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The Vampire Lestat: Volume 2 in series de Anne Rice

The Vampire Lestat: Volume 2 in series: The Vampire Chronicles, cartea 2

Autor Anne Rice
en Limba Engleză Paperback – 16 oct 2008

Observăm în proza lui Anne Rice o densitate senzorială aproape hipnotică, un stil baroc care transformă întunericul într-o experiență tactilă și vizuală. Putem afirma că în The Vampire Lestat, autoarea depășește granițele genului horror, oferind o meditație filosofică asupra nemuririi, deghizată într-o epopee gotică. Dacă în primul volum al seriei The Vampire Chronicles l-am perceput pe Lestat prin ochii melancolici ai lui Louis, aici descoperim vocea sa proprie: vibrantă, sfidătoare și profund umană în rătăcirile sale.

Descoperim aici o structură narativă ambițioasă care ne poartă din prezentul electrizant al unui star rock înapoi în Franța prerevoluționară. Trecerea de la castelele izolate din Auvergne la străzile licențioase ale Parisului este redată cu o bogăție de detalii care ancorează supranaturalul în realitatea istorică. Cei care au parcurs Interview With The Vampire de Anne Rice vor fi pregătiți pentru o schimbare radicală de perspectivă; acolo unde Louis oferea pasivitate și regret, Lestat aduce acțiune și o căutare febrilă a originilor speciei sale.

În contextul operei sale, acest volum consolidează cosmologia începută în 1976, pregătind terenul pentru explorări și mai vaste, așa cum vedem în The Tale of the Body Thief. Anne Rice reușește să mențină o atmosferă de neliniște constantă, nu prin șocuri ieftine, ci prin explorarea singurătății eterne și a rebeliunii împotriva tăcerii impuse de tradiție. Este un roman despre identitate, unde monstrul devine erou romantic, purtându-ne într-o călătorie din peșterile Greciei antice până pe autostrăzile demonice ale secolului XX.

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Specificații

ISBN-13: 9780751541960
ISBN-10: 0751541966
Pagini: 560
Dimensiuni: 180 x 203 x 34 mm
Greutate: 0.38 kg
Editura: Little Brown
Colecția Sphere
Seria The Vampire Chronicles

Locul publicării:London, United Kingdom

De ce să citești această carte

Pentru cititorii care doresc să exploreze latura seducătoare și tragică a mitului vampiric, dincolo de clișeele moderne. The Vampire Lestat oferă o perspectivă unică asupra nemuririi ca povară și privilegiu, fiind ideal pentru cei care apreciază ficțiunea istorică împletită cu elemente gotice. Veți câștiga o înțelegere profundă a unuia dintre cele mai complexe personaje din literatura horror, într-o poveste despre curaj și rebeliune.

Despre autor

Anne Rice (1941–2021) a fost o figură emblematică a literaturii gotice americane, renumită pentru reinventarea mitului vampirului în cultura contemporană. Născută în New Orleans, oraș care a influențat profund atmosfera operelor sale, Rice a vândut peste 100 de milioane de exemplare la nivel mondial. Deși a explorat și literatura erotică sau religioasă, rămâne celebră pentru seria The Vampire Chronicles. Stilul său se distinge prin împletirea vizibilului cu supranaturalul, creând tapiserii bogate în istorie, filosofie și religie. Opera sa a fost adaptată cu succes în cinematografie, influențând generații de scriitori de beletristică horror.

Descriere

Ah, the taste and feel of blood when all passion and greed is sharpened in that one desire!' Lestat: a vampire - but very much not the conventional undead, for Lestat is the truly alive. Lestat is vivid, ecstatic, stagestruck, and in his extravagant story he plunges from the lasciviousness of eighteenth-century Paris to the demonic Egypt of prehistory; from fin-de-siecle New Orleans to the frenetic twentieth-century world of rock superstardom - as, pursued by the living and the dead, he searches across time for the secret of his own dark immortality.

Notă biografică

Anne Rice is the author of thirty-seven books, including the Vampire Chronicles, the Lives of the Mayfair Witches, and the Wolf Gift book series. Rice was born in New Orleans in 1941 and grew up there and in Texas. She lived in San Francisco with her husband, the poet and painter, Stan Rice until 1988, when they returned to New Orleans to live with their son, Christopher. In 2006, Rice moved to Rancho Mirage, California. She died in 2021.

Extras

IN THE WINTER OF MY TWENTY-FIRST YEAR, I WENT out alone on horseback to kill a pack of wolves.

This was on my father's land in the Auvergne in France, and these were the last decades before the French Revolution.

It was the worst winter that I could remember, and the wolves were stealing the sheep from our peasants and even running at night through the streets of the village.

These were bitter years for me. My father was the Marquis, and I was the seventh son and the youngest of the three who had lived to manhood. I had no claim to the tile or the land, and no prospects. Even in a rich family, it might have been that way for a younger boy, but our wealth had been used up long ago. My eldest brother, Augustin, who was the rightful heir to all we possessed, had spent his wife's small dowry as soon as he married her.

My father's castle, his estate, and the village nearby were my entire universe. And I'd been born restless--the dreamer, the angry one, the complainer. I wouldn't sit by the fire and talk of old wars and the days of the Sun King. History had no meaning for me.

But in this dim and old fashioned world, I had become the hunter. I brought in the pheasant, the venison, and the trout from the mountain streams--whatever was needed and could be got--to feed the family. It had become my life by this time--and one I shared with no one else--and it was a very good thing that I'd taken it up, because there were years when we might have actually starved to death.

Of course this was a noble occupation, hunting one's ancestral lands, and we alone had the right to do it. The richest of the bourgeois couldn't lift his gun in my forests. But then again he didn't have to lift his gun. He had money.

Two times in my life I'd tried to escape this life, only to be brought back with my wings broken. But I'll tell more on that later.

Right now I'm thinking about the now all over those mountains and the wolves that were frightening the villagers and stealing my sheep. And I'm thinking of the old saying in France in those days, that if you lived in the province of Auvergne you could get no farther from Paris.

Understand that since I was the lord and the only lord anymore who could sit a horse and fire a gun, it was natural that the villagers would come to me, complaining about the wolves and expecting me to hunt them. It was my duty.

I wasn't the least afraid of the wolves either. Never in my life had I seen or heard of a wolf attacking a man. And I would have poisoned them, if I could, but meat was simply too scarce to lace with poison.

So early on a very cold morning in January, I armed myself to kill the wolves one by one. I had three flintlock guns and an excellent flintlock rifle, and these I took with me as well as my muskets and my father's sword. But just before leaving the castle, I added to this little arsenal one or two ancient weapons that I'd never bothered with before.

Our castle was full of old armor. My ancestors had fought in countless noble wars since the times of the Crusades with St. Louis. And hung on the walls above all this clattering junk were a good many lances, battleaxes, flails, and maces.

It was a very large mace--that is, a spiked club--that I took with me that morning, and also a good-sized flail: an iron ball attached to a chain that could be swung with immense force at an attacker.

Now remember this was the eighteenth century, the time when white-wigged Parisians tiptoed around in high-heeled satin slippers, pinched snuff, and dabbed at their noses with embroidered handkerchiefs.

And here I was going out to hunt in rawhide boots and buckskin coat, with these ancient weapons tied to the saddle, and my two biggest mastiffs beside me in their spiked collars.

That was my life. And it might as well have been lived in the Middle Ages. And I knew enough of the fancy-dressed travelers on the post road to feel it rather keenly. The nobles in the capital called us country lords "harecatchers." Of course we could sneer at them and call them lackeys to the king and queen. Our castle had stood for a thousand years, and not even the great Cardinal Richelieu in his war on our kind had managed to pull down our ancient towers. But as I said before, I didn't pay much attention to history.

I was unhappy and ferocious as I rode up the mountain.

I wanted a good battle with the wolves. There were five in the pack according to the villagers, and I had my guns and two dogs with jaws so strong they could snap a wolf's spine in an instant.

Well, I rode for an hour up the slopes. Then I came into a small valley I knew well enough that no snowfall could disguise it. And as I started across the broad empty field towards the barren wood, I heard the first howling.

Within seconds there had come another howling and then another, and now the chorus was in such harmony that I couldn't tell the number of the pack, only that they had seen me and were signaling to each other to come together, which was just what I had hoped they would do.

I don't think I felt the slightest fear then. But I felt something, and it caused the hair to rise on the backs of my arms. The countryside for all its vastness seemed empty. I readied my guns. I ordered my dogs to stop their growling and follow me, and some vague thought came to me that I had better get out of the open field and into the woods and hurry.

My dogs gave their deep baying alarm. I glanced over my shoulder and saw the wolves hundreds of yards behind me and streaking straight towards me over the snow. Three giant gray wolves they were, coming on in a line.

I broke into a run for the forest.

It seemed I would make it easily before the three reached me, but wolves are extremely clever animals, and as I rode hard for the trees I saw the rest of the pack, some five full-grown animals, coming out ahead of me to my left. It was an ambush, and I could never make the forest in time. And the pack was eight wolves, not five as the villagers had told me.

Even then I didn't have sense enough to be afraid. I didn't ponder the obvious fact that these animals were starving or they'd never come near the village. Their natural reticence with men was completely gone.

I got ready for battle. I stuck the flail in my belt, and with the rifle I took aim. I brought down a big male yards away from me and had time to reload as my dogs and the pack attacked each other.

Recenzii

“FRIGHTENING, SENSUAL . . . Anne Rice will live on through the ages of literature. . . . To read her is to become giddy as if spinning through the mind of time, to become lightheaded as if our blood is slowly being drained away.”
—San Francisco Chronicle

“FIERCELY AMBITIOUS, NOTHING LESS THAN A COMPLETE UNNATURAL HISTORY OF VAMPIRES.”
—The Village Voice

 “BRILLIANT . . . ITS UNDEAD CHARACTERS ARE UTTERLY ALIVE.”
—The New York Times Book Review

 “LUXURIANTLY CREATED AND RICHLY TOLD.”
—The Cleveland Plain Dealer




From the Paperback edition.