The Black Lake
Autor Hella S. Haasse Traducere de Ina Rilkeen Limba Engleză Paperback – 3 oct 2013
Amid the lush abundance of Java's landscape, two boys spend their days exploring the vast lakes and teeming forests. But as time passes the boys come to realize that their shared sense of adventure cannot bridge the gulf between their backgrounds, for one is the son of a Dutch plantation owner, and the other the son of a servant. Inevitably, as they grow up, they grow estranged and it is not until years later that they meet again. It will be an explosive and emblematic meeting that marks them even more deeply than their childhood friendship did.
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Specificații
ISBN-13: 9781846273230
ISBN-10: 1846273234
Pagini: 116
Dimensiuni: 127 x 197 x 13 mm
Greutate: 0.14 kg
Ediția:Trade Paperback.
Editura: PORTOBELLO BOOKS
ISBN-10: 1846273234
Pagini: 116
Dimensiuni: 127 x 197 x 13 mm
Greutate: 0.14 kg
Ediția:Trade Paperback.
Editura: PORTOBELLO BOOKS
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Recenzii
Unostentatious charm... an instant classic - Independent
A book that truly breathes... It can break, haunt and stir you... Haasse has a fine, exact way with her story... Mesmerisingly lovely and then suddenly shocking; you have to react. After 60 or more years, and in a quite different world, it is still a wake-up call... Perfect - Scotsman
Distinguished, composed with intense concentration, with a cruel heart-breaking climax and a brave, passionate coda... [It] demands several readings... Immaculately constructed - Times Literary Supplement
An understated little gem of a book and this fresh and vibrant translation is an event worthy of a wholehearted welcome - New Internationalist
A translation as fresh as any Booker nominee... beautifully judged and a genuinely intriguing insight into the end of a European empire - Big Issue
A book that truly breathes... It can break, haunt and stir you... Haasse has a fine, exact way with her story... Mesmerisingly lovely and then suddenly shocking; you have to react. After 60 or more years, and in a quite different world, it is still a wake-up call... Perfect - Scotsman
Distinguished, composed with intense concentration, with a cruel heart-breaking climax and a brave, passionate coda... [It] demands several readings... Immaculately constructed - Times Literary Supplement
An understated little gem of a book and this fresh and vibrant translation is an event worthy of a wholehearted welcome - New Internationalist
A translation as fresh as any Booker nominee... beautifully judged and a genuinely intriguing insight into the end of a European empire - Big Issue
Unostentatious charm... an instant classic -" Independent" A book that truly breathes... It can break, haunt and stir you... Haasse has a fine, exact way with her story... Mesmerisingly lovely and then suddenly shocking; you have to react. After 60 or more years, and in a quite different world, it is still a wake-up call... Perfect - S"cotsman" Distinguished, composed with intense concentration, with a cruel heart-breaking climax and a brave, passionate coda... [It] demands several readings... Immaculately constructed - "Times Literary Supplement" An understated little gem of a book and this fresh and vibrant translation is an event worthy of a wholehearted welcome - " New Internationalist" A translation as fresh as any Booker nominee... beautifully judged and a genuinely intriguing insight into the end of a European empire - "Big Issue"
Notă biografică
Hella S. Haasse was born in 1918 in Batavia, modern-day Jakarta. She moved to the Netherlands after secondary school. She started publishing in 1945 and many of her books have gained classic status in the Netherlands. Haasse has received several prestigious literary awards, among them the Dutch Literature Prize in 2004, and her work has been translated into many languages. The Tea Lords (Portobello 2010) was the first work of hers translated into English for 15 years. She died in 2011. www.hellahaassemuseum.nl
Extras
Oeroeg was my friend. When I think back on my childhood
and adolescence, an image of Oeroeg invariably
rises before my eyes, as though my memory were one of
those magic pictures we used to buy, three for ten cents:
yellowish, shiny little cards coated with dried glue, which
you had to scratch with a pencil to reveal the image
underneath. That is how Oeroeg comes back to me when
I delve into the past. The setting may vary, depending on
how long ago the period I am recalling is, but Oeroeg
never fails to appear, be it in the overgrown garden at
Kebon Djati or on the reddish-brown muddy paths along
the sawahs in the Preanger highlands, in the hot carriages
of the little train we took to primary school each day in
Soekaboemi, or later, at the boarding-house when we
were both at school in Batavia. Oeroeg and me, playing
and tracking in the wilderness; Oeroeg and me, hunched
over our homework, our stamp collections and forbidden
books; Oeroeg and me, ever together, during each and
every stage of our development from child to young man.
I think it is fair to say that Oeroeg is imprinted in my
being like a brand, a seal – now more than ever, since
every form of communication has been banished to the
past. I do not know why I feel the need to take stock of
my relationship with Oeroeg and of all the things he
meant to me, and still means. It may be something to
do with what I felt was his inescapable, unfathomable
otherness, that secret of spirit and blood which posed no
problems in childhood and youth, but which now seems
all the more confounding.
and adolescence, an image of Oeroeg invariably
rises before my eyes, as though my memory were one of
those magic pictures we used to buy, three for ten cents:
yellowish, shiny little cards coated with dried glue, which
you had to scratch with a pencil to reveal the image
underneath. That is how Oeroeg comes back to me when
I delve into the past. The setting may vary, depending on
how long ago the period I am recalling is, but Oeroeg
never fails to appear, be it in the overgrown garden at
Kebon Djati or on the reddish-brown muddy paths along
the sawahs in the Preanger highlands, in the hot carriages
of the little train we took to primary school each day in
Soekaboemi, or later, at the boarding-house when we
were both at school in Batavia. Oeroeg and me, playing
and tracking in the wilderness; Oeroeg and me, hunched
over our homework, our stamp collections and forbidden
books; Oeroeg and me, ever together, during each and
every stage of our development from child to young man.
I think it is fair to say that Oeroeg is imprinted in my
being like a brand, a seal – now more than ever, since
every form of communication has been banished to the
past. I do not know why I feel the need to take stock of
my relationship with Oeroeg and of all the things he
meant to me, and still means. It may be something to
do with what I felt was his inescapable, unfathomable
otherness, that secret of spirit and blood which posed no
problems in childhood and youth, but which now seems
all the more confounding.
Descriere
Amid the lush abundance of Java's landscape, two boys spend their days exploring the vast lakes and teeming forests. But as time passes the boys come to realize that their shared sense of adventure cannot bridge the gulf between their backgrounds, for one is the son of a Dutch plantation owner, and the other the son of a servant. Inevitably, as they grow up, they grow estranged and it is not until years later that they meet again. It will be an explosive and emblematic meeting that marks them even more deeply than their childhood friendship did.