Eat Pray Love: One Woman's Search for Everything Across Italy, India and Indonesia (internation al export edition) (Anglais) Broché – 15 novembre 2007
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Description du produit
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—
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 ...
Revue de presse
"An engaging, intelligent, and highly entertaining memoir."—Time
"A meditation on love in its many forms—love of food, language, humanity, God, and most meaningful for Gilbert, love of self."—Los Angeles Times
"This insightful, funny account of her travels reads like a mix of Susan Orlean and Frances Mayes."—Entertainment Weekly
"This is a wonderful book, brilliant and personal, rich in spiritual insight."—Anne Lamott
From the Trade Paperback edition.
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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.
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.
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.
Elizabeth Gilbert donne une leçon de vie et se livre avec tant de candeur que dès le début de son récit, le lecteur a l'impression de retrouver une amie.
It's such a spiritual journey and I don't think I'll ever get tired of reading it.
Definitely one of my favorite.
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Commentaires client les plus récents
L'histoire est superbe et on se sent tellement en phase avec l'héroïne qu'on accueille la fin du livre...En lire plus
I enjoyed the book much more than the movie.
It's funny, interesting and beautiful.
N.B: I'm not making a judgement on the content of this book only on the sending
Par contre un hommage aux bienfaits de la médiation donc je suis...En lire plus
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