Jeu de l'auteur mystérieux en langue anglaise
Un Américain du XXè siècle ?
Un Américain du XXè siècle ?
Oui (et cette fois j'ai vérifié avent d'écrire des c ries à l'intuition)
Je pense à un écrivain de la "Lost generation".
Hé hé! Depuis que j'ai posté le texte vous savez pertinemment de qui il est! C'est aimable de faire durer le jeu Je chercherai quelque chose plus difficile si j'en devine un!
Je pense à Hemingway : phrases courtes, réalisme et désillusion notamment.
Oui, c'est lui. Une idée de l'œuvre dont elle est tirée? C'en est une assez connue.
Non aucune idée, je n'ai reconnu que le style.
'Up in Michigan', in 'The Snows of Kilimajaro'
À vous, donc.
Je n'avais jamais lu "Up in the Michigan". A propos cette nouvelle ne fait pas partie de l'autre nouvelle "The Snows of Kilimanjaro". Il y a eu plusieurs recueils successifs de nouvelles voir wikipedia.
Voici un nouvel extrait qui devrait être reconnu assez vite :
"Now, being prepared for almost anything, he was not by any means prepared for nothing; and, consequently, when the Bell struck One, shape appeared, he was taken with a violent fit of trembling. Five minutes, ten minutes, a quarter of an hour went by, yet nothing came. All this time, he lay upon his bed, the very core and centre of a blaze of ruddy light, which streamed upon it when the clock proclaimed the hour; and which, being only light, was more alarming than a dozen ghosts, as he was powerless to make out what it meant, or would be at; and was sometimes apprehensive that he might be at that very moment an interesting case of spontaneous combustion, without having the consolation of knowing it. At last, however, he began to think—as you or I would have thought at first; for it is always the person not in the predicament who knows what ought to have been done in it, and would unquestionably have done it too—at last, I say, he began to think that the source and secret of this ghostly light might be in the adjoining room, from whence, on further tracing it, it seemed to shine. This idea taking full possession of his mind, he got up softly and shuffled in his slippers to the door.
The moment X's hand was on the lock, a strange voice called him by his name, and bade him enter. He obeyed.
It was his own room. There was no doubt about that. But it had undergone a surprising transformation.The walls and ceiling were so hung with living green, that it looked a perfect grove; from every part of which, bright gleaming berries glistened. The crisp leaves of holly, mistletoe, and ivy reflected back the light, as if so many little mirrors had been scattered there; and such a mighty blaze went roaring up the chimney, as that dull petrification of a hearth had never known in X's time, or Z's, or for many and many a winter season gone. "
Ça sent le gothic novel à plein nez, ou c'est une autre forme de fiction fantastique?