room - Emma Donoghue

How bizarre was this book - i mean, not only that it was written from the point of view of Jack, Mr Five, a wee boy that has never seen anything else, lived anywhere else but in 'room'. His all world is room, the objects in it, Ma, and old Nick (nasty Nick ?). Everything else is TV.
And as we know, TV is not real.
But that wasn't the most bizarre. The weirdest thing is to get into his shoes socks, into his head, and look at the world as it would appear if we suddenly encountered it at five, being educated and literate, but totally ignorant, sensorially naive.
The weirdest thing is to feel for that boy, to understand and agree that life in room is so much safer, so less scary, so much more appealing in a way, that being 'scave' [scared and brave], that getting out of your comfort zone day after day is so hard sometimes. Bizarrely, life in the confinement of room doesn't seem so awful after all.
Freedom is scary, freedom hurts, crawling into wardrobe seem like the best option, if best is safest.
So, if Dora had a map to go through life, i guess the 2 first steps would be: safe (room), then scave (escape, encounter the unknown, step out). What comes next is probably... a middle way ? I don't know, i'd need to ask Dora, because since some TV is real after all, maybe she is too !

Note for later: it will be interesting to see whether the narration ages - there is a whole lot of references to current pop culture - how will it feel in 10 years time ?

a town like Alice - Nevil Shute

I've carried this book around for how ever long i can remember. It was in my dad's library when i was a child, and when i left home at 17, i hid this book in my suitcase - together with a few others and an old small family bible. I don't know how many times i have read this book - 5, 6 times ?
But now, for the first time, i've just read it in english. And i still love it just as much. And i've learnt many australian colloquialisms on the way, i sure did !
It's one of those books where so many things happen that you can't remember it all - and that's why every 3 or 4 years, i feel the need to re-read and remember.
It's such a perfect novel; it has everything: adventure, travels, inspiring lives, a touch of feminism (or should i say girl power ?) and a charming crocodile dundee lookalike pouring with testosterone and gentleness.
A proper novel, a classic.
Actually, thinking of it, Joe Harman reminds me of the little house in the prairie's Charles Ingalls. The pioneer with good values, the big-hearted hard-working Man with a big M. This probably taps into a lot of women's fantasy, and it surely does into mine, even if Joe would probably bore me to tears with his cattle talk, and Charles drives me mad with his god-loving streak.
Yet, being in Jean Paget's shoes - or bare feet - has been once again a very enjoyable read.
There are really 2 stories here, the march of those women, prisoners of the Japanese army, all around Malaysia during the 2nd world war, as well as the making of Willstown in Queensland, a town that becomes something bonza, just like Alice Springs was.
I don't know which part i like the best, and i've always wanted to go and see Kuala Lumpur and Alice Springs, just because of this book. Maybe one day i'll do just that, just like i was once in Tuba City, in front of the police station, imagining that i was soon going to catch sight of Joe Leaphorn or Jim Chee. I never made it to Shiprock though, and i'll regret it forever. (i didn't really make it to Grand Canyon either, but i didn't really care).
This is one of these books, the ones that make you want to take the trip, to retrace the steps, to see with your eyes what you've already seen in the text.

Note for later: I don't think i'll ever bore of re-reading this book. It is both entertaining and captivating. To keep high on the list of books to bring to a desert island !

Chéri - Colette

Je n'ai pas aimé ce livre. Euphémisme ou litote, je ne suis pas sure. Sous-estimation, sans doute.
Après 2 pages, je me demandais ce que je venais faire dans cette galère. Vraiment. L'indolence qui se respire à plein nez dans ces dialogues insipides, le jeune con inintéressant et coquet, il n'y avait rien pour me plaire. A part peut-être ce bout de phrase, au tout début: "Léonie Vallon, dite Léa de Lonval" - l'invention du verlan ! En 1920 ! Quelle découverte !
C'est à peu près tout.
Enfin pas tout à fait.
Comme je suis têtue, j'abandonne rarement un livre, même après quelques pages énervantes. D'ailleurs, le seul livre que j'aie jamais arrêté de lire comme ca, tout à coup, en plein milieu, parce que vraiment là non, je préférais encore me faire arracher une dent, c'est "au secours pardon" de Beigbeder. Et pourtant je l'aime, le Fred. Et son tout dernier "un roman français" encore plus que les autres. Mais vraiment, son histoire de poupée russe, je n'ai pas pu.
Bref, Chéri n'a donc pas fait exception à la règle, et j'ai continué jusqu'au bout. J'ai bien fait; j'ai fini par trouver quelques qualités au roman. Comme la dynamique du récit par exemple, la mise en miroir (déformant) des personnages, superficiels à en crever au début, réfléchis et grandis vers la fin, avec au milieu une zone de floue, comme un pont musical, Léa absente, Chéri à la dérive.
Je dois dire que la dernière partie du livre sauve un peu l'ensemble.
C'est peut-être que la relation quasi-incestueuse entre Léa et Chéri me dérange, c'est peut-être qu'elle m'agace voire m'ennuie, c'est peut-être que je préfère les hommes aux garçons. Le Chéri des dernières pages me donne moins envie d'envoyer des baffes. Et curieusement, sa relation avec Léa ne me choquerait plus du tout.
Il semblerait qu'il y ait une suite, "la fin de Chéri". Si quelqu'un me donne un résumé en 2 pages, je suis curieuse. Sinon, tant pis.

Note pour plus tard: ne pas relire. Chéri s'appelle Fred. Fred Peloux. On ne sait jamais, ca pourrait servir dans une soirée Trivial Pursuit.

last night in Twisted River - John Irving

Amazingly, there is a writer, a lot of New England, some larger and older ladies, and even a few bears. Not so much wrestling though, yet a little bit. Who would have thought ?
Thus said, it's like finding old friends, landmarks through a very long and enjoyable read, and i would have missed them if they hadn't appeared. And to be fair, although the elements seem to repeat themselves forever through John Irving's books, the actual narration is a new discovery every time.
I've been engrossed in this book for a bit more than 48 hours - reversing my sleep pattern because i didn't want to stop reading. Besides the storyline, totally addicting per se, the world that was opening before my eyes was for ever moving, for ever more complex, for ever demanding that i'd carry on reading.
Dominic & Daniel Baciagalupo, the kisses of the wolves, and Ketchum, whose name was reminding me of something (but what ?) all the way through (only after i'd finished, when i was trying to remember his name that was slipping away, did i think of ketchup - red, american, food, pioneer, not so bad finally).
I've also been wanting to eat all the way through this book - so much so that i made the boyfriend promise me that we're going to eat italian tomorrow. A fine crust pizza, with some honey in the dough, hopefully. And a green salad. No dessert - they're too french. With maybe something from China.
I do have to admit however that i found the first part a bit long - not so much the life on a river logging community - the roughness and violence of it - that got me quite hooked. But the technicity of the logs descending their way to the sawmills, the logjams, all that vocabulary i'd never heard of, either in french or even less in english - i made use of the dictionary a lot, hurray for the kindle. (to be honest, i made use of the dictionary function all the way through the book - which tells me that i'm far from being totally bilingual, and i've once again realised that there are so much more words with a very precise meaning in english than in french - it did remind me of reading Watership down in that respect).
I remember that at one point, when i was at around 30% of the book (kindle's progress bar, a new way of measuring things), i thought to myself that this book was SO good, i was glad i'd only read about a third of it; i had so much perfect-reading time ahead.
It makes me want to re-read 'the world according to Garp' and 'a prayer for Owen Meany' - i adored those novels as a teenager, and haven't read them since - and have totally forgotten their storyline as well. I had the exact same impulse after i read 'until i find you' - and instead i read 'a widow for one year' that i'd never read and that totally blew me away. But then i realised i had to stop. And so i will keep Twisted River with me for now, and look forward to read another John Irving soon, but not just yet.

Note for later: avoid reading 2 John Irving novels in a row, however tempting it is, as it would (1) be a waste, pleasure needs to be distilled through time, and (2) probably actually spoil the pleasure, as the recurring themes could get annoying and over repetitive instead of feeling like old friends, re-assuring landmarks. Tough, but true. But gosh i enjoyed reading this book.

the hand that first held mine - Maggie O'Farrel

I've finished this book 2 hours ago, and it's already slipping away. Yet i think it's going to stay with me for long, in half tones, close by but inprecise, like an image, a dream. I love Maggie O'Farrel. And yet once again, i haven't been disappointed, not one second through this book.
I bought it last summer, knowing that she would be at Edinburgh's festival - i was hoping to get my copy signed, just like i did for "the vanishing act of Esme Lennox". But it turned out that my friend Danielle decided to get married the day of Maggie O'Farrel's reading at the book festival - so i offered the book and my tickets to the reading to my good friend and ex flatmate Fiona, as she's as much a fan as i am.
And ever since, i have wanted to read this book without doing anything about it. This is therefore the first book that i've bought in an ebook format. And the first book in english that i've read on my new kindle.
Soon enough the season of the "firsts" will be gone, so i'm milking it.
This is all about Ted, and all about motherhood, and all about being a woman, and all about memories, and all about... so much. Of course, in my current broody state, it has hit home like it couldn't have a few years back.
Maggie O'Farrel is so good at painting a story, well 2 stories actually, inter-twinning them untill they reach their unity, untill of course, it was all linked, all one, and all the clues here and there suddenly make sense. But it's not one of those "suspense story", where nothing is clear untill the end, and going through the reading is only worth it because the end is in sight. It's way more than that, the journey of the reading is great, the end just adds this "wow, i knew it !" feeling that stays for a while once the last page was turned.
Elina and Ted, the baby, Innes and Lexie, Felix. How do you choose the names of your characters ? How do you make them seem at the same time totally original yet fitting so well to each other ? How do you take a whole month to name the baby ?

Note for later: re-read and enjoy, and find the clues. There are more than i can remember, i'm sure. Read well what happens to Ted, all those weird bits. Make the links. And enjoy again.

confession de minuit - Georges Duhamel

Adolescente, j'ai lu la chronique des Pasquiers. Enfin une partie, parce que je n'avais pas les 10 volumes. J'ai passé des heures "chez Gibert" à essayer de compléter ma collection, sans vraiment de succès.
Duhamel, pour moi, c'est Paris. C'est l'enfance de mon père. Les petits appartements parisiens, la pauvreté de moyenne classe, la famille, le gris de l'automne sur les trottoirs, l'odeur du printemps dans les jardins.
Confession de minuit reprend ces thèmes. Enfin, il les précède, puisque c'est un des tous premiers romans de Duhamel. Presque 15 ans avant les Pasquier. Mais alors, quelle différence, quel choc ! Je ne m'attendais pas au récit d'un homme dépressif, ou bipolaire, je ne sais pas trop. Bizarrement, je quitte ce livre sans savoir ce que j'y ai trouvé, tout en ayant été incapable de m'arrêter de le lire. C'est tordu, c'est bien écrit, et en même temps ce n'est rien; il ne se passe rien ou pas grand chose, mais c'est passionnant. Cette culpabilité que le personnage central ressent à imaginer sa vie, imaginer différents scénarios, c'est très catholique-parisien quelque part. Et ce serait presque du Houellebecq sans l'obsession sexuelle.

Note pour plus tard: lire les 4 autres volumes de Salavin, j'aimerai vraiment savoir ce qui va lui arriver, MAIS éviter (1) de les entamer en période chagrine, ca pourrait nous couler une barque fragile, ou (2) de les lire en période d'euphorie, ca pourrait la refaire tomber comme un soufflé. Un livre étonnant.

Rouletabille - Gaston Leroux

Après avoir passé des heures à chercher des livres gratuits pour mon nouveau Kindle, j'ai trouvé un paquet de classiques. En pleine rébellion anti belle-famille-à-la-maison-pour-les-fetes-marre-de-l'anglais, j'ai donc décidé de lire n'importe quoi, pourvu que ce soit dans ma langue maternelle.
Bref, du français.
Hésitant entre m'attaquer à du Zola, que dans ma honte je n'ai jamais lu, ou du Maupassant, que j'ai dévoré à une vitesse maladive quand j'étais en 3ème, j'ai finalement opté pour le mystère de la chambre jaune.
Gaston Leroux pour étrenner le Kindle, pourquoi pas. D'autant que j'ai écouté tous les Sherlock Holmes cette année, alors j'avais bien envie de comparer.
La version que j'ai téléchargée sur le site du projet Gutenberg avait oublié les apostrophes, une drôle de façon de se replonger dans le français, mais soit, c'était lisible (cétait lisible ?). Mais que c'était mal écrit !!! Entrainant (plutôt), intrigant (un peu), plein d'imagination (sans doute), plus intéressant qu'une partie de bridge en famille (oui !) mais d'un point de vue littéraire, le flop ! Cette utilisation constante du mot "point" à la place de "pas" (une mode des années 1900 ?), quelle corvée !
Ceci dit, je me suis faite avoir comme une bleue, et jusqu'à la fin, je n'ai pas deviné l'identité de l'assassin, même si j'ai lu ce roman il y a... longtemps. J'ai même rempilé avec le parfum de la dame en noir, que j'ai trouvé bien moins entrainant, mais toujours plus passionnant qu'une soirée devant un period drama de la BBC en (belle-)famille.

Note pour plus tard: en cas de volonté irrésistible de relecture de ces 2 bouquins, commencer par le mystère de la chambre jaune, puisque le parfum de la dame en noir est LA SUITE, et dévoile l'identité de l'assassin du premier livre dès le début. (Ca n'a l'air de rien, mais cette fois si, ca a été un coup de bol: j'ai choisi de commencer par le jaune au pif.) Ceci dit, et même en crise aigue d'anti-english, relire un Sherlock Holmes serait sans doute une meilleure idée...