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 10,67

EUR 4,49 (30%)

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 Painter: A novel par [Heller, Peter]
Publicité sur l'appli Kindle

The Painter: A novel Format Kindle

5.0 étoiles sur 5 1 commentaire client

Voir les formats et éditions Masquer les autres formats et éditions
Prix Amazon
Neuf à partir de Occasion à partir de
Format Kindle
"Veuillez réessayer"
EUR 10,67

Longueur : 386 pages Word Wise: Activé Composition améliorée: Activé
Page Flip: Activé Langue : Anglais

Descriptions du produit





40 x 50 INCHES


I never imagined I would shoot a man. Or be a father. Or live so far from the sea.

As a child, you imagine your life sometimes, how it will be.

I never thought I would be a painter. That I might make a world and walk into it and forget myself. That art would be something I would not have any way of not doing.

My own father was a logger, very gentle, who never fought with anyone.

I could not have imagined that my daughter would be beautiful and strong like my mother. Whom she would never meet. Or that one afternoon at the Boxcar in Taos I would be drinking Jim Beam with a beer back and Lauder Simms would be at the next stool nursing a vodka tonic, probably his fourth or fifth, slurping the drink in a way that made ants run over my neck, his wet eyes glancing over again and again. The fucker who had skated on a certain conviction for raping a twelve year old girl in his movie theater downtown, looking at me now, saying,

“Jim, your daughter is coming up nice, I like seeing her down at the theater.”

“Come again?”

“Long legged like her mom, I mean not too skinny.”


“I don’t mean too skinny, Jim. I mean just—” His leer, lips wet with tonic. “She’s real interested in movies. Everything movies. I’m gonna train her up to be my little projectionist—”

I never imagined something like that could be reflex, without thought: pulling out the .41 magnum, raising it to the man half turned on the stool, pulling the trigger. Point blank. The concussion inside the windowless room. Or how everything explodes like the inside of a dream and how Johnny, my friend, came lunging over the bar, over my arm, to keep me from pulling the trigger again. Who saved my life in a sense because the man who should have died never did. How the shot echoed for hours inside the bar, inside my head. Echoed for years.

I painted that moment, the explosion of colors, the faces.

How regret is corrosive, but one of the things it does not touch is that afternoon, not ever.


An Ocean of Women


52 x 48 INCHES

My house is three miles south of town. There are forty acres of wheatgrass and sage, a ditch with a hedgerow of cottonwoods and willows, a small pond with a dock. The back fence gives on to the West Elk Mountains. Right there. They are rugged and they rise up just past the back of my place, from sage into juniper woods, then oak brush, then steep slopes of black timber, spruce and fir, and outcrops of rock and swaths of aspen clinging to the shoulders of the ridges. If I walk a few miles south, up around the flank of Mount Lamborn, I am in the Wilderness, which runs all the way to the Curecanti above Gunnison, and across to Crested Butte.

From the little ramada I look south to all those mountains and east to the massif of Mount Gunnison. All rock and timber now in August. There’s snow up there all but a few months a year. They tell me that some years the snow never vanishes. I’d like to see that.

If I step out in front of the small house and look west it is softer and drier that direction: the gently stepping uplift of Black Mesa where the Black Canyon of the Gunnison River cuts through; other desert mesas; the Uncompahgre Plateau out beyond it all, hazy and blue.

This is my new home. It’s kind of overwhelming how beautiful. And little Paonia, funny name for a village out here, some old misspelling of Peony. Nestled down in all this high rough country like a train set. The North Fork of the Gunnison runs through it, a winding of giant leafy cottonwoods and orchards, farms, vineyards. A good place I guess to make a field of peace, to gather and breathe.

Thing is I don’t feel like just breathing.

Sofia pulls up in the Subaru she calls Triceratops. It’s that old. I can hear the rusted out muffler up on the county road, caterwauling like a Harley, hear the drop in tone as it turns down the steep gravel driveway. The downshift in the dip and dinosaur roar as it climbs again to the house. Makes every entrance very dramatic, which she is.

She is twenty-eight. An age of drama. She reminds me of a chicken in the way she is top-heavy, looks like she should topple over. I mean her trim body is small enough to support breasts the size of tangerines and she is grapefruit. It is not that she is out of proportion, it’s exaggerated proportion which I guess fascinates me. I asked her to model for me five minutes after meeting her. That was about three months ago. We were standing in line in the tiny hippy coffee shop—Blue Moon, what else?—the only place in town with an espresso machine. She was wearing a short knit top and she had strong arms, scarred along the forearms the way someone who has worked outside is scarred, and a slightly crooked nose, somehow Latin. She looked like a fighter, like me. Sofia noticed the paint splattered on my cap, hands, khaki pants.

“Artist,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

Her brown eyes which were flecked with green roved over my head, clothes, and I realized she was cataloguing the colors in the spatters.

“Exuberant,” she said. “Primitive. Outsider—in quotes.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I went to RISD for a year but dropped out.”

Then her eyes went to the flies stuck in the cap.

“Artist fisherman,” she said. “Cool.”

She asked how long I’d been here, I said two weeks, she said, “Welcome. Sofia,” and stuck out her hand.

I said I needed models.

She cocked her head and measured me with one eye. Held it way past politeness.



“How much?”

Shrug. “Twenty bucks an hour?”

“I’m trying to decide if you are a creep. You’re not a violent felon are you?”

“Yes. I am.”

A smile trembled across her face. “Really?”

I nodded.

“Wow. What’d you do?”

“I shot a man in a bar. You’re not going to back out the door like in a horror movie are you?”

She laughed. “I was thinking about it.”

“My second wife did that when she found out.”

She was laughing uninhibited. People in line were smiling at her.

“You’re married?”

“Not anymore. She ran off down the road.”

“I’ll do it,” she said. “For twenty-five. Danger pay.”

Took her a while to rein in her mirth.

“Nude modeling for a violent killer convict. That is a first. Twenty-five, right?”

I nodded. “I didn’t kill the guy, I just shot him. I was a little high and to the left.”

She was laughing again and I knew that I had made a friend.

Now she shoved open the door like she always did, like she was doing some SWAT breach entry. Tumbled into the room.



“Your muffler is getting worse.”

“Really? Tops is balking at extinction. Poor guy.”

She sat on a stool at the long butcher block counter that separates the kitchen in this one big room. I pushed aside a bunch of sketch paper and charcoal and the fly-tying vise where I’d been tying up some Stegner Killers, invented by yours truly, which the trout couldn’t seem to resist the past couple of weeks. I set a mug of coffee on the counter between us, poured myself another.

“What are we doing today?”

“An Ocean of Women. Something I’ve been thinking about.”

“An ocean? Just me?”

“On my way up here from Santa Fe a good friend told me I can’t always swim in an ocean of women. I saw it. Me swimming, all the women, the fish. I thought we could give it a try.”

“Forget it.”

I set down my mug. “Really? No?”

“Just kidding. Fuck, Jim, you ask a lot of a girl.”

“Want an egg with chilies?”

Shook her head.

“You just have to make like an ocean. Just once.”

She cocked her head the way she does, fixed me with an eye. The light from the south windows brushed a peppering of faint acne pits on her temple and it somehow drew attention to the smoothness of her cheek and neck.

“Stormy or calm?” she said.

I shrugged.

She leaned forward on the counter, her breasts roosting happily in her little button top.

“How about choppy and disturbed? Dugar told me yesterday he wants to move to Big Sur.” Dugar was her hippy boyfriend. “I’m like how fucking corny. Plus nobody lives there anymore, it’s so damn expensive. He read a bunch of Henry Miller. Are you a teenager? I said. You like read a novel and want to move there?”

She stuck out her mug and I refilled it.

“It wasn’t a novel it was a memoir, he says. Jeez. He says he is a poet but between you and me his poems are sophomoric. Lately, since he’s read up on Big Sur, they are all about sea elephants which he has never seen. I have and they are not prepossessing, know what I mean? They would never even move if they didn’t have to eat. I said there is no fucking way I’m moving to Big Sur with the sea elephants, or even the Castroville, which is like the closest place a normal person could afford to live. I mean, do you want to live in the artichoke capital of the world? Be grateful for what you’ve got right now, where you are right now. Then I unleash the twins.”

I am laughing now.

“That’s not fair, is it?”

“Not by a long shot.”

“I’m young,” she says. It’s a simple statement, incontrovertible, and it stabs me with something like pain in the middle of my laughter.

We begin. Sofia is a champ of an ocean, a natural. I paint fast. I paint her oceaning on her side, arched, facing and away from me, swimming down off a pile of pillows, breaststroke, on her back over the same pillows willowing backwards arms extended as if reaching after a brilliant fish. I paint the fish as big as she is, invoking him. More fish, a hungry dark shark swimming up from the gloom below with what looks like a dog’s pink boner. The shark has a blue human eye, not devoid of embarrassment. I am lost. In the sea. I don’t speak. Sofia has the rhythm of a dancer and she changes as she feels the mood change.

I love this. I paint myself swimming. A big bearded man, beard going white—I’m forty-five and it’s been salt and pepper since I was thirty. I’m clothed in denim shirt and khakis and boots, ungainly and hulking in this ocean of women, swimming for my life and somehow enjoying it. In my right hand is a fishing rod. It looks like the swimmer is doing too many things at once and this may be his downfall. Or maybe it’s the root of his joy. My palette is a piece of covered fiberboard and I am swiping, touching, shuttling between it and canvas, stowing the small brush with a cocked little finger and reaching for the knife, all in time to her slowly shifting poses. I am a fish myself, making small darting turns against the slower background rhythms and sway of the swell. No thought, not once. Nothing I can remember.

It is not a fugue state. I’ve heard artists talk about that like it’s some kind of religious thing. For me it’s the same as when I am having a good day fishing. I move up the creek, tie on flies, cast to the far bank, wade, throw into the edge of a pool, feel the hitch the tug of a strike bang!—all in a happy silence of mind. Quiet. The kind of quiet feeling that fills you all night as you ready the meal, steam the asparagus, pour the sparkling water and cut the limes. Fills you into the next day.

I wouldn’t call it divine. I think it’s just showing up for once. Paying attention. I have heard artists say they are channeling God. You have to have a really good gallery to say that. I am painting now without naming any of it, can name it only in memory, and I become aware of a tickling on my neck. Sofia is leaning into me, standing on her tiptoes and watching over my shoulder. I turn my head so that my bearded chin is against her curly head. She is wearing the terry cloth robe she leaves here. She doesn’t say a word. She is behind me, but I can feel her smile, a lifting and tautening of the pillow of her cheek against my chin. I was painting more fish, and women, and these crab-like things at the bottom that had men’s eyes and reaching claws, and had somehow lost the fact that my model had vanished in the tumult.

“It’s been three hours,” she whispers. “I’m gonna go.” I nod. She tugs my beard once and is gone. Somewhere in there among the ocean of women and the darting fish and a man happily lost at sea I hear wind over water and a heart breaking like crockery and the bleating roar of a retreating dinosaur.


I came to the valley to paint. That was four months ago and I am painting, finally. I came up from Taos which is getting more crowded and pretentious by the minute. I was looking to find a place that was drama free. I am pretty good, somewhat famous, which means it gets harder to be quiet. A quiet place. There are two books about me. One I admit was commissioned years ago by Steve, my dealer in Santa Fe, as a way to boost my cachet, and it worked: prices for the paintings almost doubled. That’s when I traded in my used van, the one with the satellite Off switch that the collection agency in Santa Fe could activate if I missed a payment. Leaving me stranded by the side of the empty desert highway.

The other book is a fine and true scholarly study of what the author calls a Great American Southwest Post-Expressionist Naïf. I’ve been called a lot of things, but naïve was never one of them. It must have been because I couldn’t stop painting chickens. Farmyard chickens in every frame: landscapes, adobe houses, coal trains, even nudes. There was a chicken. They make me laugh, their jaunty shape all out of balance—like a boat that was built by a savant boat maker, you know it shouldn’t float but the fucker does. That’s chickens. Naïf.

Revue de presse

Praise for The Painter:

“An entertaining setup… The brawls and chase scenes have an edge-of-your-seatness that kept me turning the pages swiftly . . . When Jim takes to the mountains or streams, an un unwound lyricism takes over, Heller at his best . . . He has a keen, worshipful eye when describing the natural world: a trout hooked, a wave surfed . . . Striking . . . [A] moving story about love, celebrity, and the redemptive power of art.” — Benjamin Percy, The New York Times Book Review

"The 45-year-old painter Jim Stegner, the title character of Peter Heller’s second novel, is a Renaissance man of the American West. He reads T. S. Eliot and listens to Tom Waits. . . He also has a bad habit, when his temper flares, of shooting at people and braining them with rocks. . . Jim’s life changes decisively when he comes upon a blustery stranger abusing a small horse. Suspenseful scenes with the local authorities and vigilantes of various stripes propel the novel. Mr. Heller’s . . . close attention to the natural world serves his fiction well. The Colorado and New Mexico landscapes evoked in The Painter give the novel a deeper than usual sense of place." — John Williamson, The New York Times

"Heller’s first fictional outing was The Dog Stars, a breakout post apocalyptic tale. His new book opens in rural Colorado where painter Jim Stegner — failed husband, grieving father and barroom murderer — is trying to glue his life back together when trouble strikes again." —Toronto Star

“Heller’s prose style . . . works brilliantly at allowing readers inside Stegner’s head to capture his often jagged thoughts. And Heller also does a wonderful job of evoking the process by which Stegner creates his paintings—a kind of furious inspiration that even he can’t always understand—and the different kind of release he finds in his beloved pastime of fly-fishing. . . The Painter is a strikingly complex character study, one that parcels out information about the details of Stegner’s back story while never building to an obvious cathartic revelation. Jim Stegner may be a mess of a man, but it’s fascinating watching Heller plumb his broken soul.” Scott Renshaw, Salt Lake City Weekly

"Looking for suspense with literary chops? Peter Heller (whose last book was the breakout bestseller The Dog Stars) is back with a brilliant page-turner about an artist with a dark streak . . . Heller's gorgeous prose and the moral complexity of his narrator make this a standout."
Dawn Raffel, Reader's Digest

"The Painter is simply fine and more than a little wondrous. Astute readers will allow the prose to get under their skin and just go with it. Like Stegner paints, don't think, just read. More than once, my mind turned to daydreams and soft memory, only to be jerked back to witness a fish dying, gasping for air, or a bullet shattering a window . . . Heller rarely missteps. No character devolves to caricature. His writing is strong and sure, at turns fizzy and sensual, dark and brooding, as filled with love as it is with suspense. This is stuff you'll taste in the back of your throat and feel at your nerves' ends."
—Jackson Free Press

“The settings he moves through during his time in Santa Fe are as recognizable as if they were pulled from a postcard . . . Heller’s novel also paints a recognizable picture of the local art scene and the art world in general . . . Heller’s men are manly — they’re fisherman, they’re comfortable with firearms, they lust after women — but they aren’t the clichéd macho types you might expect  . . . That’s what’s unfamiliar in Heller’s fiction, the unusual situations, the sense of being shadowed and stalked, and the gunplay that’s common to both novels. In this sense, the stories are of a classic type: unusual men, the kind we can identify with even if we’re not painters or pilots, thrust into unusual, even tragic situations. Yet at heart, these men are not so different than those we know.” —Santa Fe New Mexican

The Painter achieves the rare alchemy that makes it simultaneously an intellectually provocative literary novel and a pace-quickening thriller. . . The novel alternates between adrenaline-fueled fight-and-chase scenes, striking images of the Western landscape and vivid descriptions of the artistic process and of Stegner's paintings themselves, which come to life in Heller's exacting language. . . Compulsively readable . . . Heller gives you everything you could hope for in a great summer novel: a driving plot with murder, vengeance and justice; love and love-making between fascinating, attractive people; an insider's guide to the art world and the lives of famous painters; and an endearing protagonist's journey toward epiphany and redemption.” —Nashville Scene

"The complexity of Peter Heller's characters, specifically Stegner, and his ability to integrate art with violence, poetry with addiction, and nature with deep introspection, makes The Painter an absolutely vibrant read. . . He is a Hemingway-esque character – outdoorsy, tough, alcoholic – but with a softer side . . . Heller's poetic language slows the narrative and gives it a quiet, peaceful feel, in between bursts of intense plot development that keep the story moving . . . Humanity, redemption, and forgiveness lie at the heart of the story . . . a thoughtful and deeply satisfying read. I recommend The Painter to people who appreciate the outdoors, to people who could spend twenty minutes contemplating one painting in an art museum, and to people who prefer gray spaces to black and white." —Elena Spagnolie, BookBrowse

“Meet Jim Stegner: mid-40s, a fly-fisherman, painter and killer. He is the masculine protagonist in Peter Heller’s new novel, The Painter. The opening line is masterful and captures our attention--45-year-old Jim reflects, ‘I never imagined I would kill a man.’ From then on, Heller holds us until the very last sentence . . . Rock solid prose . . . Whether you read this novel for the plot or appreciate it for poetic insights into the human condition, either way, you’ll be glad you did.” —Wichita Public Radio

"Breathtakingly good new novel . . . A darkly suspenseful page turner. . . The book seems ripe-fruit ready for a film director looking for a literary thriller that doesn’t stint on the car chases and shootouts, even if he makes them a little more creative than garden-variety thrillers manage. . . The book’s greatest accomplishments might lie in its quiet moments, particularly the fly-fishing scenes in which Stegner — like many of Ernest Hemingway’s characters — seems to find a peace that is otherwise unobtainable. . . Heller’s laconic prose soars." —Doug Childers, The Richmond Times-Dispatch

“[A] carefully composed story about one man’s downward turning life in the American West . . . beautiful near-visionary descriptions . . . I read with great fascination.” --Alan Cheuse, The Boston Globe

“Following on the heels of his blockbuster post-apocalyptic novel The Dog Stars, Peter Heller descends into the murky realm of art, fame and murder in The Painter. Again Heller uses a charming first-person, fly-fishing narrator, this time to recount a taut tale of anger, revenge and inspiration . . . All the drama unfolds in the stunning landscapes of Colorado and New Mexico, which Heller portrays masterfully. . . One of the true charms of the novel is Heller’s ability to describe Stegner’s art, to make it vivid and real, and to place us in the head of an artist who feels himself both out of control and at the peak of his abilities . . . It’s a suspenseful, compelling read throughout, and ultimately, that redemption is well-earned.” —Dallas Morning News

“Heller . . . goes full speed ahead in The Painter. He catapults Stegner into attack mode in the first chapter, setting a pace that never lets up . . . With all the elements in place, Heller pulls the reader along at tremendous speeds, intercutting action and amazing descriptions of Stegner as he paints . . . Heller . . . draws Stegner’s surroundings in powerful, high-energy prose as, once again, he goes out with his rod and reel . . . Peaceful. Until it isn’t. This contrast between serene nature and extreme action made The Dog Stars such a sensation. Heller uses it again well in The Painter.” —Kit Reed, Miami Herald

"A story of one man’s canvas and his second chance to repaint the future . . . [The] writing style . . . employs deeply reflective internal dialogue that is fortified by its rhythm and strength . . . While we cannot escape our past, we do retain the power to change our future." —Kacy Muir, The Times Leader

"Offers modern twists on the ancient themes of family, duty, revenge, and justice . . . most anticipated. . . Heller creates in Stegner a more flawed, reflective, and fully realized protagonist than the pining loner at the center of his first novel." —Bruce Barcott, Outside Magazine

“Second novels are the test of a writer. Some novelists repeat themselves with diminishing returns; others strike out into unknown territory without an adequate map. Fortunately, Peter Heller belongs to a third group — those who stay grounded in what they know while expanding into previously unexplored terrain... The ghost of [Hemingway] drifts through the novel, in style and subject matter. Heller, however, has his own voice. Like The Dog StarsThe Painter is written in short, lyrical bursts, and the gaps between those passages are just as crucial as the words in them.” –Margaret Quamme, The Columbus Dispatch

"What do you get when you cross Ernest Hemingway and Jackson Pollock? Something like white-bearded Jim Stegner, the 45-year-old man's man of an artist at the heart of The Painter, Peter Heller's entertaining new novel. Heller's opening immediately grabs our attention: 'I never imagined I would shoot a man,' Jim tells us. He'll soon do much more than that . . . The ensuing chase scenes, unfolding through southern Colorado and northern New Mexico, are heart-thumping page-turners, culminating in an ingeniously played final twist. But what's better still in Painter is Heller's account of Jim's own struggle with the gnawing and growing guilt at what he's done . . . The clear literary precursor here — right down to a similar horse-beating scene — is Crime and Punishment." —Mike Fischer, The Milwaukee Journal Sentinel

"A riveting second novel from the author of The Dog Stars . . . An artist settles into a quiet new life in Colorado after serving time for shooting a man in a bar fight--and reconnects with his old rage." —O Magazine 
“Meet Jim Stegner: mid-40s, a fly-fisherman, painter and killer. He is the masculine protagonist in Peter Heller’s new novel, The Painter. The opening line is masterful and captures our attention--45-year-old Jim reflects, ‘I never imagined I would kill a man.’ From then on, Heller holds us until the very last sentence . . . Rock solid prose . . . Whether you read this novel for the plot or appreciate it for poetic insights into the human condition, either way, you’ll be glad you did.” —Wichita Public Radio

“Following on the heels of his blockbuster post-apocalyptic novel The Dog Stars, Peter Heller descends into the murky realm of art, fame and murder in The Painter. Again Heller uses a charming first-person, fly-fishing narrator, this time to recount a taut tale of anger, revenge and inspiration . . . All the drama unfolds in the stunning landscapes of Colorado and New Mexico, which Heller portrays masterfully. . . One of the true charms of the novel is Heller’s ability to describe Stegner’s art, to make it vivid and real, and to place us in the head of an artist who feels himself both out of control and at the peak of his abilities . . . It’s a suspenseful, compelling read throughout, and ultimately, that redemption is well-earned.” —Dallas Morning News

"Right and wrong. Good and evil. Often, these are difficult distinctions to make, as we see in this second novel from the author of the acclaimed The Dog Stars . . . At times suspenseful, at times melancholy, at times spiritual, but always engrossing . . . Compelling . . . This novel embraces themes of personal loss and growth, drama and suspense, while also including plenty for those who enjoy art or nature fiction. Highly recommended." —Library Journal (starred)

"Jim Stegner, celebrated painter, ardent fisherman and homespun philosopher, narrates this masterful novel, in which love (parental and romantic), artistic vision, guilt, grief, and spine-chilling danger propel a suspenseful plot. . . Heller is equally skillful at describing the creation of a painting as he is at describing the thrilling details of a gunfight. Here, he explores the mysteries of the human heart and creates an indelible portrait of a man searching for peace, while seeking to maintain his humanity in the face of violence and injustice." —Publishers Weekly (starred)

"Heller’s writing is sure-footed and rip-roaring, star-bright and laced with ‘dark yearning,’ coalescing in an ever-escalating, ravishing, grandly engrossing and satisfying tale of righteousness and revenge, artistic fervor and moral ambiguity." Booklist (starred)

Détails sur le produit

  • Format : Format Kindle
  • Taille du fichier : 3134 KB
  • Nombre de pages de l'édition imprimée : 386 pages
  • Editeur : Vintage (6 mai 2014)
  • Vendu par : Amazon Media EU S.à r.l.
  • Langue : Anglais
  • Synthèse vocale : Activée
  • X-Ray :
  • Word Wise: Activé
  • Composition améliorée: Activé
  • Moyenne des commentaires client : 5.0 étoiles sur 5 1 commentaire client
  • Classement des meilleures ventes d'Amazon: n°156.662 dans la Boutique Kindle (Voir le Top 100 dans la Boutique Kindle)
  •  Voulez-vous faire un commentaire sur des images ou nous signaler un prix inférieur ?

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

click to open popover

Commentaires en ligne

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

Meilleurs commentaires des clients

Par F. Hache le 12 mai 2014
Format: Format Kindle Achat vérifié
A writer than can write, a constqnt tension, made me think if a dark mix between "heat" and "a river runs through"
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 (beta) HASH(0x9abd25a0) étoiles sur 5 742 commentaires
139 internautes sur 151 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
HASH(0x9a2763cc) étoiles sur 5 Art. Violence. Grief. 27 mars 2014
Par Nicole Del Sesto - Publié sur
Format: Relié Commentaire d‘un membre du Club des Testeurs ( De quoi s'agit-il? )
The first thing I want to say about this book, is how much it made me further appreciate the brilliance of The Dog Stars. You read a debut novel like that and you don't know if that's always the writer's style. And stylistically, you can see echoes of that writing in this book, but in reading this book you can also feel the deliberateness of the writing in Dog Stars, and that makes it even more special in retrospect.

The opening lines of the book "I never imagined I would shoot a man. Or be a father. Or live so far from the sea. As a child, you imagine your life sometimes, how it will be. I never thought I would be a painter."

That's the story of this book. The exploration of Jim Stenger as a man, a father, an artist. Heller explores the emotion of art, violence and grief. All masterfully. The emotion and the art, laid out for you raw to experience for yourself. Not told to you. I contrasted it with the recently popular "The Goldfinch" where at every step you were told how important art is, and how you should feel about it. There is none of that in this book. It just is. I think I fell a little bit in love with Heller reading this book. A man who is so unflinching in his exploration of feeling, trying to come to terms with who he really is in contrast to who he thinks he is.

I'm not sure if this book will have the same appeal as The Dog Stars, but I loved it. The violence in The Dog Stars was contextual. I guess you need to decide for yourself if the violence in this book is as well.

"It can be a dangerous place to be, for me. Displaced in time. I am not fully responsible for the now because the now has repudiated me...."
39 internautes sur 42 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
HASH(0x9a13a3b4) étoiles sur 5 The story of an artist, written by an artist. 6 mai 2014
Par Ryan J. Dejonghe - Publié sur
Format: Relié
Last year I was bothered by something I read in an online writers’ forum—that writing is not art. It wasn’t just the statement, but mainly that it was posted by a writer. If anything can help disprove that statement and prove that writing is indeed an art form, then Peter Heller’s THE PAINTER is it. This book is an expression from an artist about an artist. As the protagonists ponders, “Nobody, not even artists, understand art.”

THE PAINTER is the story of Jim Stegner: painter, father, lover. Human. The opening lines set the mood brilliantly: “I never imagined I would shoot a man. Or be a father. Or live so far from the sea.” Jim is a troubled man, wanting to be at peace with the world: seemingly always going in the opposite direction. He’s haunted, yet kind; brilliant, yet weak. He has a tough, enigmatic exterior, with a confused, sensitive interior. As he asks himself, “Can I say that I feel happy? First time in how long? No. Won’t say it. Shut up and inhale and drive.”

Heller’s writing provides a unique voice that is consistent throughout. It feels casual with its detailed descriptions: laid back, yet anxious to go. Some may define this writing as “stream of consciousness”; I prefer to label it as near-poetic. There are plenty of references to poetry throughout, including direct quotes from many poets. My favorite reference being a quote from T.S. Eliot. Don’t let that poetry reference fool you; there’s plenty of action. Heller’s character is not a docile painter of the “Great American Southwest Post-Expressionist Naïf”—his troubled past exponentiates into a near-catastrophic present. As the protagonist Jim Stegner prays, “Grant me, grant me, oh Lord, relief. From all my [f-ups].”

In the end, THE PAINTER is more about life than it is about art. But aren’t they synonymous? I think this in-book quote sums it up nicely: “What more really can be at stake except life itself, which is why maybe artists are always equating the two and driving everybody crazy by insisting that art is life.” So, if you want art, read this book. If you want insight into an artist’s soul, read this book. If you want pleasure in the literary, read this book. In other words, read this book.

Thank you to Knopf and Random House for providing this book for me to review.
168 internautes sur 206 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
HASH(0x99f3209c) étoiles sur 5 SOOOOOO DISAPPOINTING. [ Possible spoilers alert] 12 avril 2014
Par Charlotte Vale-Allen - Publié sur
Format: Relié Commentaire d‘un membre du Club des Testeurs ( De quoi s'agit-il? )
I adored The Dog Stars and recommended and/or gave it to every book lover I know. It was a lyrical, profoundly felt, exquisite creation.

I started off The Painter happy to be immersed again in Heller's lyrical prose. Even violence has a certain logic to it, whether or not it's reasonable to the reader's mind. But Heller created a character brimming with so much self-pity and such an enormous, seemingly innate, drive to violence that it simply didn't make for good reading.

The book comes to life intermittently when Jim Stegner, the painter and dry-drunk [not attending AA meetings, no sponsor], works on his art. And it falls into, Are-you-kidding-mode? when, without any warning, the man turns killer. For me, The Painter started its descent from the heights at that point. What happens is shocking because it makes no sense. He is, supposedly, a sensitive, loving soul who creates wonderfully vivid and perceptive images, but he keeps going after men who say or do things that bother him. Are we talking manic-depressive here? Are we talking of someone who goes into fugue states? What's going on?

And how come Jim never once questions how the murdered Dell's brother, Grant, or Jason, a member of the brothers' family, manage to keep turning up where he is, no matter how distant, how out-of-the way he happens to be? Are they using GPS? Long, detailed descriptions of where Jim is going and yet here's Dell's Brother Grant, coming right behind, with retribution in mind. Ditto with Jason, promising revenge, on Jim's tail wherever he goes. How?

The women in this book are all mystically magical; knowing, potent creatures who can restore this man to soundness. Really? We're in fantasy land on this aspect of the story. It's never clear just exactly what Jim is bringing to their tables. He's perpetually in a wounded state and women show up to heal him. Hmmmn. Not in the reality most of us know.

The characters in this book who best come to life are all secondary players: a pair of little-girl twins and their mother, Bob at the service station. But the major figures fail, in the main because they are simply unbelievable.

That Heller has painted ugly kill-worthy pictures of the Siminoe brothers, doesn't validate Jim's murderous behavior. By the time I got to the end of the book -- hoping all the way for some sort of redemption -- I was just very sad and deeply disappointed that such a gifted writer had created such a basically unsympathetic character upon which to hang this tale. I can only hope he finds his way to something more worthy of his efforts with his next book.
17 internautes sur 19 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
HASH(0x99f32b88) étoiles sur 5 Beautiful Writing, Unpleasant Character 15 mai 2014
Par Lee - Publié sur
Format: Format Kindle Achat vérifié
Heller is an extremely gifted writer, a true pleasure to read. Unfortunately, it is difficult to appreciate very much about his lead character, the painter. While we can all appreciate a deeply flawed man who is trying to work his way through a difficult situation, that is not exactly what we have here. The painter appears to be a deeply flawed and extremely self absorbed man who follows any impulse that happens to enter his consciousness, consequences be damned. Beyond that, I found his ability to attract young and amazingly beautiful women to be very hard to understand. At no point in the book did I read any description of this character that would lead me to think he would be much of a prize for any woman, much less the supermodel variety. As to the ending, I will say no more than, for me, it was a bit of a let down.
13 internautes sur 15 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
HASH(0x99f320b4) étoiles sur 5 Leap and die or live and be haunted... 1 mai 2014
Par Jill I. Shtulman - Publié sur
Format: Relié Commentaire d‘un membre du Club des Testeurs ( De quoi s'agit-il? )
At first glance, it seems that The Painter – Peter Heller’s ravishing second novel – has little in common with Dog Stars, his debut book that positioned him as a writer to watch. Yet each, in its own way, chronicles a journey toward spiritual regeneration, a journey to finding grace in a merciless universe.

The Painter reconfirms that Peter Heller has a massive talent. Our narrator is Jim Stegner, an expressionist New Mexican artist, an avid fly fisherman, and the father of a teenage girl whose life ended tragically. He also has a self-defined heart of a killer (the very first line reads, “I never imagined I would shoot a man. Or be a father. Or live so far from the sea.”) Yet as we quickly discover, Jim is a murderer with sensitivity: he rids the world of a lowlife who viciously abused a vulnerable little roan.

The dichotomies of Jim’s life – his artwork and the murder – represent his two polarities, the art of creation and the art of destruction. And both serve a more important goal: freeing himself (and the world) from pain and moving toward redemption. (Jim reflects, “To paint simply and to feel a cooling, the calmness of craft, of being a journeyman who focuses on the simple task: pin this one corner together and make it fit in an expanding universe.”)

As Jim’s paintings become more inspired, borrowing from what is happening in his life and his soul, he gradually moves from personal loss to growth. Mr. Heller writes, “Because the process has always been craft, years and years; then faith; then letting go. But now, sometimes the best work is agony. Pieces put together, torn apart, rebuilt. Doubt in everything that has been learned, terrible crisis of faith, the faith that allowed it all to work.”

The Painter can be read on many levels. On its most surface level, it’s a suspenseful narrative of a tortured man and brilliant artist who must evade the authorities as well as the vengeful clan of the man he killed. On a deeper level, it’s a book about grief and the dark places it takes us, and the ways that we struggle for understanding and the regeneration. On another level yet, it’s about how art can help us transcend our demons by capturing and recreating them. It’s a brilliant book and I can’t wait to see where this author goes next.
Ces commentaires ont-ils été utiles ? Dites-le-nous