Бесплатная библиотека, читать онлайн, скачать книги txt



Понедельник, 24 октября, 15:34

Авторизация    Регистрация
Создай личный блог на tululu!    Создай личный блог!
Дамы и господа! Электронные книги в библиотеке бесплатны. Вы можете их читать онлайн или же бесплатно скачать в любом из выбранных форматов: txt, jar и zip. Обратите внимание, что качественные электронные и бумажные книги можно приобрести в специализированных электронных библиотеках и книжных магазинах (Litres, Read.ru и т.д.).
Возможность свободного добавления книг в разделы библиотеки (категории книг) технически закрыта с июня 2010г. Если Вы обладаете правами на какой-либо текст и не согласны с его размещением на сайте, пожалуйста, напишите нам.
Добавление новых книг в разделы библиотеки возможно только в порядке, не противоречащем Законодательству РФ, лицами, обладающими правами на тексты.


Юлия (05.07.2014 - 17:54:29)
книге:  Филиппа

Есть продолжение - Своевольная наследница, это для тех кто любит серии, я прочитала, ну чтож, где то скучно, где то не плохо... >>

александр (05.07.2014 - 17:50:16)
книге:  Атрибут власти

Спасибо огромное. Мы с Чингизом Акифовичем одного возраста. И что он пишет как бальзам на душу. Все чувства с разрывом стран... >>

Елена (05.07.2014 - 15:46:37)
книге:  Девочка, которая любила Тома Гордона

Кинга обожаю. Это самая моя любимая его книга. Все случилось из-за того, что мы, взрослые так часто невнимательны к своим де... >>

Нармина (05.07.2014 - 14:53:17)
книге:  Бумеранг

Я обожаю книги Р. Л.Стайна. Моя самая любимая книга-Скрытое зло. Всем советую прочитать ее)))

Светлана (05.07.2014 - 14:34:44)
книге:  Американская звезда

Читала книгу в 94-ом году, а впечатления и воспоминания по сей день живут во мне. Роман очень хороший, даже потрясающий. Хот... >>

Читать все отзывы о книгах

Обои для рабочего стола


Тебя в этом мире нет.
Сгорают века в пыли.
Но я не забыла свет
Ночных парусов вдали.

От боли в глазах темно.
Жестока твоя месть.
Я думаю, как давно
Тебя стерегла смерть.

На чёрных губах песок...
Я помню тебя другим.
Ты – странник чужих дорог,
Уходишь в рассветный дым.... >>

22.07.10 - 11:28

Читать онлайн произведения

Хотите чтобы ваше произведение или ваш любимый стишок появились здесь? добавьте его!

Поделись ссылкой

The Shipping News   ::   Proulx E. Annie

Страница: 1 из 94



Named one of the notable books of the year by The New York Times

Winner of the Chicago Tribune Heartland Award

“Ms. Proulx blends Newfoundland argot, savage history, impressively diverse characters, fine descriptions of weather and scenery, and comic horseplay without ever lessening the reader’s interest.” – The Atlantic

“Vigorous, quirky… displays Ms. Proulx’s surreal humor and her zest for the strange foibles of humanity.” – Howard Norman, The New York Times Book Review

“An exciting, beautifully written novel of great feeling about hot people in the northern ice.” – Grace Paley

“The Shipping News … is a wildly comic, heart-thumping romance… Here is a novel that gives us a hero for our times.” – Sandra Scofield, The Washington Post Book World

“The reader is assaulted by a rich, down-in-the-dirt, up-in-the-skies prose full of portents, repetitions, hold metaphors, brusque dialogues and set pieces of great beauty.” – Nicci Gerrard, The Observer (London)

“A funny-tragic Gothic tale, with a speed boat of a plot, overflowing with Black-comic characters. But it’s also that contemporary rarity, a tale of redemption and healing, a celebration of the resilience of the human spirit, and most rare of all perhaps, a sweet and tender romance.” – Sandra Gwynn, The Toronto Star


E. Annie Proulx

The Shipping News


For John, Gillis and Morgan

“In a knot of eight crossings, which is about the average-size knot,

there are 256 different ‘over-and-under’ arrangements

possible… Make only one change in this ‘over and under’

sequence and either an entirely different knot is made

or no knot at all may result.”



Help came from many directions in the writing of The Shipping News . I am grateful to the National Endowment for the Arts for financial support, and to the Ucross Foundation of Wyoming for a quiet place to work. In Newfoundland, advice, commentary and information from many people helped me understand old ways and contemporary changes on The Rock. The Newfoundland wit and taste for conversation made the most casual encounters a pleasure. I am particularly grateful for the kindness and good company of Bella Hodge of Gunner’s Cove and Goose Bay who suffered dog bite on my account and showed me the delights of Newfoundland home cooking. Carolyn Lavers opened my eyes to the complexities and strengths of Newfoundland women, as did novelist Bill Gough in his 1984 Maud’s House . Canadian Coast Guard Search and Rescue personnel, the staff of the Northern Pen in St. Anthony, fishermen and loggers, the Atmospheric Environment Service of Environment Canada all told me how things worked. John Glusman’s fine-tuned antennae caught the names of Newfoundland books I would otherwise have missed. Walter Punch of the Massachusetts Horticultural Society Library confirmed some obscure horticultural references. Thanks also to travel companions on trips to Atlantic Canada: Tom Watkin, who battled wind, bears and mosquitoes; my son Morgan Lang who shared an April storm, icebergs and caribou. I am grateful for the advice and friendship of Abi Thomas. Barbara Grossman is the editor of my dreams-clear blue sky in the heaviest fog. And without the inspiration of Clifford W. Ashley’s wonderful 1944 work, The Ashley Book of Knots , which I had the good fortune to find at a yard sale for a quarter, this book would have remained just the thread of an idea.

1 Quoyle

Quoyle: A coil of rope.

“A Flemish flake is a spiral coil of one layer only.

It is made on deck, so that it may be

walked on if necessary.”


HERE is an account of a few years in the life of Quoyle, born in Brooklyn and raised in a shuffle of dreary upstate towns.

Hive-spangled, gut roaring with gas and cramp, he survived childhood; at the state university, hand clapped over his chin, he camouflaged torment with smiles and silence. Stumbled through his twenties and into his thirties learning to separate his feelings from his life, counting on nothing. He ate prodigiously, liked a ham knuckle, buttered spuds.

His jobs: distributor of vending machine candy, all-night clerk in a convenience store, a third-rate newspaperman. At thirty-six, bereft, brimming with grief and thwarted love, Quoyle steered away to Newfoundland, the rock that had generated his ancestors, a place he had never been nor thought to go.

A watery place. And Quoyle feared water, could not swim. Again and again the father had broken his clenched grip and thrown him into pools, brooks, lakes and surf. Quoyle knew the flavor of brack and waterweed.

From this youngest son’s failure to dog-paddle the father saw other failures multiply like an explosion of virulent cells-failure to speak clearly; failure to sit up straight; failure to get up in the morning; failure in attitude; failure in ambition and ability; indeed, in everything. His own failure.

Quoyle shambled, a head taller than any child around him, was soft. He knew it. “Ah, you lout,” said the father. But no pygmy himself. And brother Dick, the father’s favorite, pretended to throw up when Quoyle came into a room, hissed “Lardass, Snotface, Ugly Pig, Warthog, Stupid, Stinkbomb, Fart-tub, Greasebag,” pummeled and kicked until Quoyle curled, hands over head, sniveling, on the linoleum. All stemmed from Quoyle’s chief failure, a failure of normal appearance.

A great damp loaf of a body. At six he weighed eighty pounds. At sixteen he was buried under a casement of flesh. Head shaped like a crenshaw, no neck, reddish hair ruched back. Features as bunched as kissed fingertips. Eyes the color of plastic. The monstrous chin, a freakish shelf jutting from the lower face.

Some anomalous gene had fired up at the moment of his begetting as a single spark sometimes leaps from banked coals, had given him a giant’s chin. As a child he invented stratagems to deflect stares; a smile, downcast gaze, the right hand darting up to cover the chin.

His earliest sense of self was as a distant figure: there in the foreground was his family; here, at the limit of the far view, was he.


В тексте попалась красивая цитата? Добавьте её в коллекцию цитат!
Географ глобус пропилАлексей Иванов99,90 руб.
Французские дети не капризничают. Уни...Кэтрин Кроуфорд99 руб.
Дневник свекровиМария Метлицкая79,99 руб.
ИнферноДэн Браун199 руб.

copyright © Бесплатная библиотека,    контакты: info@tululu.org