Tremor
A Novel
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٤٫٠ - ١٢ من التقييمات
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- 5٫99 US$
وصف الناشر
An “extraordinary, ambitious” (The Times UK) novel that masterfully explores what constitutes a meaningful life in a violent world—from the award-winning author of Open City
New York Times Book Review Editors’ Choice • “Cole’s mind is so agile that it’s easy to follow him anywhere.”—The New Yorker
WINNER OF THE ANISFIELD-WOLF BOOK AWARD • FINALIST FOR THE NATIONAL BOOK CRITICS CIRCLE AWARD • A BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR: Time, The Washington Post, Financial Times, Vulture, Chicago Public Library, Publishers Weekly, Library Journal
Life is hopeless but it is not serious. We have to have danced while we could and, later, to have danced again in the telling.
A weekend spent antiquing is shadowed by the colonial atrocities that occurred on that land. A walk at dusk is interrupted by casual racism. A loving marriage is riven by mysterious tensions. And a remarkable cascade of voices speaks out from a pulsing metropolis.
We’re invited to experience these events and others through the eyes and ears of Tunde, a West African man working as a teacher of photography on a renowned New England campus. He is a reader, a listener, a traveler, drawn to many different kinds of stories: stories from history and epic; stories of friends, family, and strangers; stories found in books and films. Together these stories make up his days. In aggregate these days comprise a life.
Tremor is a startling work of realism and invention that engages brilliantly with literature, music, race, and history as it examines the passage of time and how we mark it. It is a reckoning with human survival amidst “history’s own brutality, which refuses symmetries and seldom consoles,” but it is also a testament to the possibility of joy. As he did in his magnificent debut Open City, Teju Cole once again offers narration with all its senses alert, a surprising and deeply essential work from a beacon of contemporary literature.
PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
Critic and novelist Cole (Open City) explores such philosophical questions as, "How is one to live without owning others? Who is this world for?" in his remarkable and experimental latest. It begins like autofiction; a 40-something photographer and Harvard art history professor named Tunde, who is of Nigerian descent, meditates on authenticity and colonialism while shopping for antiques with his wife in Maine, where he buys a ci wara headdress from West Africa for $250, its only difference from those that go for six figures being its lack of "provenance." Cole then takes a thrilling point-of-view swerve by addressing a mysterious "you" character, an unnamed friend of Tunde's who died three years earlier. Another turn comes in the form of a lecture Tunde gives at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, where he poses discomfiting questions about the white art world's paternalistic attitudes toward African art. Tunde also interrogates his own classism, remembering how as a young man he photographed African street vendors in Paris and incurred their rage, and explores his passion for what Americans call "world music," including desert blues and Malian pop. Elsewhere, the narrative departs from Tunde and gives voice, successively, to 24 residents of contemporary Lagos, their vignettes depicting a taxi driver's capricious client, a woman's legal battle with her sexist siblings over their family estate, and a breathtaking description of a painter making public and ephemeral art on a bridge. Everything hangs together brilliantly, due to Cole's subtle provocations and his passion for art and music. It's a splendid feast for the senses.
مراجعات العملاء
What the . . .
This is a book you can’t talk about . . . or something like that. Almost immediately I knew I was going to love it. I already did. I told the folks I message with regularly how much I was enjoying it but I really couldn’t talk about it. I read the words like a glass of my favorite wine—white, with ice. You'll get what I mean. Then, midway through I hit a wall in the midst of wonderful words, like slightly blurry photographs, trying to make sense of how the words fit together. I rarely give up on a book, but I was considering it, when . . . Pow! I got it. You can’t talk about it but you get it . . . like you get music, for me kind of a Procol Harem thing—you feel it in your soul, like a Modigliani portrait, you can feel the melancholy, but you cant talk about it because you don’t have the words for what you feel and if you did whoever you told about it wouldn’t understand you because they have to feel it for themselves. So if you think you understand what I’m trying to convey, then grab your glass and enjoy a drink of Teju Cole. Ummm . . . I love it!