Memnoch the Devil: Vampire Chronicles (Paperback)
Autor Anne Riceen Limba Engleză Paperback – 30 apr 1997 – vârsta de la 14 până la 18 ani
--New York Daily News
"Like Interview with the Vampire, Memnoch has a half-maddened, fever-pitch intensity. . . . Narrated by Rice's most cherished character, the vampire Lestat, Memnoch tells a tale as old as Scripture's legends and as modern as today's religious strife."
--Rolling Stone
"SENSUAL . . . BOLD, FAST-PACED."
--USA Today
"Rice has penned an ambitious close to this long-running series. . . . Fans will no doubt devour this."
--The Washington Post Book World
"MEMNOCH THE DEVIL OFFERS PASSAGES OF POETIC BRILLIANCE."
--Playboy
"[MEMNOCH] is one of Rice's most intriguing and sympathetic characters to date. . . . Rice ups the ante, taking Lestat where few writers have ventured: into heaven and hell itself. She carries it off in top form."
--The Seattle Times
| Toate formatele și edițiile | Preț | Express |
|---|---|---|
| Paperback (3) | 54.54 lei 25-31 zile | +21.64 lei 5-11 zile |
| CORNERSTONE – 4 mar 2010 | 54.54 lei 25-31 zile | +21.64 lei 5-11 zile |
| BALLANTINE BOOKS – 30 apr 1997 | 55.51 lei 22-36 zile | |
| BALLANTINE BOOKS – 30 iun 1996 | 124.59 lei 22-36 zile |
Preț: 55.51 lei
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Specificații
ISBN-10: 0345409671
Pagini: 448
Dimensiuni: 107 x 175 x 28 mm
Greutate: 0.2 kg
Editura: BALLANTINE BOOKS
Seria Vampire Chronicles (Paperback)
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Recenzii de la cititorii Books Express
Anonim a dat nota:
I thought this would be a difficult one for me to rate. I suppose it's because I went into Memnoch the Devil fully expecting to dislike it, as I am not a big fan of theology by any means and was groaning already at the thought of what I would have to read in order to proceed with this series. And I did dislike it, for a little bit. The beginning for instance was quite atrocious, mostly because I could not bring myself to care about the humans involved, coke king Roger and his televangelist daughter Dora (...yes...a televangelist). I was underwhelmed particularly by the character of Dora, who was just nothing special and nothing interesting (and did nothing of real importance until the very end). But then Memnoch steps in, at last, and after many, many days of having lingered at the back of Lestat's mind like an omen, he sweeps our main character off to a journey all the way back to the creation of Time, a story which I found myself so strangely compelled by that I began to have second thoughts about my terrible preconceptions. It was exactly the kind of long-winded life story we've been seeing in previous books (Armand's and Marius's segments in TVL, the entirety of the ancient history we're told in QOTD), and despite how purely religious it was in nature, I found myself actually having a pretty great time. I think it has to do with the fact that you may find yourself constantly wondering whether any of what Memnoch is saying is true. He is damn convincing, of course; you're naturally inclined to be on his side, but there's an edge of mistrust there which kept me interested and immersed, for we must keep in mind that this is, supposedly, the literal devil that we're talking about. Also, it was a breath of fresh air to have Lestat be taken along for the ride instead of being aware as you read that the two characters are only sitting at a table while one of them rambles on. They go to Heaven! They go to Hell! It's a wild time, and the imagery was quite gripping. I found this to be a rather fascinating and very different take on the creation of everything as well as the nature of humanity, our hopes for redemption, our frustrations and resentment for an "uncaring" God. Maybe that's just me, and maybe this truly is one of those divisive books that you either love or hate; and I realised, about halfway in, first—that I didn't mind it; second—that I could not put it down. Against all expectations, I breezed through Memnoch the Devil. I thought about it for hours after I'd finished it. And the ending, oh; I sure hope you are ready for that.
Notă biografică
Extras
I was on the stairway. The grand stairway, one might say. It was one of those very opulent old hotels, divinely overdone, full of crimson and gold, and rather pleasant. My victim had picked it. I hadn't. My victim was dining with his daughter. And I'd picked up from my victim's mind that this was where he always met his daughter in New York, for the simple reason that St. Patrick's Cathedral was across the street.
David saw me at once--a slouching, blond, long-haired youth, bronze face and hands, the usual deep violet sunglasses over my eyes, hair presentably combed for once, body tricked out in a dark-blue, double-breasted Brooks Brothers suit.
I saw him smile before he could stop himself. He knew my vanity, and he probably knew that in the early nineties of the twentieth century, Italian fashion had flooded the market with so much shapeless, hangy, bulky, formless attire that one of the most erotic and flattering garments a man could choose was the well-tailored navy-blue Brooks Brothers suit.
Besides, a mop of flowing hair and expert tailoring are always a potent combination. Who knows that better than I?
I didn't mean to harp on the clothes! To hell with the clothes. It's just I was so proud of myself for being spiffed up and full of gorgeous contradictions--a picture of long locks, the impeccable tailoring, and a regal manner of slumping against the railing and sort of blocking the stairs.
He came up to me at once. He smelled like the deep winter outside, where people were slipping in the frozen streets, and snow had turned to filth in the gutters. His face had the subtle preternatural gleam which only I could detect, and love, and properly appreciate, and eventually kiss.
We walked together onto the carpeted mezzanine.
Momentarily, I hated it that he was two inches taller than me. But I was so glad to see him, so glad to be near him. And it was warm in here, and shadowy and vast, one of the places where people do not stare at others.
"You've come," I said. "I didn't think you would."
"Of course," he scolded, the gracious British accent breaking softly from the young dark face, giving me the usual shock. This was an old man in a young man's body, recently made a vampire, and by me, one of the most powerful of our remaining kind.
"What did you expect?" he said, tete-a-tete. "Armand told me you were calling me. Maharet told me."
"Ah, that answers my first question." I wanted to kiss him, and suddenly I did put out my arms, rather tentatively and politely so that he could get away if he wanted, and when he let me hug him, when he returned the warmth, I felt a happiness I hadn't experienced in months.
Perhaps I hadn't experienced it since I had left him, with Louis. We had been in some nameless jungle place, the three of us, when we agreed to part, and that had been a year ago.
"Your first question?" he asked, peering at me very closely, sizing me up perhaps, doing everything a vampire can do to measure the mood and mind of his maker, because a vampire cannot read his maker's mind, any more than the maker can read the mind of the fledgling.
And there we stood divided, laden with preternatural gifts, both fit and rather full of emotion, and unable to communicate except in the simplest and best way, perhaps--with words.
"My first question," I began to explain, to answer, "was simply going to be: Where have you been, and have you found the others, and did they try to hurt you? All that rot, you know--how I broke the rules when I made you, et cetera."
"All that rot," he mocked me, the French accent I still possessed, now couple with something definitely American.
"What rot."
"Come on," I said. "Let's go into the bar there and talk. Obviously no one has done anything to you. I didn't' think they could or they would, or that they'd dare. I wouldn't have let you slip off into the world if I'd thought you were in danger."
He smiled, his brown eyes full of gold light for just an instant.
"Didn't you tell me this twenty-five times, more or less, before we parted company?"
We found a small table, cleaving to the wall. The place was half crowded the perfect proportion exactly. What did we look like? A couple of young men on the make for mortal men or women? I don't care.
"No one has harmed me," he said, "and no one has shown the slightest interest in it."
Someone was playing a piano, very tenderly for a hotel bar, I thought. And it was something by Erik Satie. What luck.
"The tie," he said, leaning forward, white teeth flashing, fangs completely hidden, of course. "This, this big mass of silk around your neck! This is not Brooks Brothers!" He gave a soft teasing laugh. "Look at you, and the wing-tip shoes! My, my. What's going on in your mind? And what is this all about?"
The bartender threw a hefty shadow over the small table, and murmured predictable phrases that were lost to me in my excitement and in the noise.
"Something hot," David said. It didn't surprise me. "You know, rum punch or some such, whatever you can heat up."
I nodded and made a little gesture to the indifferent fellow that I would take the same thing.
Vampires always ordered hot drinks. They aren't going to drink them; but they can feel the warmth and smell them if they're hot, and that is so good.
David looked at me again. Or rather this familiar body with David inside looked at me. Because for me, David would always be the elderly human I'd known and treasured, as well as this magnificent burnished shell of stolen flesh that was slowly being shaped by his expressions and manner and mood.
Dear Reader, he switched human bodies before I made him a vampire, worry no more. It has nothing to do with this story.
"Something's following you again?" he asked. "This is what Armand told me. So did Jesse."
"Where did you see them?"
"Armand?" he asked. "A complete accident. In Paris. He was just walking on the street. He was the first one I saw."
"He didn't make any move to hurt you?"
"Why would he? Why were you calling to me? Who's stalking you? What is all this?