Anima by Wajdi Mouawad

By Wajdi Mouawad

Lorsqu’il découvre le meurtre de sa femme, Wahhch Debch est tétanisé : il doit à tout prix savoir qui a fait ça, et qui donc si ce n’est pas lui ? Éperonné par sa douleur, il se lance dans une irrémissible chasse à l’homme en suivant l’odeur sacrée, millénaire et animale du sang versé. Seul et abandonné par l’espérance, il s’embarque dans une furieuse odyssée à travers l’Amérique, territoire de toutes les violences et de toutes les beautés. Les mémoires infernales qui sommeillent en lui, ensevelies dans les replis de son enfance, se réveillent du nord au sud, au touch de l’humanité des uns et de l. a. bestialité des autres. Pour lever le voile sur le mensonge de ses origines, Wahhch devra-t-il lâcher le chien de sa colère et faire le sacrifice de son âme ?

Par son projet, par sa tenue, par son accomplissement, ce roman-Minotaure repousse les bornes de los angeles littérature. Anima est une bête, à los angeles fois réelle et fabuleuse, qui veut dévorer l’Inoubliable.

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Ballad of the Poverties from per thirty days Review

There’s the poverty of the cockroach nation and the rusted rest room bowl
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Here’s a replicate you could inspect: take it: it’s yours.

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Example text

Tell me all thy tale! Thou art my mother as of old? JUNO. Thy mother! Time was thou call’dst me so. SEMELE. Thou art so still, And wilt remain so, till I drink full deep Of Lethe’s maddening draught. JUNO. Soon Beroe Will drink oblivion from the waves of Lethe; But Cadmus’ daughter ne’er will taste that draught. 46 The Poems of Schiller SEMELE. How, my good nurse? Thy language ne’er was wont To be mysterious or of hidden meaning; The spirit of gray hairs ‘tis speaks in thee; Thou sayest I ne’er shall taste of Lethe’s draught?

If love had not inflamed each thought, Had we the master spirit sought? ‘Tis love that guides the soul along To Nature’s Father’s heavenly throne By love are blest the gods on high, Frail man becomes a deity 39 The Poems of Schiller When love to him is given; ‘Tis love that makes the heavens shine With hues more radiant, more divine, And turns dull earth to heaven! TO A MORALIST. Are the sports of our youth so displeasing? Is love but the folly you say? Benumbed with the winter, and freezing, You scold at the revels of May.

By love are blest the gods on high, Frail man becomes a deity When love to him is given; ‘Tis love that makes the heavens shine With hues more radiant, more divine, And turns dull earth to heaven! . . Wherever Nature’s sway extends, The fragrant balm of love descends, His golden pinions quiver; If ‘twere not Venus’ eye that gleams Upon me in the moon’s soft beams, In sunlit hill or river,— 38 The Poems of Schiller If ‘twere not Venus smiles on me From yonder bright and starry sea, Not stars, not sun, not moonbeams sweet, Could make my heart with rapture beat.

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