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Je suppose qu'à un moment de ma vie, j'aurais pu avoir bien d'autres histoires en réserve, mais maintenant il n'y en a plus qu'une. C'est la seule histoire que je serai jamais capable de raconter.En décrochant une bourse à l'université de Hampden, dans le Vermont, Richard Papen ne laisse pas grand chose derrière lui : la Californie, qui lui déplaît ; son adolescence, faite de souvenirs incolores ; et ses parents, avec qui il ne s'entend pas. Hampden est une porte de sortie inespérée, l'opportunité de vivre une nouvelle vie. Passées quelques semaines, il est bientôt attiré par un professeur atypique, Julian Morrow, esthète capricieux qui enseigne les lettres classiques à cinq étudiants apparemment très liés. Contre l'avis de ses professeurs, il tente de s'introduire dans le groupe de ces jeunes gens marginaux sur qui courent les plus folles rumeurs. Et il est loin d'imaginer ce que lui coûtera sa curiosité.
Le monde de Donna Tartt est pragmatique, froidement réel. D'une plume précieuse et nette, chirurgicale, elle part à la recherche de notre part de perversité et creuse en profondeur. L'écrivain américain livre dans ce premier roman une intrigue surprenante, aux rebondissements inattendus qui laisse entrevoir qu'elle a beaucoup de talent. Trop sûrement pour ceux qui ont le sommeil léger. --Hector Chavez
704 pages, Mass Market Paperback
First published September 16, 1992
“Beauty is terror. Whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it.”
“What we did was terrible, but still I don't think any of us were bad, exactly; chalk it up to weakness on my part, hubris on Henry’s, too much Greek prose composition – whatever you like.”
“Beauty is rarely soft or consolatory. Quite the contrary. Genuine beauty is always quite alarming.”
“Everything was going beautifully, on the brink of taking wing, and I had a feeling that I'd never had, that reality itself was transforming around us in some beautiful and dangerous fashion, that we were being driven by a force we didn't understand, towards an end I did not know.”
Never, never once in any immediate sense, did it occur to me that any of this was anything but a game. An air of unreality suffused even the most workaday details, as if we were plotting not the death of a friend but the itinerary of a fabulous trip that I, for one, never quite believed we'd ever really take.
In a certain sense, this was why I felt so close to the others in the Greek class. They, too, knew this beautiful and harrowing landscape, centuries dead; they'd had the same experience of looking up from their books with fifth-century eyes and finding the world disconcertingly sluggish and alien, as if it were not their home.
But while I have never considered myself a very good person, neither can I bring myself to believe that I am a spectacularly bad one. Perhaps it's simply impossible to think of oneself in such a way, our Texan friend being a case in point. What we did was terrible, but still I don't think any of us were bad, exactly; chalk it up to weakness on my part, hubris on Henry's, too much Greek prose composition – whatever you like.