Blue Nights de Joan Didion

Blue Nights

Joan Didion

From one of our most powerful writers, a work of stunning frankness about losing a daughter.

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Paperback (2)	63^.14 lei 3-5 săpt.	+7^.73 lei 10-14 zile
HarperCollins Publishers – 7 iun 2012	63^.14 lei 3-5 săpt.	+7^.73 lei 10-14 zile
VINTAGE BOOKS – 30 iun 2012	69^.18 lei 3-5 săpt.	+9^.34 lei 10-14 zile

Recenzii

'Her prose is a thing of beauty' Daisy Goodwin, Sunday Times 'Where the book is most successful - and most poignant - is in the viciously honest picture Didion draws of a lonely, encroaching old age ... your heart breaks for her increasing and incurable frailty' Julie Myerson, Observer Reviews for 'A Year of Magical Thinking': 'It is the most awesome performance of both participating in, and watching, an event. Even though Didion does not allow herself to break down, only a terribly controlled reader will resist doing the same.' John Freeman, Independent 'Ultimately, and unexpectedly for a book about illness and death, this is a wonderfully life affirming book.' Lisa O'Kelly, Observer 'Searing, informative and affecting. Don't leave life without it.' Financial Times 'This is a beautiful and devastating book by one of the finest writers we have. Didion has always been a precise, humane and meticulously truthful writer, but on the subject of death she becomes essential.' Zadie Smith

Extras

In certain latitudes there comes a span of time approaching and following the summer solstice, some weeks in all, when the twilights turn long and blue. This period of the blue nights does not occur in subtropical California, where I lived for much of the time I will be talking about here and where the end of daylight is fast and lost in the blaze of the dropping sun, but it does occur in New York, where I now live. You notice it first as April ends and May begins, a change in the season, not exactly a warming—in fact not at all a warming—yet suddenly summer seems near, a possibility, even a promise. You pass a window, you walk to Central Park, you find yourself swimming in the color blue: the actual light is blue, and over the course of an hour or so this blue deepens, becomes more intense even as it darkens and fades, approximates finally the blue of the glass on a clear day at Chartres, or that of the Cerenkov radiation thrown off by the fuel rods in the pools of nuclear reactors. The French called this time of day “l’heure bleue.” To the English it was “the gloaming.” The very word “gloaming” reverberates, echoes— the gloaming, the glimmer, the glitter, the glisten, the glamour—carrying in its consonants the images of houses shuttering, gardens darkening, grass-lined rivers slipping through the shadows. During the blue nights you think the end of day will never come. As the blue nights draw to a close (and they will, and they do) you experience an actual chill, an apprehension of illness, at the moment you first notice: the blue light is going, the days are already shortening, the summer is gone. This book is called “Blue Nights” because at the time I began it I found my mind turning increasingly to illness, to the end of promise, the dwindling of the days, the inevitability of the fading, the dying of the brightness.

Blue nights are the opposite of the dying of the brightness, but they are also its warning.

From the Hardcover edition.

Blue Nights

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Blue Nights

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