Encore Provence
Autor Peter Mayleen Limba Engleză Paperback – 31 mai 2000
Credem că Encore Provence este poarta de intrare perfectă pentru oricine dorește să exploreze farmecul Franței rurale, fiind accesibilă atât cititorilor fideli, cât și celor care descoperă acum stilul inconfundabil al lui Peter Mayle. Nu este nevoie de o experiență prealabilă cu opera autorului pentru a savura aceste pagini, însă volumul oferă o profunzime nouă, fiind scris după o perioadă în care autorul a locuit în California. Găsim aici o dorință sinceră de a lăsa în urmă grijile moderne pentru a se reîntoarce la simplitatea ritmului provensal. Cine a savurat atmosfera din A Year in Provence va aprecia aici maturitatea observațiilor și noile detalii practice; dacă primul volum era despre descoperirea unui stil de viață, Encore Provence este despre rafinarea acestuia. Descoperim secretele comerțului cu trufe și asistăm la lecții de parfumerie, totul fiind presărat cu umorul fin caracteristic. Față de lucrările sale de ficțiune, cum este The Vintage Caper, unde intriga polițistă domină, acest volum rămâne ancorat în realitatea senzorială: mirosul de cimbru, lumina soarelui și ritualul prânzului. Stilul este fluid, transformând chiar și o investigație locală într-o poveste fascinantă. Este o lectură care nu doar descrie un loc, ci oferă coordonate concrete — de la cele mai bune brânzeturi la pensiuni autentice — făcând trecerea de la visare la o posibilă călătorie.
Preț: 61.31 lei
Preț vechi: 77.47 lei
-21%
Carte disponibilă
Livrare economică 25 iunie-01 iulie
Livrare express 05-11 iunie pentru 34.67 lei
Specificații
ISBN-10: 014024266X
Pagini: 256
Ilustrații: line drawings
Dimensiuni: 129 x 198 x 16 mm
Greutate: 0.19 kg
Editura: Penguin Books
Colecția Penguin
Locul publicării:London, United Kingdom
De ce să citești această carte
Recomandăm această carte celor care caută o evadare literară autentică și gurmanzilor dornici să înțeleagă cultura gastronomică franceză dincolo de clișee. Cititorul câștigă un ghid cultural plin de spirit, care demonstrează că plăcerile simple sunt cele mai durabile. Este motivul ideal pentru a încetini ritmul cotidian și a plănui o vacanță în sudul Franței, având la îndemână recomandări verificate de un cunoscător.
Despre autor
Peter Mayle (1939–2018) a fost un om de afaceri britanic care a ales să își schimbe radical viața, mutându-se în Franța în anii '80. Succesul său fenomenal a început cu A Year in Provence, transformându-l într-un ambasador neoficial al regiunii Lubéron. De-a lungul carierei, a explorat diverse genuri, de la memorii și eseuri gastronomice în Bon Appetit!, până la romane polițiste cu accente satirice. Stilul său se remarcă prin capacitatea de a surprinde idiosincraziile locale cu afecțiune și umor, devenind o referință pentru literatura de călătorie și lifestyle.
Notă biografică
Descriere scurtă
Among other curiosities, explore a school for noses in Haute Provence, the mysterious death of an oversexed butcher, the quest for the finest bouillabaisse and an assortment of the characters who lie in wait in bars and on boules courts. And, of course, the essential importance of lunch. BON APPETIT!
'One of the most successful travel books of all time... Mayle created anew travel genre'Guardian
Delightful'Washington Post
'Engaging, funny and richlyappreciative'New York Times Book Review
'Stylish, witty, delightfully readable'SundayTimes
Extras
I think it was the sight of a man power-washing his underpants that really brought home the differences, cultural and otherwise, between the old world and the new.
It was a cold, still morning in early winter, and the pulsing thumpthump, thumpthump of a high-pressure hose echoed through the village. Getting closer to the sound, it was possible to see, over a garden wall, a laundry line totally devoted to gentlemen's underwear in a stimulating assortment of colors. The garments were under attack, jerking and flapping under the force of the water jet like hanging targets in a shooting gallery. Standing some distance away, out of ricochet range, was the aggressor, in cap and muffler and ankle-high zippered carpet slippers. He had adopted the classic stance of a soldier in combat, feet spread apart, shooting from the hip, a merciless hail of droplets raking back and forth. The underpants didn't stand a chance.
Only a few days before, my wife and I and the dogs had arrived back in Provence after an absence of four years. Much of that time had been spent in America, where we were able to slip back into the comfortable familiarity of a language that was relatively free--although not entirely--from the problems of being socially appropriate or sexually accurate. No longer did we have to ponder the niceties of addressing people as vous or tu, or to rush to the dictionary to check on the gender of everything from a peach to an aspirin. English was spoken, even if our ears were rusty and some of the fashionable linguistic flourishes took a little getting used to.
A friend of below-average height told us he was not considered short any more but "vertically challenged"; the hour, previously a plain old sixty minutes, had sprouted a "top" and a "bottom"; you were not seen leaving a room, but "exiting" it; the economy was regularly being "impacted," as though it were a rogue wisdom tooth; great minds "intuited" where once they had merely guessed; "hopefully," an agreeable word that never harmed a soul, was persistently abused. Important people didn't change their opinions, but underwent a significant "tactical recalibration."
There were many and hideous outbreaks of legalese in everyday speech, reflecting the rise of litigation as a national spectator sport. "Surplusage" was one of a hundred of these horrors. I noticed also that sophisticated and influential Americans--those whose comments are sought by the media--were not content to finish anything but preferred to "reach closure," and I have a nasty feeling that it won't be long before this affectation is picked up by waiters in pretentious restaurants. I can hear it already: "Have you reached closure on your salad?" (This, of course, would only be after you had spent some time bending your "learning curve" around the menu.)
We met, for the first time, the "outster," although we never saw a trace of his more fortunate relative, the inster. We were taught to give up our hopelessly old-fashioned habit of concentrating and instead try "focusing." Every day seemed to bring new and exciting vocabulary options. But these minor curiosities didn't alter the fact that we were surrounded by at least some version of the mother tongue and therefore should have felt quite at home.
Somehow we didn't, although it certainly wasn't for lack of a welcome. Almost everyone we met lived up to the American reputation for friendliness and generosity. We had settled in a house outside East Hampton, on the far end of Long Island, a part of the world that, for nine months a year, is quiet and extremely beautiful.
We wallowed in the convenience of America, in the efficiency and the extraordinary variety of choice, and we practiced native customs. We came to know California wines. We shopped by phone. We drove sedately. We took vitamins and occasionally remembered to worry about cholesterol. We tried to watch television. I gave up taking cigars to restaurants, but smoked them furtively in private. There was even a period when we drank eight glasses of water a day. In other words, we did our best to adapt.
And yet there was something missing. Or rather, an entire spectrum of sights and sounds and smells and sensations that we had taken for granted in Provence, from the smell of thyme in the fields to the swirl and jostle of Sunday-morning markets. Very few weeks went by without a twinge of what I can best describe as homesickness.
Returning to a place where you have been happy is generally regarded as a mistake. Memory is a notoriously biased and sentimental editor, selecting what it wants to keep and invariably making a few cosmetic changes to past events. With rose-colored hindsight, the good times become magical; the bad times fade and eventually disappear, leaving only a seductive blur of sunlit days and the laughter of friends. Was it really like that? Would it be like that again?
There was, of course, only one way to find out.
Recenzii
"Grab a Pastis and settle in for a scintillating rendezvous. Mayle's insights have never been more thoughtful." --San Francisco Chronicle
"Delightful, amusing, and appealing." --The New York Times Book Review
"Mayle's prose is, as ever, as pure and welcoming as a glass of the house wine at a Provençal cafe." --The Philadelphia Inquirer
Descriere
In his most delightful foray into the wonders of Provencal life, Mayle returns to France and puts behind him cholesterol worries, shopping by phone, California wines, and other concerns that plagued him after too much time away. Lyric, insightful, sparking with detail, "Encore Provence" brings readers a land where the smell of thyme in the field is no less than inspiring.