By Diane Sansoucy
L’adolescence est un terreau fertile pour les sentiments issues, l’âge adulte est résolument le temps des remises en query. Pour son deuxième roman, Diane Sansoucy délaisse donc l’univers exploré dans speedy ahead (1997) pour nous raconter los angeles dérangeante histoire d’une femme marquée par l’adversité.
Voici un récit dont on ne peut sortir indemne tant los angeles langue y est crue et tant les émotions y sont intenses. Croque-monsieur est un roman qui va au fond des choses sans compromis.
Lorsque, à 7 ans, on assiste à los angeles mort de sa mère, on a de los angeles difficulté à comprendre ce que l. a. vie a de bon à nous offrir. Claudine, deuxième enfant d’une famille qui en compte trois, tente, tant bien que mal de se faire une vie à elle malgré ce traumatisme.
Lorsque Madeleine, los angeles deuxième femme de son père, se meurt du melanoma, Claudine revoit le parcours accompli dans sa lutte pour los angeles survie. Carburant à l. a. culpabilité, elle ne se croit pas douée pour le bonheur.
Son compagnon ne l’a-t-il pas quittée pour un homme ? Mais Claudine est une battante. Elle fait partie de ceux qui renaissent toujours de leurs cendres au prix de n’importe quelle douleur.
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Extra resources for Croque-monsieur
Or forget everything, including Zana Broko, and go to Valencia. That’s what I was thinking about that evening in May when the Plaza de España was more beautiful than ever and I wanted to escape the suffering of the world, and I couldn’t. Translated from the French by Luise von Flotow plaza de espan˜a 13 ▼ THE SHEARS Mira Meks¸ i (Albania) of course, this story would never have come back to me if one rainy afternoon in a park I hadn’t seen a pair of gardening shears lying beside the broken branch of a rosebush.
He didn’t just want to steal the dresses, but your mother too, whom I . . ” I started, as if waking from a nightmare and ran for the door. Madame Ephtiqui’s raving voice followed me: “He lost an eye, but he didn’t turn me in. . ” My legs carried me, I don’t know how, to the rose garden. I had great trouble opening the little rotted-out garden gate. I rushed out into the lane facing the door of the condemned church. Translated from the French by Ryan Fraser mira meks¸i 18 ▼ THE DANCER IN THE WINDOW Sanja Lovren cˇ i c´ (Croatia) i still enjoy writing letters.
And what is happiness after all? ” I imagined the two of them, Zana and the stranger, kissing on the beach in the twilight. The setting sun was gilding their tanned shoulders. . Pablo Garcia was in Sarajevo. He was ﬁlming the moments when children died, and at the same time, his brain cells, so many sources of enthusiasm, were dying in clusters, forever. I saw him hasten along in the spray of shrapnel, laughing and trying to avoid it in order to stay alive. I suffered from not being able to run through the cruel snow too, through the cruel winter, with the soles of my feet bloody, in that distressed line of women, terrorized, spurned, covered in spit, stumbling into the damp trunks of trees, the hostile stones in the road, those distant ice-covered roads that led to the Croatian border.
Croque-monsieur by Diane Sansoucy