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Pourquoi être heureux quand on peut être normal ?

29 Avril 2012 , Rédigé par leblogducorps.over-blog.com

Jeanette Winterson

Pourquoi être heureux quand on peut être normal ?
  • Olivier (Editions de l')
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  • Paru le : 03/05/2012
Pourquoi être heureux quand on peut être normal ? Etrange question, à laquelle Jeanette Winterson répond en menant une existence en forme de combat. Dès l'enfance, il faut lutter : contre une mère adoptive sévère, qui s'aime peu et ne sait pas aimer. Contre les diktats religieux ou sociaux. Et pour trouver sa voie. Ce livre est une autobiographie guidée par la fantaisie et la férocité, mais c'est surtout l'histoire d'une quête, celle du bonheur.
"La vie est faite de couches, elle est fluide, mouvante, fragmentaire", dit Jeanette Winterson. Pour cette petite fille surdouée issue du prolétariat de Manchester, l'écriture est d'abord ce qui sauve. En racontant son histoire, Jeanette Winterson adresse un signe fraternel à toutes celles - et à tous ceux - pour qui la liberté est à conquérir.

 

     
   

Ecrit sur le corps

 

Amazon.co.uk
Written on The Body is a tender dissection of erotic love. The prose is like a poem, lush with wit and imagery, but behind the luxuriant relish of the words, there is a scalpel-sharp cut of emotions. Love and longing are the wounds through which Winterson's imagery flows. The novel begins with regret: "Why is the measure of love loss? It hasn't rained in three months ... The grapes have withered on the vine." The narrator is also suffering from a heart-stricken drought. She is grieving for the loss of her true love, Louise.

Louise has flowing Pre-Raphaelite hair, and a body besieged by leukaemia, her cells waging war: "here they come, hurtling through the bloodstream trying to pick a fight." But Louise is not dead, merely abandoned by the narrator with the best of intentions. As the lament continues, striking in its beauty and dazzling inventiveness, more of the love story is revealed. The narrator has been a female Lothario, falling in love, and out again, swaggering like Mercutio. But then she meets Louise, married to Elgin--"very eminent, very dull, very rich"--and is hopelessly, helplessly smitten: "I didn't only want Louise's flesh, I wanted her bones, her blood, her tissues, the sinews that bound her together." Elgin persuades her to leave for the good of Louise's health, and all is undone.

Winterson does not shy away from grief, or joy. She has acutely described how love can transform a life, but also destroy it too. But, for Winterson, where there is love there is hope: "I stretch out my hand and reach the corners of the world ... I don't know if this is a happy ending but here we are let loose in open fields." Eithne Farry

From Publishers Weekly

This fourth effort from British writer Winterson ( Sexing the Cherry ) is a high-concept erotic novelette, a Vox for the postmarital crowd. The narrator, a lifelong philanderer ("I used to think marriage was a plate-glass window just begging for a brick"), has fallen in love with Louise, a pre-Raphaelite beauty. Louise is unhappily married to a workaholic cancer researcher, so the narrator leads her into a sexually combative affair. This scenario seems obvious enough, but Winterson never reveals whether the narrator is male or female. Rather, she teases readers out of their expectations about women and men and romance: Louise calls the narrator "the most beautiful creature male or female that I have ever seen," and the narrator observes, "I thought difference was rated to be the largest part of sexual attraction but there are so many things about us that are the same." When the narrator breaks off the affair after learning that Louise has cancer--only her husband can cure her--the work turns into a eulogy for lost love. Winterson manipulates gender expertly here, but her real achievement is her manipulation of genre : the capacious first-person narration, now addressed to the reader, now to the lover, enfolds aphorisms, meditations on extracts from an anatomy textbook, and essayistic riffs on science, virtual reality and the art of fiction ("I don't want to reproduce, I want to create something entirely new"). "It's as if Louise never existed," the narrator observes, "like a character in a book. Did I invent her?" One wonders, as Winterson intends, and then wonders some more. For Louise--and the narrator's love for her--never seems quite real; in this cold-hearted novel love itself, however eloquently expressed, is finally nothing more than a product of the imagination.
Copyright 1992 Reed Business Information, Inc. --Ce texte fait référence à une édition épuisée ou non disponible de ce titre.

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R
The article gives us more idea of the prose that is moreover like a poem. All it talks about is of the pure love .this is really nice to read and see this love loss as a real transformation that is brought to her through the love she had to Louise.
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O
nice article.
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