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| Auteur: | oeil-de-lynx [ 13 Jan 2022, 08:45 ] |
| Sujet du message: | Re: Carnets de lecture |
J'ai lu le manga de Shigeru Mizuki, ça m'a suffit. |
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| Auteur: | Castorp [ 13 Jan 2022, 09:52 ] |
| Sujet du message: | Re: Carnets de lecture |
J'adore Mizuki, mais j'étais passé à côté du son Hitler. C'est quoi son approche ? Il couvre toute sa vie ? |
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| Auteur: | oeil-de-lynx [ 13 Jan 2022, 10:02 ] |
| Sujet du message: | Re: Carnets de lecture |
Oui toute sa vie, focément ça passe en vitesse mais ça décrit surtout sa montée au pouvoir, là où j'ai appris le plus de truc. Comment sur un malentendu et par politesse il est devenu le six ou septième adhérent d'un micro parti politique minable avant de se découvrir des talents d'orateur. |
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| Auteur: | Cantal [ 13 Jan 2022, 11:28 ] |
| Sujet du message: | Re: Carnets de lecture |
Je suis en train de lire la Vie de Bouddha de Tezuka. Je viens de tomber sur un avis de lewis_orne qui dit que ça a vieilli. Bah non, c'est prodigieusement bon. Et sinon j'attaque également le premier tome des chroniques du Radch d'Ann Leckie (prix Hugo etc...) qu'on m'a offert à Noël. Pas hyper emballé pour l'instant, on verra ce que ça donne |
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| Auteur: | oeil-de-lynx [ 13 Jan 2022, 11:33 ] |
| Sujet du message: | Re: Carnets de lecture |
Cantal a écrit: la Vie de Bouddha de Tezuka. Il est à la bibli, je le tenterai. |
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| Auteur: | Art Core [ 13 Jan 2022, 11:36 ] |
| Sujet du message: | Re: Carnets de lecture |
En parlant de Hitler et de Tezuka, je conseille le génial L'histoire des 3 Adolf. |
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| Auteur: | Castorp [ 13 Jan 2022, 12:02 ] |
| Sujet du message: | Re: Carnets de lecture |
Art Core a écrit: En parlant de Hitler et de Tezuka, je conseille le génial L'histoire des 3 Adolf. Ah oui, c'est très bien. Mais les chefs d'oeuvre de Tezuka, c'est Phénix et Ayako. |
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| Auteur: | Puck [ 14 Mar 2022, 18:03 ] |
| Sujet du message: | Re: Carnets de lecture |
Art Core a écrit: En parlant de Hitler et de Tezuka, je conseille le génial L'histoire des 3 Adolf. Lu en 2021, c'est très très bien ouais. |
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| Auteur: | Castorp [ 26 Juin 2022, 19:18 ] |
| Sujet du message: | Re: Carnets de lecture |
Flags in the Dust, un Faulkner mineur, obèse et bordélique, qui contient néanmoins certaines des plus belles pages de l'histoire de la littérature américaine : The gin had been running steadily for a month, now, what with the Sartoris cotton and that of other planters further up the valley, and of smaller croppers with their tilted fields among the hills. The Sartoris place was farmed on shares. Most of the tenants had picked their cotton, and gathered the late corn; and of late afternoons, with Indian summer upon the land and an ancient sadness sharp as woodsmoke on the still air, Bayard and Narcissa would drive out to where, beside a dilapidated cotton house on the edge of a wooden ravine above a spring, the tenants brought their cane and made their winter supply of sorghum molasses. One of the negroes, a sort of patriarch among them, owned the mill and the mule that furnished the motive power. He did the community grinding and superintended the cooking of the juice for a tithe, and when Bayard and Narcissa arrived the mule would be plodding in a monotonous circle, its feet rustling in the dried cane-pith, drawing the long wooden beam which turned the mill into which one of the patriarch’s grandsons fed the cane. Round and round the mule went, setting its narrow, deerlike feet delicately down in the hissing cane-pith, its neck bobbing limber as a section of rubber hose in the collar, with its trace-galled flanks and flopping, lifeless ears, and its half-closed eyes drowsing venomously behind pale lids, apparently asleep with the monotony of its own motion. Some Cincinnatus of the cotton fields should contemplate the lowly destiny, some Homer should sing the saga, of the mule and of his place in the South. He it was, more than any one creature or thing, who, steadfast to the land when all else faltered before the hopeless juggernaut of circumstance, impervious to conditions that broke men’s hearts because of his venomous and patient preoccupation with the immediate present, won the prone South from beneath the iron heel of Reconstruction and taught it pride again through humility and courage through adversity overcome; who accomplished the well-nigh impossible despite hopeless odds, by sheer and vindictive patience. Father and mother he does not resemble, sons and daughters he will never have; vindictive and patient (it is a known fact that he will labor ten years willingly and patiently for you, for the privilege of kicking you once); solitary but without pride, self-sufficient but without vanity; his voice is his own derision. Outcast and pariah, he has neither friend, wife, mistress nor sweetheart; celibate, he is unscarred, possesses neither pillar nor desert cave, he is not assaulted by temptations nor flagellated by dreams nor assuaged by visions; faith, hope and charity are not his. Misanthropic, he labors six days without reward for one creature whom he hates, bound with chains to another whom he despises, and spends the seventh day kicking or being kicked by his fellows. Misunderstood even by that creature (the nigger who drives him) whose impulses and mental processes most closely resemble his, he performs alien actions among alien surroundings; he finds bread not only for a race, but for an entire form of behavior; meek, his inheritance is cooked away from him along with his soul in a glue factory. Ugly, untiring and perverse, he can be moved neither by reason, flattery, nor promise of reward; he performs his humble monotonous duties without complaint, and his meed is blows. Alive, he is haled through the world, an object of general execration; unwept, unhonored and unsung, he bleaches his awkward, accusing bones among rusting cans and broken crockery and worn-out automobile tires on lonely hillsides, while his flesh soars unawares against the blue in the craws of buzzards. [...] Sometimes they went back after dark. The mill was still then, its long motionless arm like a gesture across the firelit scene. The mule was munching somewhere in stable, or stamping and nuzzling its empty manger, or asleep standing, boding not of tomorrow; and against the firelight many forms moved. The negroes had gathered now: old men and women sitting on crackling cushions of cane about the blaze which one of their number fed with pressed stalks until its incense-laden fury swirled licking at the boughs overhead, making more golden still the twinkling golden leaves; and young men and girls, and children squatting and still as animals, staring into the fire. Sometimes they sang—quavering, wordless chords in which sad monotonous minors blent with mellow bass in passionless suspense and faded along the quivering golden air, to be renewed. But when the white folks arrived the singing ceased, and they sat or lay about the crackling scented blaze on which the blackened pot simmered, talking in broken phrases murmurous with overtones ready with sorrowful mirth, while in shadowy beds among the dry whispering canestalks youths and girls murmured and giggled. |
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