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Tar Baby par [Morrison, Toni]
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Longueur : 336 pages Word Wise: Activé Composition améliorée: Activé
Page Flip: Activé Langue : Anglais

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1



THE END of the world, as it turned out, was nothing more than a collection of magnificent winter houses on Isle des Chevaliers. When laborers imported from Haiti came to clear the land, clouds and fish were convinced that the world was over, that the sea-green green of the sea and the sky-blue sky of the sky were no longer permanent. Wild parrots that had escaped the stones of hungry children in Queen of France agreed and raised havoc as they flew away to look for yet another refuge. Only the champion daisy trees were serene. After all, they were part of a rain forest already two thousand years old and scheduled for eternity, so they ignored the men and continued to rock the diamondbacks that slept in their arms. It took the river to persuade them that indeed the world was altered. That never again would the rain be equal, and by the time they realized it and had run their roots deeper, clutching the earth like lost boys found, it was too late. The men had already folded the earth where there had been no fold and hollowed her where there had been no hollow, which explains what happened to the river. It crested, then lost its course, and finally its head. Evicted from the place where it had lived, and forced into unknown turf, it could not form its pools or waterfalls, and ran every which way. The clouds gathered together, stood still and watched the river scuttle around the forest floor, crash headlong into the haunches of hills with no notion of where it was going, until exhausted, ill and grieving, it slowed to a stop just twenty leagues short of the sea.

The clouds looked at each other, then broke apart in confusion. Fish heard their hooves as they raced off to carry the news of the scatterbrained river to the peaks of hills and the tops of the champion daisy trees. But it was too late. The men had gnawed through the daisy trees until, wild-eyed and yelling, they broke in two and hit the ground. In the huge silence that followed their fall, orchids spiraled down to join them.

When it was over, and houses instead grew in the hills, those trees that had been spared dreamed of their comrades for years afterward and their nightmare mutterings annoyed the diamondbacks who left them for the new growth that came to life in spaces the sun saw for the first time. Then the rain changed and was no longer equal. Now it rained not just for an hour every day at the same time, but in seasons, abusing the river even more. Poor insulted, brokenhearted river. Poor demented stream. Now it sat in one place like a grandmother and became a swamp the Haitians called Sein de Vieilles. And witch's tit it was: a shriveled fogbound oval seeping with a thick black substance that even mosquitoes could not live near.

But high above it were hills and vales so bountiful it made visitors tired to look at them: bougainvillea, avocado, poinsettia, lime, banana, coconut and the last of the rain forest's champion trees. Of the houses built there, the oldest and most impressive was L'Arbe de la Croix. It had been designed by a brilliant Mexican architect, but the Haitian laborers had no union and therefore could not distinguish between craft and art, so while the panes did not fit their sashes, the windowsills and door saddles were carved lovingly to perfection. They sometimes forgot or ignored the determination of water to flow downhill so the toilets and bidets could not always produce a uniformly strong swirl of water. But the eaves were so wide and deep that the windows could be left open even in a storm and no rain could enter the rooms--only wind, scents and torn-away leaves. The floor planks were tongue-in-groove, but the hand-kilned tiles from Mexico, though beautiful to behold, loosened at a touch. Yet the doors were plumb and their knobs, hinges and locks secure as turtles.

It was a wonderful house. Wide, breezy and full of light. Built in the days when plaster was taken for granted and with the sun and the airstream in mind, it needed no air conditioning. Graceful landscaping kept the house just under a surfeit of beauty. Every effort had been made to keep it from looking "designed." Almost nothing was askew and the few things that were had charm: the little island touches here and there (a washhouse, a kitchen garden, for example) were practical. At least that was the judgment of discriminating visitors. They all agreed that except for the unfortunate choice of its name it was "the most handsomely articulated and blessedly unrhetorical house in the Caribbean." One or two had reservations--wondered whether all that interior sunlight wasn't a little too robust and hadn't the owner gone rather overboard with the recent addition of a greenhouse? Valerian Street was mindful of their criticism, but completely indifferent to it. His gray eyes drifted over the faces of such guests like a four o'clock shadow on its way to twilight. They reminded him of the Philadelphia widows who, when they heard he was going to spend the whole first year of his retirement in his island house, said, "You'll be back. Six months and you will be bored out of your mind." That was four Decembers ago, and the only things he missed were hydrangeas and the postman. The new greenhouse made it possible to reproduce the hydrangea but the postman was lost to him forever. The rest of what he loved he brought with him: some records, garden shears, a sixty-four-bulb chandelier, a light blue tennis shirt and the Principal Beauty of Maine. Ferrara Brothers (Domestic and International) took care of the rest, and with the help of two servants, the Principal Beauty and mounds of careful correspondence he was finally installed for the year on a hill high enough to watch the sea from three sides. Not that he was interested. Beyond its providing the weather that helped or prevented the steamers bringing mail, he never gave the sea a thought. And whatever he did think about, he thought it privately in his greenhouse. In the late afternoons, when the heat had to be taken seriously, and early in the morning, he was there. Long before the Principal Beauty had removed her sleeping mask, he turned the switch that brought the "Goldberg" Variations into the greenhouse. At first he'd experimented with Chopin and some of the Russians, but the Magnum Rex peonies, overwhelmed by all that passion, whined and curled their lips. He settled finally on Bach for germination, Haydn and Liszt for strong sprouting. After that all of the plants seemed content with Rampal's Rondo in D. By the time he sugared his breakfast coffee, the peonies, the anemones and all their kind had heard forty or fifty minutes of music which nourished them but set Sydney the butler's teeth on edge although he'd heard some variety of it every day for forty years. What made it bearable now was that the music was confined to the greenhouse and not swarming all through the house as it often did back in Philadelphia. He could hear it only thinly now as he wiped moisture beads from a glass of iced water with a white napkin. He set it near the cup and saucer and noticed how much the liver spots had faded on his employer's hand. Mr. Street thought it was the lotion he rubbed on nightly, but Sydney thought it was the natural tanning of the skin in this place they had all come to three years ago.

Except for the kitchen, which had a look of permanence, the rest of the house had a hotel feel about it--a kind of sooner or later leaving appearance: a painting or two hung in an all right place but none was actually stationed or properly lit; the really fine china was still boxed and waiting for a decision nobody was willing to make. It was hard to serve well in the tentativeness. No crystal available (it too was closed away in Philadelphia) so a few silver trays had to do for everything from fruit to petits fours. Every now and then, the Principal Beauty, on one of her trips, brought back from the States another carton chock-full of something Sydney asked for: the blender, the carborundum stone, two more tablecloths. These items had to be carefully selected because they were exchanged for other items that she insisted on taking back to Philadelphia. It was her way of keeping intact the illusion that they still lived in the States but were wintering near Dominique. Her husband encouraged her fantasy by knotting every loose string of conversation with the observation "It can wait till we get home." Six months after they'd arrived Sydney told his wife that periodic airing of trunk luggage in the sunlight was more habit than intention. They would have to tear down that greenhouse to get him off the island because as long as it was there, he'd be there too. What the devil does he do in there, she had asked him.

"Relaxes a little, that's all. Drinks a bit, reads, listens to his records.''

"Can't nobody spend every day in a shed for three years without being up to some devilment,'' she said.

"It's not a shed," said Sydney. "It's a greenhouse I keep telling you."

"Whatever you call it."

"He grows hydrangeas in there. And dahlias."

"If he wants hydrangeas he should go back home. He hauls everybody down to the equator to grow Northern flowers?"

"It's not just that. Remember how he liked his study back at the house? Well, it's like that, except it's a greenhouse kind of a study."

"Anybody build a greenhouse on the equator ought to be shame.''

''This is not the equator."

"Could of fooled me."

"Nowhere near it."

"You mean there's some place on this planet hotter than this?"

"I thought you liked it here."

"Love it."

"Then stop complaining."

"It's because I do love it that I'm complaining. I'd like to know if it's permanent. Living like this you can't figure nothing. He might pack up any minute and trot off someplace else."

"He'll be here till he dies," Sydney told her. "Less that greenhouse burns up."

"Well, I'll pray nothing happens to it," she said, but she needn't have. Valerian took very good care of the greenhouse for it was a nice place to talk to his ghosts in peace while he transplanted, fed, air-layered, rooted, watered, dried and thinned his plants. He kept a small refrigerator of Blanc de Blancs and read seed catalogs while he sipped the wine. Sometimes he gazed through the little greenhouse panes at the washhouse. Other times he checked catalogs, brochures and entered into ringing correspondence with nurseries from Tokyo to Newburgh, New York. He read only mail these days, having given up books because the language in them had changed so much--stained with rivulets of disorder and meaninglessness. He loved the greenhouse and the island, but not his neighbors. Luckily there was a night, three years ago, after he'd first settled into tropic life, when he woke up with a toothache so brutal it lifted him out of bed and knocked him to his knees. He knelt on the floor clutching the Billy Blass sheets and thinking, This must be a stroke. No tooth could do this to me. Directly above the waves of pain his left eye was crying while his right went dry with rage. He crawled to the night table and pressed the button that called Sydney. When he arrived, Valerian insisted on being taken to Queen of France at once, but there was no way to get there. At that hour fishermen had not even begun to stir and the launch was twice a week. They owned no boat and even if they had neither Sydney nor anyone else could handle it. So the quick-witted butler telephoned the neighbors Valerian hated and got both the use of a fifty-six-foot Palaos called Seabird II and the boat skills of the Filipino houseboy. After a daring jeep ride in the dark, an interminable boat ride and a taxi ride that was itself a memory, they arrived at Dr. Mhichelin's door at 2:00 a.m. Sydney banged while the Filipino chatted with the taxi driver. The dentist roared out the second floor window. He had been run out of Algeria and thought his door was being assaulted by local Blacks--whose teeth he would not repair. At last, Valerian, limp and craven, sat in the dentist's chair where he gave himself up to whatever the Frenchman had in mind. Dr. Michelin positioned a needle toward the roof of Valerian's mouth but seemed to change his mind at the last minute, for Valerian felt the needle shoot straight into his nostril on up to the pupil of his eye and out his left temple. He stretched his hand toward the doctor's trousers, hoping that his death grip--the one they always had to pry loose--would be found to contain the crushed balls of a D.D.S. But before he could get a grip under the plaid bathrobe, the pain disappeared and Valerian wept outright, grateful for the absence of all sensation in his head. Dr. Michelin didn't do another thing. He just sat down and poured himself a drink, eyeing his patient in silence.

This encounter, born in encouraged hatred, ended in affection. The good doctor let Valerian swallow a little of his brandy through a straw and against his better judgment, and Valerian recognized a man who took his medical oaths seriously. They got good and drunk together that night, and the combination of Novocain and brandy gave Valerian an expansiveness he had not felt in years. They visited each other occasionally and whenever Valerian thought of that first meeting he touched the place where the abscess had been and smiled. It had a comic book quality about it: two elderly men drunk and quarreling about Pershing (whom Valerian had actually seen), neither one mentioning then or ever the subject of exile or advanced years which was what they had in common. Both felt as though they had been run out of their homes. Robert Michelin expelled from Algeria; Valerian Street voluntarily exiled from Philadelphia.

Both had been married before and the long years of a second marriage had done nothing to make either forget his first. The memory of those years of grief in the wake of a termagant was still keen. Michelin had remarried within a year of his divorce, but Valerian stayed a bachelor for a long time and on purpose until he went out for an after lunch stroll on a wintry day in Maine, a stroll he hoped would get rid of the irritable boredom he'd felt among all those food industry appliance reps. His walk from the inn had taken him only two blocks to the main street when he found himself in the middle of a local Snow Carnival Parade. He saw the polar bear and then he saw her. The bear was standing on its hind feet, its front ones raised in benediction. A rosy-cheeked girl was holding on to one of the bear's forefeet like a bride. The plastic igloo behind them threw into dazzling relief her red velvet coat and the ermine muff she waved to the crowd. The moment he saw her something inside him knelt down.

Revue de presse

"Wonderful... A triumph" (New York Times)

"Toni Morrison makes me believe in God. She makes me believe in a divine being, because luck and genetics don’t seem to come close to explaining her" (Guardian)

"Deeply perceptive...Returns risk and mischief to the contemporary American novel" (New York Times Book Review)

"Toni Morrison's writing is a train that knows where it's going, fierce and fast-moving in narrative, lyrically showy in description" (Sunday Times)

"Toni Morrison has made herself into the D. H. Lawrence of the black psyche, transforming individuals into forces, idiosyncrasy into inevitability" (New York Times)

Détails sur le produit

  • Format : Format Kindle
  • Taille du fichier : 857 KB
  • Nombre de pages de l'édition imprimée : 336 pages
  • Editeur : Vintage Digital; Édition : New Ed (9 octobre 2014)
  • Vendu par : Amazon Media EU S.à r.l.
  • Langue : Anglais
  • ASIN: B00O08FE40
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Amazon.com: HASH(0x91336b4c) étoiles sur 5 86 commentaires
116 internautes sur 124 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
HASH(0x8fa6f918) étoiles sur 5 The "trick" to comprehending a "trickster" novel 22 novembre 1999
Par Un client - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Broché
One of the things that's often hard in reading other readers' responses to an author that you absolutely adore (and I am an avid Morrison fan) is preparing for the types of reviews that often try to invalidate her or dismiss her because her writing demands so much from us. Yet, I believe her Nobel prize speaks for itself (even for all those who were "forced" into reading her for a class or seminar -or even because Oprah said so), so when others "trash" her, my disgust is not in their inability to appreciate her but in a recurring trend that continues to prove that our mass-media, TV-dominated culture has produced a generation of readers (and I use the term loosely) who no longer appreciate reading a book for the sheer pleasure of how the written language comes together and how an author like Morrison blends both oral culture and myths with written text.
And, folks, you really need that appreciation if you're going to get into a novel like Tar Baby. I believe some very basic knowledge needs to be in place. A) Some knowledge of the African American folktale of the tar baby and Brer Rabbit B.) Some knowledge of the biblical story of Adam and Eve and how religious doctrine has traditionally interpreted it. C.) Some understanding of the "trickster" (and this novel is filled with this figure) tradition in both American and African lore--who is tricked, who's doing the tricking and what is the overall "trick": colonialism? male-female relations? race relations?
I believe that once we recover much of the traditions that someone like Morrison has been exposed to (from the Bible to the blues to Faulkner to Zora Neale Hurston), her novels can be read with some appreciation and respect. . . and love.
I'm not one of those who believe that Morrison as a black woman author is too "marginal" to be appreciated by a "mainstream" reader, but a "true reader" is someone who can transcend their particular identities and trust a writer to take then onto any journey outside themselves and not even mind if there is a "trick" in store for them, or some profound pleasure...or horrific pain.
Reading is about trusting the author to reveal to us some new vision we did not know existed...But be prepared: Morrison is not the type of writer who will hold your hand!
Here's hoping that Amazon can inspire true love of reading and real thought and vision that comes from extensive readership! Only then, can user reviews be exciting and a pleasure to read!
37 internautes sur 39 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
HASH(0x8f7366f0) étoiles sur 5 A satire with real bite 8 février 2001
Par Michael J. Mazza - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Broché
"Tar Baby" may not be the most celebrated of Toni Morrison's many memorable novels, but, in my opinion, it's the most fun. Much of the story takes place at the Caribbean mansion of white millionaire Valerian Street. Morrison weaves a deliciously nasty psychodrama involving Street, his flaky wife, the Street's black servants, and Jadine, a young black woman who is niece to the servants and who has been educated thanks to Valerian's money. Into this mix Morrison tosses Son, a dreadlocked black man with a dangerous edge.
"Tar Baby" is a frequently outrageous satire of racial identity, sexual politics, consumer culture, class consciousness, and family dysfunctionality. Her cast of characters is colorfully warped in an almost Dickensian manner. Particularly interesting is the portrait of Jadine, the black wunderkind beloved by her wealthy white patrons; I think of her as a whorish postmodern parody of early African-American poet Phillis Wheatley.
As always, Morrison's writing is marked by passages of poetic power and grace. Check out, for example, this marvelous description of Son's hair: "Wild, aggressive, vicious hair that needed to be put in jail. Uncivilized, reform-school hair. Mau Mau, Attica, chain gang hair."
Ultimately, I read "Tar Baby" as a comic tragedy of people trapped in a complex web of racial, sexual, and economic mythologies. Profane, thought-provoking, ironic, and rich in scathing humor, this novel is ample proof of Toni Morrison's writerly talent.
6 internautes sur 6 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
HASH(0x8f736714) étoiles sur 5 Role-Reversals 29 décembre 1998
Par Un client - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Broché
In Tar Baby, Valerian Street, a wealthy white candy mogul, suffers some devastating role reversals. This situation has nothing to do with "political correctness" but rather the truth of the fact that no one can mastermind and counterfeit a reality forever. Valerian cannot grow Pennsylvania plants in L'Isle de Chevaliers any more than he can recreate the racial, economic, and sexual hierarchy that existed there. This point is not "a rip-off from real life" as one amazon.com reviewer described it. Nor is it, to my mind, her most profound. I agree that _Beloved_ soars higher.
I think the "trick" to reading Morrison is reading at your own level. I read many of her books as a young teenager and enjoyed them merely for their plots. I liked them because the people were fascinating and the suspense was real. Morrison hadn't won the Nobel or been championed by Oprah Winfrey, so I didn't have her reputation to contend with. And I didn't feel that my intelligence or sophistication depended on understanding her every word. So if I couldn't understand something, I moved on with the story. Now that I am in college, and an English major, I understand much more of Morrison's art as I re-read the novels of my adolescence. However, if I don't understand the significance of some image or passage, I let it go. Then I talk to someone about it. One cannot read Morrison's academic and artistic novels any other way. Although it doesn't have to be drudgery, Morrison's books are meant to be "studied" (which is just a fancy way of saying "discussed"). If you are intimidated by the Morrison mystique, I recommend leaving one's ego at the door when entering Morrison's world. Then, I recommend talking to someone more familiar with Morrison's work before you cast her books aside.
8 internautes sur 9 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
HASH(0x8f73663c) étoiles sur 5 A poignant and contemporary struggle 12 avril 2006
Par Brian Hawkinson - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Broché Achat vérifié
Morrison is such a masterful author. Her novels always have a force behind it that draws the reader in and makes sure that you understand the various points of view. We first see Valerian's point of view, and we agree with him. Then we see Margaret's point of view and we agree with her also, although Valerian and Margaret are arguing with each other. This is how Morrison brings a story to life, using recursive narration to move forward and back in time regardless of the time period that the novel is currently in. One minute we are looking at Valerian and his past, the next we are looking at Margaret until it catches up to the present storyline and then advances further, which allows us to understand how and why each character acts the way that they do. Simply masterful.

What is even more masterful is Morrison's ability to articulate the struggle between races, but more importantly the struggle that black people go through. Should one embrace their past and their culture as Son does, even though it means living in squalor and primitive ways? Or should one educate themselves and try to make their lives better as Jadine does? The struggle is huge, and this is what adds the powerful flavor to the story. Ultimately, it is the side of Jadine that wins over, I believe, the side that no longer blames the white man and "his" culture, but rather embraces her culture and attempts to further herself, as a black woman, rather than let the past weigh her down and prevent her from bettering herself.

A poignant novel, of which I would expect nothing less from Morrison. A definite recommend, not only the book but any of her books.

5 stars.
5 internautes sur 5 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
HASH(0x8f7368e8) étoiles sur 5 "No man should live without absorbing the sins of his kind, the foul air of his innocence." 15 juin 2008
Par Mary Whipple - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Broché
Toni Morrison's fourth novel, published in 1981, between Song of Solomon (1997) and her Pulitzer Prize-winning Beloved (1987), experiments with some of the techniques and themes which make the latter novel such a powerful achievement. Set, unusually, on Isle des Chevaliers, a Caribbean island owned by a white man who made his money manufacturing candy, the novel uses the small population who live and work at his house as a microcosm which illustrates themes of racial identity and culture. Valerian Street, now retired, lives at his island estate with his wife Margaret, a former beauty queen from Maine who hates the isolated island and can hardly wait to return to her "real" home in Philadelphia.

Two house servants, Sydney and Ondine, who have traveled from Philadelphia with the Streets, are also anxious to return to their more comfortable surroundings in Philadelphia. Their niece Jadine, a Sorbonne-educated fashion model who is visiting the island from Paris, straddles black and white culture. Valerian Street has paid for her education, and she stays in a guest room at the house, not in the quarters occupied by Sydney and Ondine. Jadine's decision about whether to marry her white boyfriend in Paris becomes significantly more difficult when Son, a black renegade from Florida, is discovered hiding in their house after jumping ship.

The passionate affair between Jadine and Son complicates the island's domestic life and leads to the intense development of the racial themes. Valerian insists that Son sit for Christmas dinner with the family, since his own son does not arrive for the holiday. Margaret is frightened by Son's flagrant sexuality. Sydney and Ondine find him uneducated and "uncultured," at least by their standards. Other blacks with whom Sydney and Ondine must deal in their day to day life take the blame for some of Son's actions, and Valerian is often cruel in his "discipline." The conflicts between black and white, between blacks living in a white world and blacks living in a black world, and the economic dominance of whites who live among blacks take center stage. Jadine traverses both worlds, but she finds that she is bored when she is in an all-black community of people uneducated in the white world, whereas Son finds that he, from rural Florida, cannot relate to blacks who live in New York City.

Morrison's style takes on tones of magic realism, as ghosts of the chevaliers, for whom the island is named, and spirits known as "swamp women" all participate in the action. Her shifting points of view, the overlapping narrative, and swirling, sometimes impressionistic, action all presage the style of Beloved. Symbols, especially of the tar baby, emphasize the themes, with much of the story being told through (occasionally tedious) dialogue. The conclusion is enigmatic, as Morrison leave the reader to decide whether important decisions made by various characters are the "right" ones and whether they indicate triumph or failure in this powerful story of racial identity. n Mary Whipple

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