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Catherine Dufour, l'autrice du Goût de l'immortalité (Prix Rosny aîné 2006, Grand Prix de l'Imaginaire 2007), d'Entends la nuit (Prix Masterton 2019) et, plus récemment, de Danse avec les lutins (Prix Imaginales 2020) nous explique en quoi l'ordre des Bene Gesserit est… une… plantade. En gros. Si, si.
Graham Masterton/5
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Résumé :
After Craig Bellman, a successful young New York lawyer, is horribly injured in a street mugging, he and his wife, Effie, retreat to the Hudson Valley to restore his health and save their relationship. When they discover a derelict old mansion, Valhalla, Craig becomes fascinated by it. He ignores Effie's misgivings and starts to make inquiries about buying it, undeterred by the expense and its history: it was built by legendary gambler and womanizer Jack Belias - an... >Voir plus
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What starts out looking like just another haunted house story, in a very similar fashion to ‘The Haunting Of Hill House' (1959), gradually begins to turn into something very different. Masterton lets loose with his imagination, creating an intriguingly involved story that weaves together inspired theories on time and the corruption of its supposedly linear rules.
From early on Masterton pays particular attention to the characterisation of Craig Bellman, fabricating an intricate and emotionally-heavy backstory that serves as the initial catalyst for the events to unfold in and around Valhalla.
Masterton avoids all possible clichés in describing the eerie building of Valhalla, instead masterfully painting a darkly atmospheric picture of a decaying premises that holds a spine-chilling secret. And it's this oppressive atmosphere that really keeps the reader utterly enthralled with the unfolding tale. Its shadow is always there, the underlying supernatural fear constantly keeping the reader on edge as the work continues and strange sounds are heard throughout the empty rooms.
From early on Masterton pays particular attention to the characterisation of Craig Bellman, fabricating an intricate and emotionally-heavy backstory that serves as the initial catalyst for the events to unfold in and around Valhalla.
Masterton avoids all possible clichés in describing the eerie building of Valhalla, instead masterfully painting a darkly atmospheric picture of a decaying premises that holds a spine-chilling secret. And it's this oppressive atmosphere that really keeps the reader utterly enthralled with the unfolding tale. Its shadow is always there, the underlying supernatural fear constantly keeping the reader on edge as the work continues and strange sounds are heard throughout the empty rooms.
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Craig dodged across 48th Street between the honking, glaring herds of taxis and limousines. He clutched the lapels of his grey Alan Flusser suit close to his neck, but it didn’t make much difference. The rain was crashing down in chilling torrents, the gutters were filled to overflowing, and the wreckage of broken umbrellas was strewn everywhere. He was drenched even before he reached the sidewalk, and he stepped right into a pothole and flooded his shoe with ice-cold water. He picked up a broken umbrella, shook it, and tried to straighten it out, but it was limp and bony and intractable, like a dead pterodactyl, and he swore and threw it away again.
Craig was sufficiently well versed in Japanese business protocol to know that Mr Hakayawa would make no comment on his lateness; but that privately he would take it as a deep discourtesy. If you pay a man $1.3 million in fees, you expect that man to take account of such a commonplace occurrence as a rainstorm. The traffic crept forward another two car lengths before the brake lights flared up again. Rain drummed viciously on the taxi’s roof, and streamed down the steamed-up windows. Craig wiped the window with his sleeve and peered out. Shit. They were only as far as 46th Street – still eleven blocks to go.
‘My father was a fucking Egyptian, like me,’ said Zaghlul Fuad. He pronounced his words with extreme delicacy. A lisp, almost like a woman. ‘He tried his best, the same way I always try my best. Sometimes he was not perfect. Sometimes I, too, am not perfect. Sometimes I fail to take my passengers where they wish to go. I will not take you where you wish to go. Get out of my taxi.’ ‘What are you talking about? Are you nuts?’ ‘I said, get out of my taxi.’ ‘It’s raining, for Christ’s sake!’ ‘It’s raining? I wouldn’t have noticed.’
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