Une petite fille, presque adolescente, façonne un bonhomme de neige dans son jardin. Celui-ci observe à travers ses yeux de charbon de bois l'agitation humaine. Ces êtres de chair et de sang ne sont-ils pas destinés à la décrépitude et l'anéantissement ? se demande-t-il avec circonspection et un rien de pitié. En tant que créature minérale et glacée, il se sent invincible, apte à survivre à sa créatrice. Le Flocon de Neige Éternel apparaît alors pour lui expliquer la vie, la mort, celle des êtres humains, mais aussi la sienne.
Après avoir présenté sur France Inter ce conte métaphysique et poétique de Janet Frame au micro d'Augustin Trapenard dans l'émission « Boomerang » du 25 mars 2022 , Isabelle Carré lit aujourd'hui « Bonhomme de neige Bonhomme de neige » dans son intégralité en livre audio pour « La Bibliothèque des voix ».
En précommande dès le 1er août 2022, le livre audio numérique sera disponible à la vente à partir du 18 août. Retrouvez-le le 1er septembre 2022 en librairie au format CD MP3.
Le texte français, traduit depuis l'anglais (Nouvelle-Zélande) par Élisabeth Letertre et Keren Chiaroni, a paru aux éditions des femmes-Antoinette Fouque en 2020. Le conte original a été publié pour la première fois en recueil en 1963.
Directrice artistique : Francesca Isidori.
Janet Frame/5
1 notes
Résumé :
This autobiography traces Janet Frame's childhood in a poor but intellectually intense family, life as a student, years of incarceration in mental hospitals and eventual entry into the saving world of writers.
Que lire après The complete autobiographyVoir plus
Citations et extraits (10)
Voir plus
Ajouter une citation
Although I had no means of knowing if other students lived in such innocence, I have since learned that many, in timidity and shyness and ignorance, lived as bizarre a life as I. I have heard of others who made detours along the bush-covered Town Belt to dispose of sanitary towels; and of one woman who spent her first week in a student hostel in darkness because she was too timid to ask for light bulb to be replaced, and she had no money to buy one. Our lives were frail, full of agonies of embarrassment and regret, of misunderstood communication and strong with the intense feeling of wonder at the torrent of ideas released by books, music, art, other people; it was a time of finding shelter among the mightily capitalled abstractions of Love, Life, Time, Age, Youth, Imagination.
I remember a gray day when I stood by the gate and listened to the wind in the telegraph wires. I had my first conscious feeling of an outside sadness, or it seemed to come from outside, from the sound of the wind moaning in the wires. I looked up and down the white dusty road and saw no-one. The wind was blowing from place to place past us, and I was there, in between, listening. I felt a burden of sadness and loneliness as if something had happened or begun and I knew about it. I don't think I had yet though of myself as a person looking out at the world; until then, I felt I was the world. In listening to the wind and its sad song, I knew I was listening to a sadness that had no relation to me, which belonged to the world.
In my struggle to get my writing done I realised the obvious fact that the only certainty about writing and trying to be a write is that it has to be done, not dreamed of or planned and never written, or talked about (the ego eventually falls apart like a soaked sponge) but simply written; it's a dreary awful fact that writing is like any other work with the marvellous exception of the presence of the Mirror City and the constant journeys either of oneself or of the Envoy from Mirror City.
What had we done to her, each of us, day after day, year after year, that we had washed away her evidence of self, all her own furniture from her own room, and crowded it with ourselves and our lives; or perhaps it was not a room but a garden that we cleared to plant ourselves deeply there, and now that we were removed, all her own blossoms had sprung up…
I was an ordinary grey-feathered bird that spent its life flashing one or two crimson feathers at the world, adapting the feathers to suit the time of life. In my childhood I had displayed number riddles, memorizing long passages of verse and prose, mathematical answers; now, to suit the occasion, I wore my schizophrenic fancy dress.
Videos de Janet Frame (2)
Voir plusAjouter une vidéo
Livres les plus populaires de la semaine
Voir plus
Les Dernières Actualités
Voir plus
Autres livres de Janet Frame (17)
Voir plus
Quiz
Voir plus
Quand les enquêteurs parlent...
— Il s’en est fallu d’un cheveu ! Sans son regard rapide, sans ses yeux de lynx, XXX XXXX, en ce moment, ne serait peut-être plus de ce monde ! Quel désastre pour l’humanité ! Sans parler de vous, Hastings ! Qu’auriez-vous fait sans moi dans la vie, mon pauvre ami ? Je vous félicite de m’avoir encore à vos côtés ! Vous-même d’ailleurs, auriez pu être tué. Mais cela, au moins, ce ne serait pas un deuil national ! Héros de Agatha Christie
Arsène Lupin
Hercule Poirot
Rouletabille
Sherlock Holmes
13 questions
111 lecteurs ont répondu
Thèmes :
romans policiers et polars
, humour
, enquêteursCréer un quiz sur ce livre111 lecteurs ont répondu