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Siri Hustvedt

The Summer Without Men

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«And who among us would deny Jane Austen her happy endings or insist that Cary Grant and Irene Dunne should get back together at the end of The Awful Truth? There are tragedies and there are comedies, aren't there? And they are often more the same than different, rather like men and women, if you ask me. A comedy depends on stopping the story at exactly the right moment.»
Mia Fredrickson, the wry, vituperative, tragic comic, poet narrator of The Summer Without Men, has been forced to reexamine her own life. One day, out of the blue, after thirty years of marriage, Mia's husband, a renowned neuroscientist, asks her for a “pause.” This abrupt request sends her reeling and lands her in a psychiatric ward. The June following Mia's release from the hospital, she returns to the prairie town of her childhood, where her mother lives in an old people's home. Alone in a rented house, she rages and fumes and bemoans her sorry fate. Slowly, however, she is drawn into the lives of those around her—her mother and her close friends,”the Five Swans,” and her young neighbor with two small children and a loud angry husband—and the adolescent girls in her poetry workshop whose scheming and petty cruelty carry a threat all their own.
From the internationally bestselling author of What I Loved comes Siri Hustvedt's provocative, witty, and revelatory novel about women and girls, love and marriage, and the age-old question of sameness and difference between the sexes.
Эта книга сейчас недоступна
204 бумажные страницы
Дата публикации оригинала
2011
Год выхода издания
2011
Издательство
Picador
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Впечатления

  • Ellen Shubichделится впечатлением7 лет назад

    Siri Hustvedt is funny, witty, smart, and keenly understanding of the difficulties humans face at different moments of their lives. This is a story
    about relationships, how we affect each other,
    support each other, and somehow get through it all
    (hopefully).

Цитаты

  • Marцитирует5 лет назад
    We all smell of mortality, and we can’t wash it off. There is nothing we can do about it except perhaps burst into song.
  • Marцитирует5 лет назад
    Some of us are fated to live in a box from which there is only temporary release. We of the damned-up spirits, of the thwarted feelings, of the blocked hearts, and the pent-up thoughts, we who long to blast out, flood forth in a torrent of rage or joy or even madness, but there is nowhere for us to go
  • Marцитирует5 лет назад
    After all, we, none of us, can ever untangle the knot of fictions that make up that wobbly thing we call a self.

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