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Eat Pray Love par [Gilbert, Elizabeth]
Publicité sur l'appli Kindle

Eat Pray Love Format Kindle

4.3 étoiles sur 5 33 commentaires client

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Format Kindle, 16 novembre 2009
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I wish Giovanni would kiss me.

Oh, but there are so many reasons why this would be a terrible idea. To begin with, Giovanni is ten years younger than I am, and, like most Italian guys in their twenties, he still lives with his mother. These facts alone make him an unlikely romantic partner for me, given that I am a professional American woman in my mid-thirties, who has just come through a failed marriage and a devastating, interminable divorce, followed immediately by a passionate love affair that ended in sickening heartbreak. This loss upon loss has left me feeling sad and brittle and about seven thousand years old. Purely as a matter of principle I wouldn't inflict my sorry, busted-up old self on the lovely, unsullied Giovanni. Not to mention that I have finally arrived at that age where a woman starts to question whether the wisest way to get over the loss of one beautiful brown-eyed young man is indeed to promptly invite another one into her bed. This is why I have been alone for many months now. This is why, in fact, I have decided to spend this entire year in celibacy.

To which the savvy observer might inquire: 'Then why did you come to Italy?'

To which I can only reply—especially when looking across the table at handsome Giovanni— 'Excellent question.'

Giovanni is my Tandem Exchange Partner. That sounds like an innuendo, but unfortunately it's not. All it really means is that we meet a few evenings a week here in Rome to practice each other's languages. We speak first in Italian, and he is patient with me; then we speak in English, and I am patient with him. I discovered Giovanni a few weeks after I'd arrived in Rome, thanks to that big Internet cafÈ at the Piazza Barbarini, across the street from that fountain with the sculpture of that sexy merman blowing into his conch shell. He (Giovanni, that is—not the merman) had posted a flier on the bulletin board explaining that a native Italian speaker was seeking a native English speaker for conversational language practice. Right beside his appeal was another flier with the same request, word-for-word identical in every way, right down to the typeface. The only difference was the contact information. One flier listed an e-mail address for somebody named Giovanni; the other introduced somebody named Dario. But even the home phone number was the same.

Using my keen intuitive powers, I e-mailed both men at the same time, asking in Italian, "Are you perhaps brothers?"

It was Giovanni who wrote back this very provocativo message: "Even better. Twins!"

Yes—much better. Tall, dark and handsome identical twenty-five-year-old twins, as it turned out, with those giant brown liquid-center Italian eyes that just unstitch me. After meeting the boys in person, I began to wonder if perhaps I should adjust my rule somewhat about remaining celibate this year. For instance, perhaps I could remain totally celibate except for keeping a pair of handsome twenty-five-year-old Italian twin brothers as lovers. Which was slightly reminiscent of a friend of mine who is vegetarian except for bacon, but nonetheless ... I was already composing my letter to Penthouse:

In the flickering, candlelit shadows of the Roman café, it was impossible to tell whose hands were caress

But, no.

No and no.

I chopped tvhe fantasy off in mid-word. This was not my moment to be seeking romance and (as day follows night) to further complicate my already knotty life. This was my moment to look for the kind of healing and peace that can only come from solitude.

Anyway, by now, by the middle of November, the shy, studious Giovanni and I have become dear buddies. As for Dario—the more razzle-dazzle swinger brother of the two—I have introduced him to my adorable little Swedish friend Sofie, and how they've been sharing their evenings in Rome is another kind of Tandem Exchange altogether. But Giovanni and I, we only talk. Well, we eat and we talk. We have been eating and talking for many pleasant weeks now, sharing pizzas and gentle grammatical corrections, and tonight has been no exception. A lovely evening of new idioms and fresh mozzarella.

Now it is midnight and foggy, and Giovanni is walking me home to my apartment through these back streets of Rome, which meander organically around the ancient buildings like bayou streams snaking around shadowy clumps of cypress groves. Now we are at my door. We face each other. He gives me a warm hug. This is an improvement; for the first few weeks, he would only shake my hand. I think if I were to stay in Italy for another three years, he might actually get up the juice to kiss me. On the other hand, he might just kiss me right now, tonight, right here by my door ... there's still a chance ... I mean we're pressed up against each other's bodies beneath this moonlight ... and of course it would be a terrible mistake ... but it's still such a wonderful possibility that he might actually do it right now ... that he might just bend down ... and ... and ... Nope.

He separates himself from the embrace.

"Good night, my dear Liz," he says.

"Buona notte, caro mio," I reply.

I walk up the stairs to my fourth-floor apartment, all alone. I let myself into my tiny little studio, all alone. I shut the door behind me. Another solitary bedtime in Rome. Another long night's sleep ahead of me, with nobody and nothing in my bed except a pile of Italian phrasebooks and dictionaries.

I am alone, I am all alone, I am completely alone.

Grasping this reality, I let go of my bag, drop to my knees and press my forehead against the floor. There, I offer up to the universe a fervent prayer of thanks.

First in English.

Then in Italian.

And then—just to get the point across—in Sanskrit.


And since I am already down there in supplication on the floor, let me hold that position as I reach back in time three years earlier to the moment when this entire story began—a moment which also found me in this exact same posture: on my knees, on a floor, praying.

Everything else about the three-years-ago scene was different, though. That time, I was not in Rome but in the upstairs bathroom of the big house in the suburbs of New York which I'd recently purchased with my husband. It was a cold November, around three o'clock in the morning. My husband was sleeping in our bed. I was hiding in the bathroom for something like the forty-seventh consecutive night, and—just as during all those nights before—I was sobbing. Sobbing so hard, in fact, that a great lake of tears and snot was spreading before me on the bathroom tiles, a veritable Lake Inferior (if you will) of all my shame and fear and confusion and grief.

I don't want to be married anymore.

I was trying so hard not to know this, but the truth kept insisting itself to me.

I don't want to be married anymore. I don't want to live in this big house. I don't want to have a baby.

But I was supposed to want to have a baby. I was thirty-one years old. My husband and I—who had been together for eight years, married for six—had built our entire life around the common expectation that, after passing the doddering old age of thirty, I would want to settle down and have children. By then, we mutually anticipated, I would have grown weary of traveling and would be happy to live in a big, busy household full of children and homemade quilts, with a garden in the backyard and a cozy stew bubbling on the stovetop. (The fact that this was a fairly accurate portrait of my own mother is a quick indicator of how difficult it once was for me to tell the difference between myself and the powerful woman who had raised me.) But I didn't—as I was appalled to be finding out—want any of these things. Instead, as my twenties had come to a close, that deadline of THIRTY had loomed over me like a death sentence, and I discovered that I did not want to be pregnant. I kept waiting to want to have a baby, but it didnt happen. And I know what it feels like to want something, believe me. I well know what desire feels like. But it wasn't there. Moreover, I couldn't stop thinking about what my sister had said to me once, as she was breast-feeding her firstborn: 'Having a baby is like getting a tattoo on your face. You really need to be certain it's what you want before you commit.'

How could I turn back now, though? Everything was in place. This was supposed to be the year. In fact, we'd been trying to get pregnant for a few months already. But nothing had happened (aside from the fact that—in an almost sarcastic mockery of pregnancy—I was experiencing psychosomatic morning sickness, nervously throwing up my breakfast every day). And every month when I got my period I would find myself whispering furtively in the bathroom: Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you for giving me one more month to live ...

From Publishers Weekly

Starred Review. Gilbert (The Last American Man) grafts the structure of romantic fiction upon the inquiries of reporting in this sprawling yet methodical travelogue of soul-searching and self-discovery. Plagued with despair after a nasty divorce, the author, in her early 30s, divides a year equally among three dissimilar countries, exploring her competing urges for earthly delights and divine transcendence. First, pleasure: savoring Italy's buffet of delights - the world's best pizza, free-flowing wine and dashing conversation partners - Gilbert consumes la dolce vita as spiritual succor. "I came to Italy pinched and thin," she writes, but soon fills out in waist and soul. Then, prayer and ascetic rigor: seeking communion with the divine at a sacred ashram in India, Gilbert emulates the ways of yogis in grueling hours of meditation, struggling to still her churning mind. Finally, a balancing act in Bali, where Gilbert tries for equipoise "betwixt and between" realms, studies with a merry medicine man and plunges into a charged love affair. Sustaining a chatty, conspiratorial tone, Gilbert fully engages readers in the year's cultural and emotional tapestry - conveying rapture with infectious brio, recalling anguish with touching candor - as she details her exotic tableau with history, anecdote and impression.
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

Détails sur le produit

  • Format : Format Kindle
  • Taille du fichier : 1867 KB
  • Nombre de pages de l'édition imprimée : 364 pages
  • Editeur : Bloomsbury Paperbacks; Édition : 1 (16 novembre 2009)
  • Vendu par : Amazon Media EU S.à r.l.
  • Langue : Anglais
  • ASIN: B0037RDPEG
  • Synthèse vocale : Non activée
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  • Word Wise: Activé
  • Composition améliorée: Activé
  • Moyenne des commentaires client : 4.3 étoiles sur 5 33 commentaires client
  • Classement des meilleures ventes d'Amazon: n°22.121 dans la Boutique Kindle (Voir le Top 100 dans la Boutique Kindle)
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Format: Broché Achat vérifié
Ce livre retrace l'histoire de l'auteur, lors d'un pétage de plomb massif qui la poussa à chercher pour plus de sens dans sa propre vie.
La lecture m'a beaucoup fait sourire car je peux retrouver un vécu très commun dans ma propre quête personnelle de spiritualité : doute, amour, profondeur, silence et besoin de guérir le coeur.
Ici, l'auteure fait un long périple, à la recherche de Dieu au travers de sa propre vie, nous passons de l'Italie, à Bali, en passant par l'Inde. Tout cela pour se rendre compte que l'immensité se trouve dans son for intérieur. Récit truffé d'humour, d'humeur et d'aventure !
Si vous cherchez une inspiration pour commencer votre propre quête, vous en trouverez sûrement une bonne dose dans ce livre.
Remarque sur ce commentaire 9 personnes ont trouvé cela utile. Avez-vous trouvé ce commentaire utile ? Oui Non Commentaire en cours d'envoi...
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Le propos pourrait être intéressant :Après un douloureux divorce, une américaine (dans la trentaine) décide de s'offrir trois séjours : D'abord en Italie, pour y rechercher le plaisir des sens,et deux autres en Inde et Indonésie, pour "approfondir" sa spiritualité sous la houlette de gurus locaux.
Dans la pratique, je dois dire que le livre m'a déçu, avant tout parce qu'il manque d'authenticité. Le but et les motivations de l'auteure, lorsqu'elle entreprend ces voyages, sont pour le moins fumeux. On se demande si l'idée d'un livre n'a pas été le facteur déclenchant, car les aspirations "profondes" paraissent pour le moins superficielles, comme l'ensemble du livre, du reste.
Par exemple, E. Gilbert séjourne à Rome, l'une des plus belles villes du monde. De son propre aveux, elle ne met pas les pieds dans un seul musée, mais se gave de pastas et de gelati, et, entre deux, dépense une fortune pour s'acheter des sous-vêtements à la douzaine. C'est son droit, certes, mais aller à Rome pour ça...
Le livre est résolument sur le mode humoristique. E. Gibert n'est pas maladroite, à ce jeu, son style est vif et enjoué, mais elle ramène toutes ses activité à leurs aspects triviaux, et c'est vite lassant. Lorsqu'elle s'essaie à se montrer sérieuse (c'est rare), elle n'est plus crédible, car, à rester superficielle à longueur de pages, elle est difficile à suivre lorsqu'elle tente de prendre un peu de hauteur.
Au bilan, un livre bien écrit, mais qui se présente comme un journal de voyage banal et futile, relatant des faits divers sans réel lien entre eux, et, pour tout dire, plutôt ennuyeux, à la longue.
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Life is a journey and that is exactly what was described. I went through every emotion even laughing out loud at one point.
The spiritual references were fascinating and images were created of Bali in my head such was the description.
Time for me to move on to the next part in Committed.This book was recommended by my daughter in law who said I would love it - she was right.
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Format: Broché
Style très drôle ; j'ai suivi la recommandation d'un autre lecteur = à lire en anglais pour ceux qui le peuvent. J'éviterai d'aller voir le film, qui ne peut être qu'une pâle comédie par rapport au livre (même si j'aime beaucoup Julia Roberts). Cela me donne envie de lire ses autres récits.
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Un roman de 450 pages, en anglais... voilà, le défi est rempli. Force a été de constater que plus je lisais ce livre, plus j'en redemandais, et plus les pages défilaient à une vitesse folle... si bien qu'il a été TRES difficile de refermer le bouquin. Ce roman (revigorant) procure une bonne dose d'évasion, c'est vraiment une « ode » à l'estime de soi.

Eat, Pray, Love... C'est l'histoire (vraie) de Liz, une trentenaire fraîchement divorcée, le moral dans les chaussettes. Cette femme, en pleine remise en question, décide de parcourir trois pays, mais ce qu'elle va surtout faire, c'est un voyage « intérieur ». A la recherche de son propre équilibre, elle va se (re)découvrir elle-même.

En Italie, elle goûtera aux délices de la « dolce vita » et au plaisir de la nourriture [EAT] ; en Inde, la prière et la méditation l'aideront à discipliner son esprit [PRAY] ; en Indonésie, elle trouvera enfin cet équilibre qu'on appelle le bonheur, au côté d'un beau Brésilien [LOVE].

Ces voyages forment une « parenthèse » dans la vie de Liz. On suit ses joies, ses doutes, ses peines, comme si on était l'une de ses amies. Elle partage ses pensées, ses souvenirs, en détail. De (court) chapitre en (court) chapitre, on découvre une femme plus sereine, plus confiante, plus apaisée. Une femme qui va de l'avant et qui a repris sa vie en main.

Tout le plaisir est pour le lecteur de faire connaissance avec différents peuples, différentes cultures et traditions. Le roman est assez spirituel, et il y a beaucoup de descriptions, chacun le lira avec sa propre sensibilité.

Je n'ai qu'une hâte... Lire la suite : COMMITTED.
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