Denna webbplats använder kakor för att fungera optimalt, analysera användarbeteende och för att visa reklam (om du inte är inloggad). Genom att använda LibraryThing intygar du att du har läst och förstått våra Regler och integritetspolicy. All användning av denna webbplats lyder under dessa regler.
Resultat från Google Book Search
Klicka på en bild för att gå till Google Book Search.
Fantasy.
Fiction.
Literature.
Historical Fiction.
HTML:#1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER WINNER OF THE MAN BOOKER PRIZE The devastatingly moving (People) first novel from the author of Tenth of December: a moving and original father-son story featuring none other than Abraham Lincoln, as well as an unforgettable cast of supporting characters, living and dead, historical and invented
Named One of Pastes Best Novels of the Decade Named One of the Ten Best Books of the Year by The Washington Post, USA Today, and Maureen Corrigan, NPR One of Times Ten Best Novels of the Year A New York Times Notable Book One of O: The Oprah Magazines Best Books of the Year
February 1862. The Civil War is less than one year old. The fighting has begun in earnest, and the nation has begun to realize it is in for a long, bloody struggle. Meanwhile, President Lincolns beloved eleven-year-old son, Willie, lies upstairs in the White House, gravely ill. In a matter of days, despite predictions of a recovery, Willie dies and is laid to rest in a Georgetown cemetery. My poor boy, he was too good for this earth, the president says at the time. God has called him home. Newspapers report that a grief-stricken Lincoln returns, alone, to the crypt several times to hold his boys body. From that seed of historical truth, George Saunders spins an unforgettable story of familial love and loss that breaks free of its realistic, historical framework into a supernatural realm both hilarious and terrifying. Willie Lincoln finds himself in a strange purgatory where ghosts mingle, gripe, commiserate, quarrel, and enact bizarre acts of penance. Within this transitional statecalled, in the Tibetan tradition, the bardoa monumental struggle erupts over young Willies soul. Lincoln in the Bardo is an astonishing feat of imagination and a bold step forward from one of the most important and influential writers of his generation. Formally daring, generous in spirit, deeply concerned with matters of the heart, it is a testament to fictions ability to speak honestly and powerfully to the things that really matter to us. Saunders has invented a thrilling new form that deploys a kaleidoscopic, theatrical panorama of voices to ask a timeless, profound question: How do we live and love when we know that everything we love must end? A luminous feat of generosity and humanism.Colson Whitehead, TheNew York Times Book Review A masterpiece.Zadie Smith.… (mer)
Lincoln in the Bardo is an odd book. Stylistically, the book is a work of art. It reads like a play and a collage of historical articles. George Saunders’s much-awaited first novel is certainly like a weird folk art diorama of a cemetery come to life as the New York Times put it. The dreamlike flow of Lincoln in the Bardo made the reading of it a little like taking some mildly hallucinogenic substance. But the story is a bit of a mess. But, perhaps that's the point? Life is a bit of a mess.
The characters, spirits suspended in the Bardo ( an intermediate, transitional, or liminal state between death and rebirth in Tibetan Buddhism) reside between “that” [this] world and their ultimate fate, spar with one another restlessly. A grieving and guilt-ridden Abraham Lincoln cannot bear to see his dear little son Willie, dead from typhoid fever, put away in the “sick box,” as the ghosts term coffins and sepulchers. He visits the cemetery alone, twice after his son’s interment in a temporary mausoleum, to commune with him, even going so far as to remove the lid of his coffin and holding the dead boy in his gangly arms. The boy’s spirit looks on and even enters his father’s body — He is not the only spirit to do so in the book. The community of souls in the Oak Hill Cemetery — and some from “outside the fence” — agitate to be freed from this waiting room between Earthly life and the next phase - the stage of rebirth. And while Lincoln in the Bardo features a wide cast of characters - the community of souls - it is the grief of Abraham Lincoln that anchors this book.
The supernatural chatter of our wide cast of characters can grow tedious at times — the novel could have used some editing — but their voices gain emotional momentum as the book progresses. And they lend the story a choral dimension that turns Lincoln’s personal grief into a meditation on the losses suffered by the nation during the Civil War, and the more universal heartbreak that is part of the human condition. Yet, all too often the vignettes are miniatures of the cruel, satirical stories that have won Saunders fans, and, as mentioned, several are poignant, but they don’t have much connection to Willie’s story. Because of this, the souls of the cemetery and the various stories connected to them often overshadow the crux of what makes this novel work: the pain of Abraham Lincoln's grief and his son trying to connect with him beyond the grave. You see it is Lincoln's very grief that is keeping Willie stuck in the Bardo. And Willie isn't ready to accept death.
Lincoln in the Bardo is an experimental novel that won the Man Booker prize in 2017. Its experimental nature is commendable but doesn't always work. The interplay of the frustrated few main spirits and the larger population resembled a stage script without stage directions (which was often frustrating); the dialogue is inventive, by turns poignant, tragic, eerie, bawdy, and mordantly funny. However, it often overshadows the main story. Excerpts from actual news stories, letters, and Lincoln biographies interweave with the spirits’ “lines,” lending authenticity to the historical context, that of the Civil War. However, some of these are also fabricated. The point is Saunders wants us to consider what is real and not real, what is truth, and what is fictional.
I found this book to be a poignant, sometimes funny, frustrating mess, sadistic (Saunders has a bad habit of describing cruel situations and graphic scenes), and often, too damn sentimental. Saunders isn't necessarily interested in history. He could care less that Lincoln's secret cause of emancipation wasn't really a personal emotion or conviction, but one more of policy and keeping the union intact. He wants you to think the Lincoln mind-melded with African-American spirits.
Great works of art are often controversial, imperfect, challenging specimens of ingenuity. This book is a demanding work of art, one with a unique yet frustrating voice. I'm glad to have read it but I'm not sure I want to revisit it.
*I recommend listening to the audiobook. Saunders friend Nick Offerman (Ron Swanson) agreed early in the production process of the audiobook to take a role, as did Offerman's wife, Megan Mullally. The two then recruited Julianne Moore, Don Cheadle, Rainn Wilson, and Susan Sarandon. Non-celebrities with parts include Saunders's wife, his children, and various of his friends. Other notable narrators include David Sedaris, Carrie Brownstein, Lena Dunham, Keegan-Michael Key, Miranda July, Ben Stiller, Bradley Whitford, Bill Hader, Mary Karr, Jeffrey Tambor, Kat Dennings, Jeff Tweedy, and Patrick Wilson. ( )
Information från den engelska sidan med allmänna fakta.Redigera om du vill anpassa till ditt språk.
For Caitlin and Alena
Inledande ord
Information från den engelska sidan med allmänna fakta.Redigera om du vill anpassa till ditt språk.
On our wedding day I was forty-six, she was eighteen.
Citat
Information från den engelska sidan med allmänna fakta.Redigera om du vill anpassa till ditt språk.
I will never forget those solemn moments—genius and greatness weeping over the love's lost idol.
Having never loved or been loved in that previous place, they were frozen here in a youthful state of perpetual emotional vacuity; interested only in freedom, profligacy, and high-jinks, railing against any limitation or commitment whatsoever.
In truth, we were bored, so very bored, so continually bored.
Birds being distrustful of our ilk.
Any admiration we might once have felt for their endurance had long since devolved into revulsion.
The crowd, having suspended its perversities, stood gaping at Mr. Bevins, who had acquired, in the telling, such a bounty of extra eyes, ears, noses, hands, etc., that he now resembled some overstuffed fleshly bouquet. Bevins applied his usual remedy (closing the eyes and stopping as many of the noses and ears as he could with the various extra hands, dulling, thereby, all sensory intake, thus quieting the mind) and multiple sets of the eyes, ears, noses, and hands retracted or vanished (I could never tell which).
Walk-skimming between (or over, when unavoidable) the former home-places of so many fools no longer among us.
These were a chirpy, tepid, desireless sort, generally, and had lingered, if at all, for only the briefest of moments, so completely satisfactory had they found their tenure in that previous place.
The two now comprised one sitting man, Mr. Vollman's greater girth somewhat overflowing the gentleman, his massive member existing wholly outside the gentleman, pointing up at the moon.
The dead at Donelson, sweet Jesus. Heaped and piled like threshed wheat, one on top of two on top of three. I walked through it after with a bad feeling. Lord it was me done that, I thought.
The dead lay as they had fallen, in every conceivable shape, some grasping their guns as though they were in the act of firing, while others, with a cartridge in their icy grasp, were in the act of loading. Some of the countenances wore a peaceful, glad smile, while on others rested a fiendish look of hate. It looked as though each countenance was the exact counterpart of the thoughts that were passing through the mind when the death messenger laid them low. Perhaps that noble-looking youth, with his smiling up-turned face, with his glossy ringlets matted with his own life-blood, felt a mother's prayer stealing over his senses as his young life went out. Near him lay a young husband with a prayer for his wife and little one yet lingering on his lips. Youth and age, virtue and evil, were represented on those ghastly countenances. Before us lay the charred and blackened remains of some who had been burnt alive. They were wounded so badly to move and the fierce elements consumed them.
(So why grieve? The worst of it, for him, is over.) Because I loved him so and am in the habit of loving him and that love must take the form of fussing and worry and doing.
Mr. Vollman bearing his tremendous member in his hands, so as not to trip himself on it.
Some blows fall too heavy upon those too fragile.
Regarding a face & carriage so uniquely arranged by Nature, one's opinion of it seemed to depend more than usual on the predisposition of the Observer.
Oh, the pathos of it!—haggard, drawn into fixed lines of unutterable sadness, with a look of loneliness, as of a soul whose depth of sorrow and bitterness no human sympathy could ever reach. The impression I carried away was that I had seen, not so much the President of the United States, as the saddest man in the world.
Strange, isn't it? To have dedicated one's life to a certain venture, neglecting other aspects of one's life, only to have that venture, in the end, amount to nothing at all, the products of one's labors utterly forgotten?
Well, what of it. No one who has ever done anything worth doing has gone uncriticized.
He came out of nothingness, took form, was loved, was always bound to return to nothingness. Only I did not think it would be so soon. Or that he would precede us. Two passing temporarinesses developed feelings for one another.
The thousand dresses, laid out so reverently that afternoon, flecks of dust brushed off carefully in doorways, hems gathered up for the carriage trip: where are they now? Are some yet saved in attics? Most are dust. As are the women who wore them so proudly in that transient moment of radiance. (7%)
Trap. Horrible trap. At one's birth it is sprung. Some last day must arrive. When you will need to get out of this body. Bad enough. Then we bring a baby here. The terms of the trap are compounded. That baby also must depart. All pleasure sshuld be tainted with that knowledge. But hopeful, dear us, we forget. (46%)
Strange, isn't it? To have dedicated one's life to a certain venture, neglecting other aspects of one's life, only to have that venture, in the end, amount to nothing at all, the products of one's labors utterly forgotten? (60%)
He came out of nothingness, took form, was loved, was always bound to return to nothingness. (70%)
We were that way at the time, and had been led to that place not by any innate evil in ourselves, but by the state of cognition and our experiences up until that moment. (78%)
At the core of each lay suffering, our eventual end, the many losses we must experince on the way to that end. (87%)
Must end suffering by causing more suffering. (88%)
He was an open book. An opening book. That had just been opened up somewhat wider. By sorrow. And -- by us. By all of us, black and white... (89%)
Avslutande ord
Information från den engelska sidan med allmänna fakta.Redigera om du vill anpassa till ditt språk.
And we rode forward into the night, past the sleeping houses of our countrymen. thomas havens
Hänvisningar till detta verk hos externa resurser.
Wikipedia på engelska
Ingen/inga
▾Bokbeskrivningar
Fantasy.
Fiction.
Literature.
Historical Fiction.
HTML:#1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER WINNER OF THE MAN BOOKER PRIZE The devastatingly moving (People) first novel from the author of Tenth of December: a moving and original father-son story featuring none other than Abraham Lincoln, as well as an unforgettable cast of supporting characters, living and dead, historical and invented
Named One of Pastes Best Novels of the Decade Named One of the Ten Best Books of the Year by The Washington Post, USA Today, and Maureen Corrigan, NPR One of Times Ten Best Novels of the Year A New York Times Notable Book One of O: The Oprah Magazines Best Books of the Year
February 1862. The Civil War is less than one year old. The fighting has begun in earnest, and the nation has begun to realize it is in for a long, bloody struggle. Meanwhile, President Lincolns beloved eleven-year-old son, Willie, lies upstairs in the White House, gravely ill. In a matter of days, despite predictions of a recovery, Willie dies and is laid to rest in a Georgetown cemetery. My poor boy, he was too good for this earth, the president says at the time. God has called him home. Newspapers report that a grief-stricken Lincoln returns, alone, to the crypt several times to hold his boys body. From that seed of historical truth, George Saunders spins an unforgettable story of familial love and loss that breaks free of its realistic, historical framework into a supernatural realm both hilarious and terrifying. Willie Lincoln finds himself in a strange purgatory where ghosts mingle, gripe, commiserate, quarrel, and enact bizarre acts of penance. Within this transitional statecalled, in the Tibetan tradition, the bardoa monumental struggle erupts over young Willies soul. Lincoln in the Bardo is an astonishing feat of imagination and a bold step forward from one of the most important and influential writers of his generation. Formally daring, generous in spirit, deeply concerned with matters of the heart, it is a testament to fictions ability to speak honestly and powerfully to the things that really matter to us. Saunders has invented a thrilling new form that deploys a kaleidoscopic, theatrical panorama of voices to ask a timeless, profound question: How do we live and love when we know that everything we love must end? A luminous feat of generosity and humanism.Colson Whitehead, TheNew York Times Book Review A masterpiece.Zadie Smith.
The characters, spirits suspended in the Bardo ( an intermediate, transitional, or liminal state between death and rebirth in Tibetan Buddhism) reside between “that” [this] world and their ultimate fate, spar with one another restlessly. A grieving and guilt-ridden Abraham Lincoln cannot bear to see his dear little son Willie, dead from typhoid fever, put away in the “sick box,” as the ghosts term coffins and sepulchers. He visits the cemetery alone, twice after his son’s interment in a temporary mausoleum, to commune with him, even going so far as to remove the lid of his coffin and holding the dead boy in his gangly arms. The boy’s spirit looks on and even enters his father’s body — He is not the only spirit to do so in the book. The community of souls in the Oak Hill Cemetery — and some from “outside the fence” — agitate to be freed from this waiting room between Earthly life and the next phase - the stage of rebirth. And while Lincoln in the Bardo features a wide cast of characters - the community of souls - it is the grief of Abraham Lincoln that anchors this book.
The supernatural chatter of our wide cast of characters can grow tedious at times — the novel could have used some editing — but their voices gain emotional momentum as the book progresses. And they lend the story a choral dimension that turns Lincoln’s personal grief into a meditation on the losses suffered by the nation during the Civil War, and the more universal heartbreak that is part of the human condition. Yet, all too often the vignettes are miniatures of the cruel, satirical stories that have won Saunders fans, and, as mentioned, several are poignant, but they don’t have much connection to Willie’s story. Because of this, the souls of the cemetery and the various stories connected to them often overshadow the crux of what makes this novel work: the pain of Abraham Lincoln's grief and his son trying to connect with him beyond the grave. You see it is Lincoln's very grief that is keeping Willie stuck in the Bardo. And Willie isn't ready to accept death.
Lincoln in the Bardo is an experimental novel that won the Man Booker prize in 2017. Its experimental nature is commendable but doesn't always work. The interplay of the frustrated few main spirits and the larger population resembled a stage script without stage directions (which was often frustrating); the dialogue is inventive, by turns poignant, tragic, eerie, bawdy, and mordantly funny. However, it often overshadows the main story. Excerpts from actual news stories, letters, and Lincoln biographies interweave with the spirits’ “lines,” lending authenticity to the historical context, that of the Civil War. However, some of these are also fabricated. The point is Saunders wants us to consider what is real and not real, what is truth, and what is fictional.
I found this book to be a poignant, sometimes funny, frustrating mess, sadistic (Saunders has a bad habit of describing cruel situations and graphic scenes), and often, too damn sentimental. Saunders isn't necessarily interested in history. He could care less that Lincoln's secret cause of emancipation wasn't really a personal emotion or conviction, but one more of policy and keeping the union intact. He wants you to think the Lincoln mind-melded with African-American spirits.
Great works of art are often controversial, imperfect, challenging specimens of ingenuity. This book is a demanding work of art, one with a unique yet frustrating voice. I'm glad to have read it but I'm not sure I want to revisit it.
*I recommend listening to the audiobook. Saunders friend Nick Offerman (Ron Swanson) agreed early in the production process of the audiobook to take a role, as did Offerman's wife, Megan Mullally. The two then recruited Julianne Moore, Don Cheadle, Rainn Wilson, and Susan Sarandon. Non-celebrities with parts include Saunders's wife, his children, and various of his friends. Other notable narrators include David Sedaris, Carrie Brownstein, Lena Dunham, Keegan-Michael Key, Miranda July, Ben Stiller, Bradley Whitford, Bill Hader, Mary Karr, Jeffrey Tambor, Kat Dennings, Jeff Tweedy, and Patrick Wilson. (