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One Day
"Friday, November 22, 1963, in Escondido, California, begins with the discovery of an infant in the adoption basket at the local animal pound. This calculated effort to shock the natives is silenced by the news from Dallas of an event calculated to shock the world. One Day is concerned with the way these two events are related and with the time that begins when conventional time seems to have stopped. The events of this day, both comical and horrifying, make the commonplace seem strange, and the strange familiar. To accommodate the present, the past must be reshuffled, and events accounted for defy accounting."
Hardcover
First published July 1, 1965
About the author
Wright Morris
137 books35 followersWright Marion Morris was an American novelist, photographer, and essayist. He is known for his portrayals of the people and artifacts of the Great Plains in words and pictures, as well as for experimenting with narrative forms.
Morris won the National Book Award for The Field of Vision in 1956. His final novel, Plains Song won the American Book Award in 1981.
Morris won the National Book Award for The Field of Vision in 1956. His final novel, Plains Song won the American Book Award in 1981.
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Displaying 1 of 1 review
April 6, 2026
Relecture, une décennie plus tard. Morris au sommet de son art, un gros roman qui se passe sur une journée (celle de l’assassinat de Kennedy), les monologues intérieurs d’une dizaine de personnages, citoyens d’une petite ville californienne, filtrés par une narration omnisciente et joueuse, toute en discours indirect libre. Morris y multiplie les phrases interrogatives, auxquelles les réponses appartiennent à on ne sait pas trop qui. À nous?
Plusieurs passages me sont revenus en mémoire à mesure, mais je suis frappé par cette phrase que je suis pas mal certain d’avoir déjà partagée à l’époque… On dirait que je la revendique encore comme le début d’une théorie de l’art, de l’écriture.
« The surface of this life was so transparent it left very little to be seen through. Alec sat with a volume of Valéry’s poems in her lap. They went unread. What was the point of being so subtle if life was so obvious? The surface of life seemed to be more sufficient. The depths were a bore. »
Plusieurs passages me sont revenus en mémoire à mesure, mais je suis frappé par cette phrase que je suis pas mal certain d’avoir déjà partagée à l’époque… On dirait que je la revendique encore comme le début d’une théorie de l’art, de l’écriture.
« The surface of this life was so transparent it left very little to be seen through. Alec sat with a volume of Valéry’s poems in her lap. They went unread. What was the point of being so subtle if life was so obvious? The surface of life seemed to be more sufficient. The depths were a bore. »
Displaying 1 of 1 review