Anne Hébert

Language: English

Pages: 264

ISBN: 088784653X

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

Translated into seven languages, Kamouraska won the Paris book prize and was made into a landmark feature film by Claude Jutra. A classic of Canadian literature by the great Québecoise writer, Kamouraska is based on a real nineteenth-century love-triangle in rural Quebec. It paints a poetic and terrifying tableau of the life of Elisabeth d'Aulnières: her marriage to Antoine Tassy, squire of Kamouraska; his violent murder; and her passion for George Nelson, an American doctor. Passionate and evocative, Kamouraska is the timeless story of one woman's destructive commitment to an ideal love.

Rush Home Road

Tout homme rêve d'être un gangster

D'éclats de peines

















islands opposite the estate. And a salt marsh. A bakehouse. A wharf. A fine stone manor built out on the cape. The father, dead last year. Lives alone with his mother. Married sisters in Quebec . . .” Madame d’Aulnières bursts into tears. Dreads having to explain to her daughter the mysteries of marriage and death. For her, one and the same. “What a life! Good God, what a life! A widow at seventeen, with a baby on the way . . . No, I’ll never get over it. Never . . .” I’m going to be

already taken. There is no Madame Rolland. Not anymore. I’m Elisabeth d’Aulnières, the wife of Antoine Tassy. I’m pining away. Dying, dying. I’m waiting for someone to come and save me. I’m nineteen years old . . . In honeyed tones my mother treats her son-in-law with feigned solicitude. “You’ll be more comfortable on the corner of the table, with those long legs of yours . . .” Antoine gives a foolish smirk. He’s just caught sight of the rabbit stew steaming on the table. “I’ll bet there’s

Antoine and me.” For a moment a strange expression comes over your face. A vague little smile. A brief look of bliss. Is it the thought of death that fascinates you so? Transfigures you? I read the words on your lips more clearly than I hear them. “Antoine must be killed.” Just you and Antoine now, closed off from the rest of the world. You’re speaking, but I’m sure you neither see nor hear me. You seem a little sad. You’re saying that pity has rotted away, that it’s dead beyond recall. You

Shiver. Sink back into the darkness. Blend with their shadows on the wall . . . The shadow of a hand makes the sign of the cross, vaguely, off in space. The huge, bare wall, with bits of saltpeter clustered about the cracks, swallows up the shadow of this holy hand. “In nomine Patris” . . . Begun in deep, sepulchral tones, and ending high and shrill. Another voice, a little softer, and just a bit younger. Your voice, George, with your thick American accent. “The hardest thing is to duck in the

from the very beginning . . . Will you conjure up the image of a blond lad’s misery, reflection of your own despair? Will you let Antoine go free? Turn the gun on yourself? The crime is the same. It’s all so strange . . . If you don’t watch out, ideas like that can make you go too far. But I’m with you, here. I want you to live, and I want him to die! I’ve chosen you, George Nelson. I’m life and death, bound up together, for good and all. You see how bittersweet I am . . . The doctor is busy

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