown away a flower that had been beautiful in its place. “But what energy and life force,” I thought, remembering the effort it had cost me to tear off the flower. “How staunchly it defended itself, and how dearly it sold its life.”

The way home went across a fallow, just-plowed field of black earth. I walked up a gentle slope along a dusty, black-earth road. The plowed field was a landowner’s, a very large one, so that to both sides of the road and up the hill ahead nothing could be seen except the black, evenly furrowed, not yet scarified soil. The plowing had been well done; nowhere on the field was there a single plant or blade of grass to be seen—it was all black. “What a destructive, cruel being man is, how many living beings and plants he annihilates to maintain his own life,” I thought, involuntarily looking for something alive amidst this dead, black field. Ahead of me, to the right of the road, I spied a little bush. When I came closer, I recognized in this bush that same “Tartar” whose flower I had vainly picked and thrown away.

The “Tartar” bush consisted of three shoots. One had been broken off, and the remainder of the branch stuck out like a cut-off arm. On each of the other two there was a flower. These flowers had once been red, but now they were black. One stem was broken and half of it hung down, with the dirty flower at the end; the other, though all covered with black dirt, still stuck up. It was clear that the whole bush had been run over by a wheel, and afterwards had straightened up and therefore stood tilted, but stood all the same. As if a piece of its flesh had been ripped away, its guts turned inside out, an arm torn off, an eye blinded. But it still stands and
does not surrender to man, who has annihilated all its brothers around it.

“What energy!” I thought. “Man has conquered everything, destroyed millions of plants, but this one still does not surrender.”

And I remembered an old story from the Caucasus, part of which I saw, part of which I heard from witnesses, and part of which I imagined to myself. The story, as it shaped itself in my memory and imagination, goes like this.

Revue de presse

"Tolstoy's prose is majestic, his pace measured, his characters unflinchingly true to life, his message bleak" (Guardian)

"The simplicity and power of this novella, the story of the terrible encroachment of death on a shallow man spiritually unprepared for it, has staggered millions" (Sunday Telegraph)

"I don't read Russian, but I think Tolstoy's writing comes over whatever translation you read...he wrote the great, terrible story The Death of Ivan Illyich" (Redmond O'Hanlon Independent)

"For me, the best insight into the process of dying comes from Leo Tolstoy in his short story, The Death of Ivan Ilych, which examines the life and death of the most ordinary man" (Oliver James Mail on Sunday) --Ce texte fait référence à une édition épuisée ou non disponible de ce titre.

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.



Détails sur le produit


Commentaires client

Il n'y a pour l'instant aucun commentaire client.
5 étoiles
0
4 étoiles
0
3 étoiles
0
2 étoiles
0
1 étoile
0
Partagez votre opinion avec les autres clients

Commentaires client les plus utiles sur Amazon.com

Amazon.com: 4,3 sur 5 étoiles 479 commentaires
7 personnes ont trouvé cela utile.
4,0 sur 5 étoilesThe smaller Tolstoyan platforms
le 28 octobre 2015 - Publié sur Amazon.com
Achat vérifié
5 personnes ont trouvé cela utile.
4,0 sur 5 étoilesA very dark and compelling must-read
le 22 novembre 2016 - Publié sur Amazon.com
Achat vérifié
7 personnes ont trouvé cela utile.
5,0 sur 5 étoilesArguably some of the greatest stories ever put down on paper.
le 15 juillet 2013 - Publié sur Amazon.com
Achat vérifié
2 personnes ont trouvé cela utile.
5,0 sur 5 étoilesI just couldn't put the book down.
le 22 février 2017 - Publié sur Amazon.com
Achat vérifié