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Lädt ... Anything Is Possible: A Novel (2017. Auflage)| 1,942 | 123 | 8,636 | 
(3.93) | 157 | In ihrem neuen Roman erzh?lt Elizabeth Strout unvergessliche Geschichten ber die Menschen einer Kleinstadt, die sich nach Liebe und Gl ck sehnen, aber oft Kummer und Schmerz erleben. Da sind zwei Schwestern: Die eine gibt f r die Ehe mit einem reichen Mann ihre Selbstachtung auf, wh?rend die andere sich von einem Buch dazu inspirieren ls?st, ihr Leben zu ñdern. Der Hausmeister der Schule will einem Au enseiter helfen und st rzt dabei in eine Glaubenskrise; eine erwachsene Frau sehnt sich immer noch wie ein Kind nach der Liebe ihrer Mutter. Und eine in New York erfolgreiche Schriftstellerin kehrt nach siebzehn Jahren zum ersten Mal in ihre Heimat zur ck, um ihre Geschwister zu besuchen. Die ganze Bandbreite menschlicher Gef hle, von Hass und Neid, Einsamkeit und Wut bis zu innigster Menschenliebe entfaltet sich in diesen Familiengeschichten. Es sind Geschichten ber die Natur des Menschen in all seiner Verletzlichkeit und Str?ke, ber die unendliche Vielfl?tigkeit des Lebens.… (mehr) |
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Die Informationen stammen von der englischen "Wissenswertes"-Seite. Ändern, um den Eintrag der eigenen Sprache anzupassen. Tommy Guptill had once owned a dairy farm, which he'd inherited from his father, and which was about two miles from the town of Amgash, Illinois. | |
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Die Informationen stammen von der englischen "Wissenswertes"-Seite. Ändern, um den Eintrag der eigenen Sprache anzupassen. This was the skin that protected you from the world--this loving of another person you shared your life with. And you have always taken up so much space in my heart that it has sometimes felt to be a burden. Right behind it was the last of the day's full light; generously, the colors from the setting sun sprayed upward over the open sky. Panic, like a large minnow darting upstream, moved back and forth inside him. He observed the way her eyes would not look at him directly, and he thought that he hated dishonesty—or lack of courage—more than anything. The crap of class superiority would protect no man for long. Many lived whole lives and never knew this; Charlie did. Inadvertently he glanced at himself in the mirror. He had long ago stopped looking like anyone familiar. He felt the itch of desire that was carnal, corporeal; it included much and was not a stranger to him. People could surprise you. Not just their kindness, but also their sudden ability to express things the right way. And because he was Charlie, who years ago had fouled himself profoundly, because he was Charlie and not someone else, he could not say to his son: You are decent and strong, and none of this has anything to do with me; but you came through it, that childhood that wasn't all roses, and I'm proud of you, I'm amazed by you. Charlie could not even say a watered-down version of whatever that feeling would be. He could not even clap his son on the shoulder in greeting, or when saying goodbye. It occurred to him often that many did not have echoes of pain from the silent noises he carried in his head. You never get used to pain, no matter what anyone says about it. Shelly Small had been raised to speak about herself as though she was the most interesting thing in the world. Listening to her, Dottie almost admired this. To listen to a person is not passive. To really listen is active, and Dottie had really listened. Weather was different then, like a family member you couldn't avoid. Annie had never been scared of her father the way Charlene was scared of hers. And Annie wasn't scared of her mother, who was the cozier parent but not the more important one. She felt this more than she thought it, the way children do. Her grandmother said, "Don't come back. Don't get married. Don't have children. All those things will bring you heartache." All this fell into Jamie's stomach with the silence of a stone falling into the darkness of a well. What Annie did not say was that there were many ways of not knowing things; her own experience over the years now spread like a piece of knitting in her lap with different colored yarns—some dark—all through it. But she had many friends, and they had their disappointments too, and nights and days were spent giving support and being supported; the theater world was a cult, Annie thought. It took care of its own even while it hurt you. their own universe and its wild recent unmooring were all that mattered now. inside him was a tiny gasp at the ungraspable concept of time going by. A thought came to Abel like a bat that swooped from the eaves Abel could feel fear rising around him like dark water. Already in the darkness people were trying to scramble to the aisle, some flipping on cellphones for the light, so that wrists and cuffs were illuminated in what seemed to be disembodied flickers of an ectoplasmic presence. He remembered how earlier he'd thought of people reciting a line, and he understood now that he was one of them. Fatigue was like a piece of cloth covering him. "I wanted to talk to a person, and here you are a real person, you have no idea how hard it is—to find a real person." When word came that Keith had died of cancer, Abel was astonished. That astonishment had to do with death, with the wiping out of a person, with the puzzlement that the man was simply gone. The Sign: And so there's a struggle, or a contest, I guess you could say, all the time, it seems to me. And remorse, well, to be able to show remorse -- to be able to be sorry about what we've done that's hurt other people -- that keeps us human. Windmills: This was the skin that protected you from the world -- this loving of another person you shared your life with. Snow-Blind: They had grown up on shame; it was the nutrient of their soil. Yet, oddly, it was her father she felt she understood the best. And for a moment Annie wondered at this, that her brother and sister, good, responsible, decent, fair-minded, had never known the passion that caused a person to risk everything they held dear heedlessly put in danger -- simply to be near the white dazzle of the sun that somehow for those moments seemed to leave the earth behind. Gift: What puzzled Abel about life was how much one forgot but then lived with anyway -- like phantom limbs, he supposed. | |
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▾Literaturhinweise Literaturhinweise zu diesem Werk aus externen Quellen.  Wikipedia auf Englisch
Keine ▾Buchbeschreibungen In ihrem neuen Roman erzh?lt Elizabeth Strout unvergessliche Geschichten ber die Menschen einer Kleinstadt, die sich nach Liebe und Gl ck sehnen, aber oft Kummer und Schmerz erleben. Da sind zwei Schwestern: Die eine gibt f r die Ehe mit einem reichen Mann ihre Selbstachtung auf, wh?rend die andere sich von einem Buch dazu inspirieren ls?st, ihr Leben zu ñdern. Der Hausmeister der Schule will einem Au enseiter helfen und st rzt dabei in eine Glaubenskrise; eine erwachsene Frau sehnt sich immer noch wie ein Kind nach der Liebe ihrer Mutter. Und eine in New York erfolgreiche Schriftstellerin kehrt nach siebzehn Jahren zum ersten Mal in ihre Heimat zur ck, um ihre Geschwister zu besuchen. Die ganze Bandbreite menschlicher Gef hle, von Hass und Neid, Einsamkeit und Wut bis zu innigster Menschenliebe entfaltet sich in diesen Familiengeschichten. Es sind Geschichten ber die Natur des Menschen in all seiner Verletzlichkeit und Str?ke, ber die unendliche Vielfl?tigkeit des Lebens. ▾Bibliotheksbeschreibungen Keine Bibliotheksbeschreibungen gefunden. ▾Beschreibung von LibraryThing-Mitgliedern
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Strout is one of America's best living writers, but I found myself avoiding this book rather than savoring it.
Thank you to NetGalley and Random House for a galley of this book in exchange for an honest review. (