The Absolutist

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en Limba Engleză Carte Paperback – May 2012
The new novel from the author of "The Boy In The Striped Pyjamas" examines the events of the Great War from the perspective of two young men struggling with the complexity of their friendship. Now in paperback. 'A wonderful, sad, tender book' Colm Toibin *Also appeared in March Buyer's Notes*
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Carte Paperback (2) 4873 lei  Economic 2-4 săpt. +3401 lei  6-13 zile
  Transworld Publishers Ltd – May 2012 4873 lei  Economic 2-4 săpt. +3401 lei  6-13 zile
  Other Press (NY) – July 2012 11206 lei  Economic 2-4 săpt. +861 lei  12-20 zile

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ISBN-13: 9780552775403
ISBN-10: 0552775401
Pagini: 426
Dimensiuni: 128 x 204 x 30 mm
Greutate: 0.31 kg
Editura: Transworld Publishers Ltd


"Extraordinary... The narrative is by turns surprising and tragic in equal measure while its troubling conclusion will stay with readers long after they've closed the book" -- Carlo Gebler "Powerful, poignant and beautifully written. This will become a classic war novel" Bookseller "Compulsive, stylish and gripping" Reader's Digest "A wonderful, sad, tender book" -- Colm Toibin "John Boyne brings a completely fresh eye to the most important stories. He guides us through the realm of history and makes the journey substantial, poignant and real. He is one of the great craftsmen in contemporary literature" -- Colum McCann

Notă biografică

John Boyne was born in Ireland in 1971. He is the author of nine novels for adults and four for younger readers, including the international bestsellers The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas, which has sold more than six million copies worldwide, The Absolutist and, most recently, Stay Where You Are and Then Leave. His novels are published in over forty-five languages. He is married and lives in Dublin. @john_boyne


“Keep it together, Tristan,” he tells me quietly, putting a hand around my shoulder as his eyes search to make and hold a connection with my own, his fingers pressing tightly around my flesh, sending a current of electricity through me despite my grief; it’s only the second time he’s touched me since England—the first was when he helped to lift me off the floor of the deluged trench—and the only time he’s spoken to me since the boat.
   “Keep it together, yes? For all our sakes.”
   I step closer to him and he pats my arm in consolation, leaving his hand there longer than is necessary.
   “What did Rigby mean when he said he was sorry to hear about…well, he didn’t finish his   sentence.”
   “It doesn’t matter,” I say, moving forward in my grief to put my head down on his shoulder, and he pulls me to him for a moment, his hand at the back of my head, and I am almost certain that his lips brush the top of my hair but then Turner and Sergeant Clayton come into sight, the loud voice of the latter complaining about some new disaster, and we separate once again. I wipe the tears from my eyes and look at him but he’s turned away and my thoughts return to my oldest friend, dead like so many others. I wonder why in God’s name I ever went to look at Rich, Parks, and Denchley’s bodies when I could have been in my foxhole all this time, grabbing a few minutes’ sleep, and knowing nothing about any of this, nothing about home or Chiswick High Street, my mother, my father, Peter, or the whole bloody lot of them. “