It Is Wood, It Is Stone
A Novel
(Sprache: Englisch)
A lush depiction of privilege and power, sex and stability . . . following three women in São Paulo . . . It Is Wood, It Is Stone is an elegant arrival of a new talent. Elle
...
...
Leider schon ausverkauft
versandkostenfrei
Buch (Kartoniert)
19.99 €
- Lastschrift, Kreditkarte, Paypal, Rechnung
- Kostenlose Rücksendung
Produktdetails
Produktinformationen zu „It Is Wood, It Is Stone “
Klappentext zu „It Is Wood, It Is Stone “
A lush depiction of privilege and power, sex and stability . . . following three women in São Paulo . . . It Is Wood, It Is Stone is an elegant arrival of a new talent. Elle NAMED ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR BY Good Housekeeping Marie Claire Harper s Bazaar Publishers Weekly
With sharp, gorgeous prose, It Is Wood, It Is Stone takes place over the course of a year in Sa o Paulo, Brazil, in which two women s lives intersect.
Linda, an anxious and restless American, has moved to Sa o Paulo, with her husband, Dennis, who has accepted a yearlong professorship. As Dennis submerges himself in his work, Linda finds herself unmoored and adrift, feeling increasingly disassociated from her own body. Linda s unwavering and skilled maid, Marta, has more claim to Linda s home than Linda can fathom. Marta, who is struggling to make sense of complicated history and its racial tensions, is exasperated by Linda s instability. One day, Linda leaves home with a charismatic and beguiling artist, whom she joins on a fervent adventure that causes reverberations felt by everyone, and ultimately binds Marta and Linda in a profoundly human, and tender, way.
An exquisite debut novel by young Brazilian American author Gabriella Burnham, It Is Wood, It Is Stone is about women whose romantic and subversive entanglements reflect on class and colorism, sexuality, and complex, divisive histories.
Lese-Probe zu „It Is Wood, It Is Stone “
I can still hear your words, the vibrant joy in your voice, as we sat in the back of a taxi stopped in traffic, the windows rolled down but no breeze blowing in, except for the occasional wind from a motorcyclist weaving past.Is it what you expected? You clutched my hand and shook it with excitement.
Maybe I should answer that once we ve left the airport road. Don t you think?
I can t believe we re here, you said, not to me, but to a child waving to us from an adjacent car window.
The traffic sprawled for hours, barely moving, like a snake that had swallowed a calf. You had told me before that São Paulo was not the tropical paradise on postcards; it wasn t the pictures of women on the beach with fruit baskets on their heads. High-rise buildings traced the horizon and favelas extended for miles on both sides of the highway. We passed a road that broke into the dense favela tessellation, revealing clothing lines strung from brick wall to metal roof, and a young girl pushing a shopping cart filled with cans and palm leaves.
A barefoot man standing on the partition walked in front of our stopped taxi and began to juggle oranges for money.
Look, you said and nudged my arm, but the cabdriver wasn t, so I didn t want to.
When the traffic moved again, just three car lengths, the man wouldn t step away, so the driver whistled and waved his arm out the window. Not angry, but persistent.
Linda give him some money, you said.
I only have U.S. dollars, I said, stirring the contents of my purse.
You took out your wallet.
They gave me fifties at the money exchange.
For a moment I saw you weigh whether you should part with a fifty-real note. Then the man moved to the side and the taxi lurched forward.
This trip felt like a series of fever dreams from the start. Just four months earlier, on a cold afternoon in September, you came home and told me you had
... mehr
something to tell me. The University of São Paulo had offered you a yearlong teaching residency in their history department. What you didn t know was I had spent that morning cleaning our home, weighing the something that I had to tell you, too. I d been thinking a lot about an escape from Hartford. What would it be like to spread both my arms into thin mountain air, to have my feet planted firmly on the ocean floor? I thought about how faucet water might taste in Italy while showering our neglected garden, which, despite my best attempts, had browned long ago. I thought about our seven years of marriage, gathered the paradoxical concerns that had been plaguing me for the past several months:
I had lost my job.
I didn t have my own money.
All of our friends were your friends from the university.
I had spent the last year caring for my dying father.
Now my days were replaced with memories of everything I no longer had.
Because of these reasons, I thought that maybe it would be better for the both of us if I packed my bags and left for a while. I anticipated you might point out that these were all the reasons I should stay. Leaving you was less a solution and more like a heartbeat trying to break free from its rib cage. I couldn t go on like this, but knew I might not survive without you. And so I stood at our kitchen island, cutting a bundle of store-bought cilantro with a pair of scissors, waiting for you to come home.
I remember the sounds of the door cracking and closing, your shoes bristling against the doormat. You rushed into the kitchen and dropped a stack of papers next to the cutting board, blowing the cilantro onto the floor.
Baby, you said, leaning over to help gather the fallen herbs. I have got incredible news.
Okay,&rdquo
I had lost my job.
I didn t have my own money.
All of our friends were your friends from the university.
I had spent the last year caring for my dying father.
Now my days were replaced with memories of everything I no longer had.
Because of these reasons, I thought that maybe it would be better for the both of us if I packed my bags and left for a while. I anticipated you might point out that these were all the reasons I should stay. Leaving you was less a solution and more like a heartbeat trying to break free from its rib cage. I couldn t go on like this, but knew I might not survive without you. And so I stood at our kitchen island, cutting a bundle of store-bought cilantro with a pair of scissors, waiting for you to come home.
I remember the sounds of the door cracking and closing, your shoes bristling against the doormat. You rushed into the kitchen and dropped a stack of papers next to the cutting board, blowing the cilantro onto the floor.
Baby, you said, leaning over to help gather the fallen herbs. I have got incredible news.
Okay,&rdquo
... weniger
Autoren-Porträt von Gabriella Burnham
Gabriella Burnham is a dual citizen of the United States and Brazil. Now a New York resident, she lived in Sa o Paulo as a child and most of her family still lives there today. She holds an MFA in creative writing from The Writer s Foundry at St. Joseph s College and has been awarded fellowships to MacDowell Colony and Yaddo. She has worked as a reporter, a creative writing teacher, and in immigration law. It Is Wood, It Is Stone is her first novel.
Bibliographische Angaben
- Autor: Gabriella Burnham
- 2021, 224 Seiten, Maße: 13,2 x 20,2 cm, Kartoniert (TB), Englisch
- Verlag: ONE WORLD
- ISBN-10: 1984855859
- ISBN-13: 9781984855855
- Erscheinungsdatum: 05.08.2021
Sprache:
Englisch
Pressezitat
It Is Wood, It Is Stone is a fever dream of a book; absolutely captivating and wonderfully destabilizing. I could not put it down. It is about uprootedness, class and color, and sex. It is about women on the verge of collapse, of escape, of self-knowledge failing and flailing and propping one another up. It is a book about the limits of propriety and the boundlessness of grace. Burnham is a writer of such remarkable insight, it s impossible to believe this is her debut. Justin Torres, author of We the AnimalsAn absorbing and remarkably assured debut, It Is Wood, It Is Stone marries taut, cinematic suspense with intimate, textured domestic realism. Hits a major refresh button on the genre of psychological thriller and gives us something immensely satisfying and new. Jordy Rosenberg, author of Confessions of the Fox
Intimate, unsparing, and compassionate, It Is Wood, It Is Stone is unlike anything I ve read. It s a portrait of a woman adrift, but more than that, it s a reflection on race, class, and privilege, rendered in beautifully observed and textured prose that describes hazy internal weather with gimlet clarity. Gabriella Burnham writes with generosity and with sympathy for human imperfection and captures so well the pain, envy, and expectations in life that make up each of our pasts, and linger into our present. Rachel Khong, author of Goodbye, Vitamin
I would recommend this book based on the cover alone. Thankfully, the story inside is equally gorgeous, following three women in São Paulo: the anxious and listless Linda; her conflicted but steady maid, Marta; and Celia, an intoxicating artist with whom Linda leaves home. A lush depiction of privilege and power, sex and stability, It Is Wood, It Is Stone is an elegant arrival of a new talent. Elle
Burnham
... mehr
s captivating debut is told in a surprisingly seamless second person. . . . Burnham dazzles by exploring the overlapping circles of need and care though tensions of race, privilege, sexuality, history, and memory. Thanks to Burnham s precise, vivid understanding of her characters, this stranger-comes-to-town novel has the feel of a thriller as it illuminates the obligations of emotional labor. Burnham pulls off an electrifying twist on domestic fiction. Publishers Weekly (starred review)
... weniger
Kommentar zu "It Is Wood, It Is Stone"
0 Gebrauchte Artikel zu „It Is Wood, It Is Stone“
Zustand | Preis | Porto | Zahlung | Verkäufer | Rating |
---|
Schreiben Sie einen Kommentar zu "It Is Wood, It Is Stone".
Kommentar verfassen