The Snow Line
(Sprache: Englisch)
Tessa McWatt's breathtaking new novel explores love and endurance in the face of change and violence, and how people find wholeness and belonging when their own identities feel shattered.
Northern India, 2009. Four travellers disembark from the...
Northern India, 2009. Four travellers disembark from the...
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Tessa McWatt's breathtaking new novel explores love and endurance in the face of change and violence, and how people find wholeness and belonging when their own identities feel shattered.Northern India, 2009. Four travellers disembark from the Dhauladhar Express at the Pathankot train station, having arrived in Punjab to attend a wedding. Yosh, 30, a yoga teacher from Vancouver; Monica, 30, the bride's cousin from Toronto; Reema, 26, the bride's childhood friend, a mixed-heritage Londoner in search of her Indianness; and Jackson, 86, who is returning to India after a long hiatus in Boston, and who carries with him a small tea canister in which he has placed his wife Amelia's ashes.
As they gather with other guests at the traditional Indian wedding, Jackson and Reema develop a reluctant, unlikely friendship that grows through mutual need and a slowly developing trust, and together with Yosh and Monica, they embark on a post-wedding journey to the Himalayas, seeking the perfect place to scatter Amelia's ashes. As they travel together, secrets are revealed, and each of them is opened up to more questions than answers.
These intergenerational and intercultural relationships are a meeting of the past and the future, a reconciliation of past wrongs and a possibility that the future might be less violent, less selfish, less segregated. But can it be?
Lese-Probe zu „The Snow Line “
Arrival Four wedding guests disembark separately from the Dhauladhar Express at the Pathankot train station in the state of Punjab.
Yosh, the yoga teacher, arrives a day before the others, from Vancouver. He has come reluctantly, to work for tourists in the country he vowed to leave behind once and for all five years ago. His father is a millionaire in American dollars now, but many in India have not forgotten that his family was once deemed untouchable. He grips one wrist nervously.
Monica arrives from Toronto with maps and pink fingernails. She buys trinkets and garments souvenirs to fill her spacious suitcase ignoring her shrinking bank balance. She has not yet told her family the truth.
As Reema steps off the train onto the platform, she searches for her Indianness: something that might be bred in bone, or skin, or song, because she left this country before she could speak. The text messages from her Scottish boyfriend arrive with a dissonant ping in the Indian soundscape. She places a hand on her hip.
And then there is Jackson, knees brittle, a coin he has carried for fifty-four years tucked into his shirt pocket. As he sees Reema s hand fall from her hip towards her thigh, a crack splinters in his memory that lets dread through. Unknowingly Reema has brought with her a key that fits the door he had once locked tight. With only one task left to complete, he leaves the train station with strange whispers in his ear.
The stratosphere is dust and water, as well as particles oxygen and nitrogen so small that they are imperceptible. They make the sky blue. From here it s all one shade of blue. But there remember? There, all the colours seem separate, individual, the way the sky over the Himalayas has to stand back so as not to be pierced by the snow-capped peaks. Perhaps that trick of light is responsible for Jackson s blindness all those years in fact for his whole life? And perhaps the slanted light accounts for Reema s
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fortitude.
No.
During those few weeks, snow and fire felt composed of the same chemical elements.
At a small train station in a town called Pathankot, four people with unrelated desires arrived for a wedding. Weddings are mirages; these four had no idea they would climb a mountain together and see different things from the top.
One
Jackson is as light as paper.
Here, on the lawn chair in the garden that looks out over the Maharana Pratap Sagar reservoir, he stares down at his legs and notices flakes of skin on his shins like moths in their final twitch. His once hairy, muscular calves are now scales on bone. He examines his socked feet in the leather sandals that Amelia told him never to wear with socks. Forgive him, Amelia.
Music rises in the distance. He glances towards the reservoir. The water is languid, the way it is on Long Pond lake, but this is a man-made body of water, hedged by mango and mulberry trees, not pine, not Massachusetts cedar.
He listens.
The wedding procession approaches, the music grows louder, and an echo bounces off the wall of the dam at the far reach of the reservoir. Jackson wipes his brow. He raises his hand to shield his eyes from the sun, and the dam winks at him. He knows the wizardry of hydroelectricity. He has been an engineer on projects like this on many rivers around the world, over decades in service to British and American engineering firms. But he has never before considered their acoustic drawbacks. He cups his hand over his ear as he stares down at his feet again, deciding he must release them from their cotton and leather cages.
Wicker chairs have been arranged on the lawn, and some guests are sheltering from the sun beneath the thatched roof veranda as they watch the revellers approach the compound s gates. Dancers make
No.
During those few weeks, snow and fire felt composed of the same chemical elements.
At a small train station in a town called Pathankot, four people with unrelated desires arrived for a wedding. Weddings are mirages; these four had no idea they would climb a mountain together and see different things from the top.
One
Jackson is as light as paper.
Here, on the lawn chair in the garden that looks out over the Maharana Pratap Sagar reservoir, he stares down at his legs and notices flakes of skin on his shins like moths in their final twitch. His once hairy, muscular calves are now scales on bone. He examines his socked feet in the leather sandals that Amelia told him never to wear with socks. Forgive him, Amelia.
Music rises in the distance. He glances towards the reservoir. The water is languid, the way it is on Long Pond lake, but this is a man-made body of water, hedged by mango and mulberry trees, not pine, not Massachusetts cedar.
He listens.
The wedding procession approaches, the music grows louder, and an echo bounces off the wall of the dam at the far reach of the reservoir. Jackson wipes his brow. He raises his hand to shield his eyes from the sun, and the dam winks at him. He knows the wizardry of hydroelectricity. He has been an engineer on projects like this on many rivers around the world, over decades in service to British and American engineering firms. But he has never before considered their acoustic drawbacks. He cups his hand over his ear as he stares down at his feet again, deciding he must release them from their cotton and leather cages.
Wicker chairs have been arranged on the lawn, and some guests are sheltering from the sun beneath the thatched roof veranda as they watch the revellers approach the compound s gates. Dancers make
... weniger
Autoren-Porträt von Tessa McWatt
TESSA MCWATT is the author of seven novels and two books for young people. Her fiction and non-fiction have been nominated for the Governor General's Award, the City of Toronto Book Awards, and the OCM Bocas Prize. She is the co-editor, along with Dionne Brand and Rabindranath Maharaj, of Luminous Ink: Writers on Writing in Canada. Her first picture book for children, Where Are You Agnes?, is based on the life of abstract expressionist painter Agnes Martin. She is one of the winners of the Eccles British Library Award 2018, for her memoir: Shame on Me: An Anatomy of Race and Belonging, which also won the Bocas Prize for Non-Fiction 2020 and was a finalist for the Hilary Weston Writers' Trust Prize for Nonfiction. She is also a librettist, most recently working with British composer Hannah Kendall. Their chamber opera, The Knife of Dawn, premiered at the Roundhouse, London, in 2016, and they are working on a new full-length opera. McWatt is also in the process of bringing John Berger's novel To the Wedding, to the screen, with award-winning film director Andrea Pallaoro. Tessa McWatt is the Course Director for the Master's in Prose Fiction at the University of East Anglia and is on the Board of Trustees at Wasafiri. Born in Guyana, and raised in Canada, she lives in London.
Bibliographische Angaben
- Autor: Tessa McWatt
- 2021, 256 Seiten, Maße: 13,9 x 20,9 cm, Kartoniert (TB), Englisch
- Verlag: Penguin Random House
- ISBN-10: 1039000029
- ISBN-13: 9781039000025
- Erscheinungsdatum: 03.09.2021
Sprache:
Englisch
Pressezitat
Tessa McWatt s The Snow Line reveals life in overlapping panels: consciousness, memory, scenes of violence and of untenable beauty, everything dangerous enfolded into everything else. Her prose has Michael Ondaatje s elliptical exactitude, Jane Gardam s terse confidence, but it accumulates, on behalf of her characters a young woman and an old man, friends a singular, lingering effect. The Snow Line is a small marvel. Padma Viswanathan, Scotiabank Giller Prize finalist for The Ever After of Ashwin RaoAn exceptional, riveting read. Tessa McWatt s rare gifts never fail to enthrall me. Irenosen Okojie, author of Butterfly Fish
Vivid, rich, and melodic. Layers of images, memories, and facts ask questions of connections, accountability, and desire political and personal and how we meet the complexities that make us. A beautiful read! Olumide Popoola, author of When We Speak of Nothing
Tessa McWatt s writing is tender, unforgettable, utterly precise. Like performing surgery on a peach. Leone Ross, author of This One Sky Day
Tessa McWatt is one of our greatest living writers. The Snow Line, her new novel, is a profound meditation on love, ageing, and what it is to be a woman of mixed racial identity and culture. Profoundly moving and epic in its scope, this book provides us with wisdom and reckoning on today s world, one that is ecologically fragile and only just coping with a pandemic. Like all mature writers, McWatt s range of reference is vast and her depth of understanding of humanity plunges us into depths we all long to inhabit. She writes her characters with such intimacy we are thunderstruck by the book s final pages. I closed this book and shed tears. Monique Roffey, author of The Mermaid of Black Conch
A profound meditation on the music that strangers in a place can make together, and on how the music of a strange place can get inside us, and change us forever. I loved the journey the book takes us on,
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revisiting some of the geographies readers will remember from The Far Pavilions, while the echoes of King Lear provide an undercurrent of nature s aloofness, its potential for violence. Preti Taneja, author of We That Are Young
Tessa McWatt deftly draws together characters, place, ideas. . . . McWatt is a writer who tackles race and identity with great nuance, and from a very broad reach. . . . The confidence and subtlety of The Snow Line suggest that she has done a lifetime of thinking and reading about structural injustice." The Guardian
Tessa McWatt has constructed a moving epic that rises from intimate, complex character portraits written with tenderness and precision. The Sydney Morning Herald
At its core, Tessa McWatt s The Snow Line is a book about belonging. . . . [McWatt] is masterful in her prose. . . . [T]here s something in each character for every type of reader. . . . A meaningful story about all the things that make us unique, and all the things that make us decidedly different. Indian Link (AU)
Tessa McWatt deftly draws together characters, place, ideas. . . . McWatt is a writer who tackles race and identity with great nuance, and from a very broad reach. . . . The confidence and subtlety of The Snow Line suggest that she has done a lifetime of thinking and reading about structural injustice." The Guardian
Tessa McWatt has constructed a moving epic that rises from intimate, complex character portraits written with tenderness and precision. The Sydney Morning Herald
At its core, Tessa McWatt s The Snow Line is a book about belonging. . . . [McWatt] is masterful in her prose. . . . [T]here s something in each character for every type of reader. . . . A meaningful story about all the things that make us unique, and all the things that make us decidedly different. Indian Link (AU)
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