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The Oracles
The Oracles was the twelfth novel published by Margaret Kennedy (1896-1967) and its titular subjects are the members of a group of provincial intellectuals who happen upon what seems to them a piece of stunningly advanced modern sculpture. Possibly they are not to be blamed for failing to see that it is, in fact, only a commonplace garden chair that has been struck by lightning and twisted radically out of shape. However, under a delusion, The Oracles endeavour to force their fellow townsmen to purchase the 'work' with public money. This comedy of suspense, tension and confusion presents yet another splendid demonstration of Margaret Kennedy's remarkable storytelling gift.
- GenresFiction
352 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1955
3 people are currently reading
106 people want to read
About the author
Margaret Kennedy
40 books77 followersMargaret Kennedy was an English novelist and playwright.
She attended Cheltenham Ladies' College, where she began writing, and then went up to Somerville College, Oxford in 1915 to read history. Her first publication was a history book, A Century of Revolution (1922). Margaret Kennedy was married to the barrister David Davies. They had a son and two daughters, one of whom was the novelist Julia Birley. The novelist Serena Mackesy is her grand-daughter.
She attended Cheltenham Ladies' College, where she began writing, and then went up to Somerville College, Oxford in 1915 to read history. Her first publication was a history book, A Century of Revolution (1922). Margaret Kennedy was married to the barrister David Davies. They had a son and two daughters, one of whom was the novelist Julia Birley. The novelist Serena Mackesy is her grand-daughter.
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Displaying 1 - 10 of 10 reviews
July 24, 2017
Margaret Kennedy’s twelfth novel is dark and clever.
It is set in a small town close to the Bristol Channel, not long after the war; and it spins around the family of a Bohemian artist, a more conventional young married couple with a new baby, a number of their friends and neighbours, and its catalyst is a remarkable work of art.
The story begins as an apocalyptic thunderstorm rages over the town. The residents, horribly reminded of wartime bombings, huddle in their houses; but when they look outside only one thing has changed. A huge tree near the home of abstract sculptor Conrad Swann has been struck by lightning and is split in two.
When his wife died, leaving him with three young children, the sculptor had ran away from London to the country with the wife of his agent and his oldest friend, Frank Archer. Elizabeth, the mother of twins who came along with her, had been an actress, but her beauty was faded and she was drawn to of alcohol and idleness. Ten year-old Serafina Swann was left to manage the house and the four younger children as best she could. Serafina was bright, she did her best, but the the family’s new home was beginning to decay.
The tree had been the children’s refuge, where they hid from their fathers work, which they saw as malevolent ‘artifaxes’. Imagine their horror when they saw that it had been struck, and that in his branches was a horrible new creation. Serafina took charge, hauling the strange form of distorted arms and legs and hiding it in the shed, pushing a new work of her father’s that was to be collected for an exhibition well out of the way.
Only Joe, the youngest of the children realised what it was – the remains of the chair they had used to climb into the tree – but when he shouted at it nobody seemed to be listening.
Meanwhile, Christina Pattison was happy with her new home, her new baby, and her role as the perfect housewife. She was only a little worried that her husband Dickie might feel a little left out, might be a little less than happy. She was right. Dickie hadn’t really wanted to come back to his home town after the war, but his mother had died and so he felt that he had to, for the sake of his elderly father.
Dickie, eager for new experiences and new friends, was glad to accept an invitation to a party to celebrate the completion of Conrad Swann’s latest work. Christina was reluctant. She clung to convention, she worried about the children in that most unconventional of households, and she had no taste for modern art. Dickie went to the party alone, and rolled home the next morning with a hideous hangover.
Conrad Swann had disappeared. It was said that he was going to Mexico, but Frank Archer, who had come to face his friend for the first time since he absconded, pointed out that he didn’t have the means to get very far from home at all. He was right, but that’s another story. Elizabeth wept and wailed, and Frank enlisted Dickie to keep the party going, with the help of a crate of brandy that he found in the kitchen. The supposed next artwork – actually the children’s artefax – was unveiled, and the company was astounded by the sculptor’s radical new direction.
Martha Rawson, Swann’s would be patron is eager to celebrate and promote the wonderful new work. Architect, Alan Wetherby, who bought an earlier work in unconvinced, and eventually he will uncover the truth.
While that is happening Elizabeth abandons her household, Conrad finds a new life in the country, Serafina struggles to look after herself and the younger children, and – as sides are drawn in the dispute over the new artwork – the Christina becomes more conventional and Dickie more determined to explore new possibilities.
The satire is lovely – and I was pleased that Margaret Kennedy was satirising the people rather than the art – and there is much more here to appreciate.
The plot is cleverly and elaborately constructed, and the outcomes are unexpected.
Margaret Kennedy draw her characters so well, and she is at her most clear-sighted in this book. Some are lightly sketched, others are drawn with much more detail, but all are real fallible human beings. That made it easier for me than I expected to believe this rather improbable story.
The portraits of Christina and Dickie as their marriage reached crisis point, and Christina finally realised that she had to learn to change and make compromises, was wonderful.
Serafina Swann, who was thrilled when a lady at church described her as ‘a little mother’, who had to cope somehow when the adults abandoned the children of her family, who was so worried when she thought that her next home might not have enough books, was a marvellous creation, and one my favourite Margaret Kennedy characters. I should love to spend a little more time with her, and know rather more about her future.
My disappointment with this book was that it spent a little too much time with the characters I couldn’t care for and focused a little too much on the weaknesses of the characters I liked. That meant that I couldn’t feel quite as engaged with this book as I did with many of Margaret Kennedy’s other works.
I was disappointed that neither Conrad nor Elizabeth were ever held to account for abandoning their children.
The way that the story played out made me realise why much of that had to be though.
And when I look back at this book as a whole, I realise that I found much to love and much to admire.
It is set in a small town close to the Bristol Channel, not long after the war; and it spins around the family of a Bohemian artist, a more conventional young married couple with a new baby, a number of their friends and neighbours, and its catalyst is a remarkable work of art.
The story begins as an apocalyptic thunderstorm rages over the town. The residents, horribly reminded of wartime bombings, huddle in their houses; but when they look outside only one thing has changed. A huge tree near the home of abstract sculptor Conrad Swann has been struck by lightning and is split in two.
When his wife died, leaving him with three young children, the sculptor had ran away from London to the country with the wife of his agent and his oldest friend, Frank Archer. Elizabeth, the mother of twins who came along with her, had been an actress, but her beauty was faded and she was drawn to of alcohol and idleness. Ten year-old Serafina Swann was left to manage the house and the four younger children as best she could. Serafina was bright, she did her best, but the the family’s new home was beginning to decay.
The tree had been the children’s refuge, where they hid from their fathers work, which they saw as malevolent ‘artifaxes’. Imagine their horror when they saw that it had been struck, and that in his branches was a horrible new creation. Serafina took charge, hauling the strange form of distorted arms and legs and hiding it in the shed, pushing a new work of her father’s that was to be collected for an exhibition well out of the way.
Only Joe, the youngest of the children realised what it was – the remains of the chair they had used to climb into the tree – but when he shouted at it nobody seemed to be listening.
Meanwhile, Christina Pattison was happy with her new home, her new baby, and her role as the perfect housewife. She was only a little worried that her husband Dickie might feel a little left out, might be a little less than happy. She was right. Dickie hadn’t really wanted to come back to his home town after the war, but his mother had died and so he felt that he had to, for the sake of his elderly father.
Dickie, eager for new experiences and new friends, was glad to accept an invitation to a party to celebrate the completion of Conrad Swann’s latest work. Christina was reluctant. She clung to convention, she worried about the children in that most unconventional of households, and she had no taste for modern art. Dickie went to the party alone, and rolled home the next morning with a hideous hangover.
Conrad Swann had disappeared. It was said that he was going to Mexico, but Frank Archer, who had come to face his friend for the first time since he absconded, pointed out that he didn’t have the means to get very far from home at all. He was right, but that’s another story. Elizabeth wept and wailed, and Frank enlisted Dickie to keep the party going, with the help of a crate of brandy that he found in the kitchen. The supposed next artwork – actually the children’s artefax – was unveiled, and the company was astounded by the sculptor’s radical new direction.
Martha Rawson, Swann’s would be patron is eager to celebrate and promote the wonderful new work. Architect, Alan Wetherby, who bought an earlier work in unconvinced, and eventually he will uncover the truth.
While that is happening Elizabeth abandons her household, Conrad finds a new life in the country, Serafina struggles to look after herself and the younger children, and – as sides are drawn in the dispute over the new artwork – the Christina becomes more conventional and Dickie more determined to explore new possibilities.
The satire is lovely – and I was pleased that Margaret Kennedy was satirising the people rather than the art – and there is much more here to appreciate.
The plot is cleverly and elaborately constructed, and the outcomes are unexpected.
Margaret Kennedy draw her characters so well, and she is at her most clear-sighted in this book. Some are lightly sketched, others are drawn with much more detail, but all are real fallible human beings. That made it easier for me than I expected to believe this rather improbable story.
The portraits of Christina and Dickie as their marriage reached crisis point, and Christina finally realised that she had to learn to change and make compromises, was wonderful.
Serafina Swann, who was thrilled when a lady at church described her as ‘a little mother’, who had to cope somehow when the adults abandoned the children of her family, who was so worried when she thought that her next home might not have enough books, was a marvellous creation, and one my favourite Margaret Kennedy characters. I should love to spend a little more time with her, and know rather more about her future.
My disappointment with this book was that it spent a little too much time with the characters I couldn’t care for and focused a little too much on the weaknesses of the characters I liked. That meant that I couldn’t feel quite as engaged with this book as I did with many of Margaret Kennedy’s other works.
I was disappointed that neither Conrad nor Elizabeth were ever held to account for abandoning their children.
The way that the story played out made me realise why much of that had to be though.
And when I look back at this book as a whole, I realise that I found much to love and much to admire.
February 8, 2025
Another wonderful novel by Margaret Kennedy. I love her storytelling, her use of language, her understanding of human dynamics. Plus she can be laugh out loud funny!
This story is about a small town, a lionized sculptor, a passel of kids neglected by adults behaving badly, and a marriage or two. Although the book begins with a comic setup (a lawn chair struck by lightening and subsequently mistaken for the great new masterpiece of aforementioned sculptor), Kennedy has more serious purposes for her story, having to do with, I’d say, the disappointment and transient nature of life, how to resist the anomie of modernity, how best to fill the time between birth and death.
An exhibition, called the Palace of Progress, figures in the story, and seems to point toward some of Kennedy’s larger concerns:
“An endless queue, shuffling in by one gangplank and out by another, was obliged to inspect tier upon tier of galleries—up, up, up—down,down,down—before getting away.
“The exhibits were all intended to reassure the Common Man, by presenting him with a gratifying picture of what he was really up to. Most of them were concerned with his conquest of Nature. Egalitarian touchiness was uniformly respected; great names were seldom mentioned, nor were many heroes set up for veneration. All this, it was implied, had been achieved by nobody in particular. The arts, and the unpredictable phenomena of inspiration, received a few vague and somewhat facetious tributes. The inequitable distribution of genius, the erratic proclivities of the Uncommon Man, do not easily lend themselves to charts, graphs, diagrams and working models—the Common Man can be more easily persuaded that he will shortly, thanks to his own ingenuity, set off for Mars than he can be convinced that he ever wrote Hamlet. A discreet cruciform object, in a secluded corner, bore a placard which broadmindedly complimented him upon his resourcefulness in having invented God.”
(I have to say that the mention of Mars in the quotation above put me in mind of a certain crank currently running amok in the U.S. government and his exploding starships.)
As the principal characters sort themselves out toward the end, one character reflects:
“He had observed the type, the frustrated, the disappointed, the unsuccessful, which asks for most from Art, since it is continually haunted by questions with life has not answered. Who am I? What am I? What do I do here? Is this my destiny, or have I made some avoidable mistake? Give me truth which disregards me, in which I play no part, but which stands unshaken and admirable, which I may contemplate and so forget my lot. Give me escape from hope and regret, anguish and solace; carry me into some other world where explicable laws prevail.”
Kennedy is marvelously quotable. She is so cunning in the use and repetition of allusions—it is such delight to catch her at it. And she expects you the reader to pay attention as she is not about to spell it all out. And lastly, she comes up with phrases that are so luminous:
Something ordinary that appears strange and different in the morning, “…as everything did in that light, in the tender, mournful clarity which is neither night nor day.”
“Returning to his house, in this limpid quiet, he was simply humanity, reconciled for awhile to its end.”
This story is about a small town, a lionized sculptor, a passel of kids neglected by adults behaving badly, and a marriage or two. Although the book begins with a comic setup (a lawn chair struck by lightening and subsequently mistaken for the great new masterpiece of aforementioned sculptor), Kennedy has more serious purposes for her story, having to do with, I’d say, the disappointment and transient nature of life, how to resist the anomie of modernity, how best to fill the time between birth and death.
An exhibition, called the Palace of Progress, figures in the story, and seems to point toward some of Kennedy’s larger concerns:
“An endless queue, shuffling in by one gangplank and out by another, was obliged to inspect tier upon tier of galleries—up, up, up—down,down,down—before getting away.
“The exhibits were all intended to reassure the Common Man, by presenting him with a gratifying picture of what he was really up to. Most of them were concerned with his conquest of Nature. Egalitarian touchiness was uniformly respected; great names were seldom mentioned, nor were many heroes set up for veneration. All this, it was implied, had been achieved by nobody in particular. The arts, and the unpredictable phenomena of inspiration, received a few vague and somewhat facetious tributes. The inequitable distribution of genius, the erratic proclivities of the Uncommon Man, do not easily lend themselves to charts, graphs, diagrams and working models—the Common Man can be more easily persuaded that he will shortly, thanks to his own ingenuity, set off for Mars than he can be convinced that he ever wrote Hamlet. A discreet cruciform object, in a secluded corner, bore a placard which broadmindedly complimented him upon his resourcefulness in having invented God.”
(I have to say that the mention of Mars in the quotation above put me in mind of a certain crank currently running amok in the U.S. government and his exploding starships.)
As the principal characters sort themselves out toward the end, one character reflects:
“He had observed the type, the frustrated, the disappointed, the unsuccessful, which asks for most from Art, since it is continually haunted by questions with life has not answered. Who am I? What am I? What do I do here? Is this my destiny, or have I made some avoidable mistake? Give me truth which disregards me, in which I play no part, but which stands unshaken and admirable, which I may contemplate and so forget my lot. Give me escape from hope and regret, anguish and solace; carry me into some other world where explicable laws prevail.”
Kennedy is marvelously quotable. She is so cunning in the use and repetition of allusions—it is such delight to catch her at it. And she expects you the reader to pay attention as she is not about to spell it all out. And lastly, she comes up with phrases that are so luminous:
Something ordinary that appears strange and different in the morning, “…as everything did in that light, in the tender, mournful clarity which is neither night nor day.”
“Returning to his house, in this limpid quiet, he was simply humanity, reconciled for awhile to its end.”
September 2, 2013
Set in England and published in 1955, this hilarious novel is a send-up of contemporary art criticism, although it is perfectly possible to enjoy the story without worrying about all that.
Conrad Swann, the famous sculptor, wanders off from his latest work, his home, his children, and his mistress in an amnesiac fog caused by guilt and the pressure of fame. His devotees, all with their own particular axes to grind, discover his latest work and publicize it widely. Exhibitions are held, the work is discussed by the critics, and various people are pressured to purchase it.
In the meantime, the Swann children led by Serafina the oldest are trying to find food, Swann's oldest friend is trying to find him, and various marriages and pairs are forming and breaking up over the problem of the sculpture: is it art? If you don't like something labeled 'art' does that mean you are provincial? Is that a bad thing? And, most importantly of all, if the sculpture isn't art, what is it?
The reader is in on the joke from the beginning but watching how it all works out is the best part. This is a difficult-to-find out-of-print work by a novelist who deserves to be rediscovered. Highly recommended.
Conrad Swann, the famous sculptor, wanders off from his latest work, his home, his children, and his mistress in an amnesiac fog caused by guilt and the pressure of fame. His devotees, all with their own particular axes to grind, discover his latest work and publicize it widely. Exhibitions are held, the work is discussed by the critics, and various people are pressured to purchase it.
In the meantime, the Swann children led by Serafina the oldest are trying to find food, Swann's oldest friend is trying to find him, and various marriages and pairs are forming and breaking up over the problem of the sculpture: is it art? If you don't like something labeled 'art' does that mean you are provincial? Is that a bad thing? And, most importantly of all, if the sculpture isn't art, what is it?
The reader is in on the joke from the beginning but watching how it all works out is the best part. This is a difficult-to-find out-of-print work by a novelist who deserves to be rediscovered. Highly recommended.
July 9, 2025
Je suis à mon troisième roman de Margaret Kennedy, et je ne sais toujours pas si je les lis pour l’autrice, pour les histoires… ou simplement parce que j’adore les éditions de Table Ronde. Et j’ai bien peur que ce soit surtout pour cette dernière raison. Car, avec celui-ci — Les Oracles — j’ai eu beaucoup de mal à entrer dedans.
Il faut dire que je sortais d’une lecture dense, complexe et extrêmement bien écrite. Peu de romans auraient pu rivaliser pour me redonner immédiatement l’envie de plonger dans une nouvelle histoire. D’autant que j’ai du mal à abandonner un livre, surtout s’il éveille un intérêt historique ou social, ou tout simplement s’il me touche. Bref, j’ai vraiment peiné à entrer dans Les Oracles, mais une fois embarquée, j’ai tout de même apprécié… sans grand enthousiasme.
C’est encore une histoire comme je les aime : un petit village anglais, où tout le monde se connaît, où les ragots circulent, et où il se passe des choses qui permettent à la communauté de se nourrir de potins. Jusqu’ici, rien de très innovant, et l’ambiance n’est pas particulièrement attachante. Au début, on a du mal à suivre tous les personnages et à savoir qui va porter l’histoire. Mais peu à peu, on apprend à les identifier, à en aimer certains — pour ma part, Cristina et Serafina m’ont particulièrement plu.
Cette fois-ci, tout se passe dans le monde de l’art : artistes en quête de la grande œuvre, critiques et marchands qui essaient d’orienter le goût du public, et un public qui n’aime pas franchement ce qu’il voit mais n’ose pas le dire, de peur de passer pour inculte ou « provincial ». Sur ce point, j’ai bien aimé la proposition de l’autrice.
Il y a aussi une idée développée dans le livre qui m’a beaucoup interpellée : l’homme (avec un petit h) est par nature inconforme, toujours à la recherche de quelque chose, sans vraiment savoir quoi — simplement parce qu’il ne peut faire ce que les femmes font : donner la vie. Et que donner naissance, c’est peut-être la forme la plus forte de pérennité, celle qui donne un vrai sentiment d’accomplissement. Suis-je d’accord ou pas ? Je ne sais pas. Mais en tout cas, l’idée mérite d’être méditée.
Au final, est-ce que je continuerai à lire Margaret Kennedy ? Peut-être… ou peut-être pas. À moins, bien sûr, que les éditions Table Ronde ne publie une nouvelle édition sublime, et que je ne puisse pas résister. Je suis une book addict, après tout.
Il faut dire que je sortais d’une lecture dense, complexe et extrêmement bien écrite. Peu de romans auraient pu rivaliser pour me redonner immédiatement l’envie de plonger dans une nouvelle histoire. D’autant que j’ai du mal à abandonner un livre, surtout s’il éveille un intérêt historique ou social, ou tout simplement s’il me touche. Bref, j’ai vraiment peiné à entrer dans Les Oracles, mais une fois embarquée, j’ai tout de même apprécié… sans grand enthousiasme.
C’est encore une histoire comme je les aime : un petit village anglais, où tout le monde se connaît, où les ragots circulent, et où il se passe des choses qui permettent à la communauté de se nourrir de potins. Jusqu’ici, rien de très innovant, et l’ambiance n’est pas particulièrement attachante. Au début, on a du mal à suivre tous les personnages et à savoir qui va porter l’histoire. Mais peu à peu, on apprend à les identifier, à en aimer certains — pour ma part, Cristina et Serafina m’ont particulièrement plu.
Cette fois-ci, tout se passe dans le monde de l’art : artistes en quête de la grande œuvre, critiques et marchands qui essaient d’orienter le goût du public, et un public qui n’aime pas franchement ce qu’il voit mais n’ose pas le dire, de peur de passer pour inculte ou « provincial ». Sur ce point, j’ai bien aimé la proposition de l’autrice.
Il y a aussi une idée développée dans le livre qui m’a beaucoup interpellée : l’homme (avec un petit h) est par nature inconforme, toujours à la recherche de quelque chose, sans vraiment savoir quoi — simplement parce qu’il ne peut faire ce que les femmes font : donner la vie. Et que donner naissance, c’est peut-être la forme la plus forte de pérennité, celle qui donne un vrai sentiment d’accomplissement. Suis-je d’accord ou pas ? Je ne sais pas. Mais en tout cas, l’idée mérite d’être méditée.
Au final, est-ce que je continuerai à lire Margaret Kennedy ? Peut-être… ou peut-être pas. À moins, bien sûr, que les éditions Table Ronde ne publie une nouvelle édition sublime, et que je ne puisse pas résister. Je suis une book addict, après tout.
April 22, 2024
Dans la paisible communauté d'East Head, près de Bristol, un groupe d'intellectuels de province mène une vie tranquille. Tout bascule lorsqu'une violente tempête s'abat sur le village. Bien que les dégâts matériels soient minimes, se résumant à un vieil arbre déraciné et une vieille chaise endommagée, l'événement réveille d'anciens traumatismes liés aux bombardements de la Seconde Guerre mondiale.
Cet arbre a son importance puisque c'est le lieu de jeu des enfants négligés du couple recomposé que forme l'artiste Conrad Swann et sa petite amie Elizabeth. Le personnage de l'aînée des enfants Swann, Serafina, véritable "petite mère" pour ses frères et sœurs, apporte une touche d'émotion bienvenue. Sans le savoir les enfants vont déplacer la chaise toute déformée dans le hangar d'exposition de l'artiste. Voilà comment débute un quiproquo farfelu qui va générer incompréhension et snobisme artistique.
Menés par leur figure de proue, Martha Skipperton, les Oracles, un cercle local, lancent une campagne choc : acquérir la chaise déformée avec l'argent public, la présentant comme une œuvre d'art. Seule voix raisonnable, l'épouse de l'avocat local décide d'enquêter sur cette étrange affaire.
Un autre couple de jeune marié est au centre de l'histoire Dickie et Christina et leur bébé. Elle est belle mais manque singulièrement de conversation d'après son mari grand fan de l'artiste local.
L'autrice se moque avec ironie du désir d'uniformité et de la crainte de se démarquer, confondre un vieux débris endommagé par la tempête, avec de l’art moderne avait tout de la farce.
L'autrice brosse alors un portrait satirique et grinçant des personnages du village, tout en développant une intrigue aux résultats surprenants. Son regard moqueur et satirique envers la société conventionnelle, nous offre une intrigue minutieusement construite, racontée avec un art consommé de la dérision, un vrai régal à découvrir. Bonne lecture.
http://latelierdelitote.canalblog.com...
April 16, 2024
Mlle Alice, pouvez-vous nous raconter votre rencontre avec Les Oracles ?
"J'ai adoré le Festin de Margaret Kennedy, réédité aux éditions de la Table Ronde et j'ai eu un avis beaucoup plus mitigé sur le suivant, Divorce à l'Anglaise. J'avais hâte de savoir si celui-ci pencherait plutôt du côté du premier ou du second."
Dites-nous en un peu plus sur son histoire...
"Alors qu'un violent orage a secoué la petite ville de Summersdown sans faire de gros dégâts, il se pourrait bien que ses répercussions n'aillent finalement bien plus loin que l'on a pu le penser au premier abord..."
Mais que s'est-il exactement passé entre vous ?
"Je ne vais pas faire durer le suspense éternellement, je dirais que cette lecture se situe parfaitement au croisement des deux autres. Je n'ai pas eu de coup de coeur mais j'ai bien aimé tout de même. C'est un petit peu long à démarrer et à se mettre en place et une partie de l'histoire, celle des enfants, est indéniablement plus interessante que le reste. On y retrouve une vision assez pessimiste du couple que l'on commence à reconnaître chez Margaret Kennedy, une connaissance certaine de la nature humaine et humour noir que j'apprécie beaucoup. Il est peut-être plus léger que dans le Festin mais cette histoire de sculpture est quand même d'une ironie mordante. J'aurais aimé qu'elle finisse avec plus d'éclat et que le roman se termine sans amertume mais cela n'en rend le récit que plus réaliste. Si l'expérience ne fut pas du tout désagréable donc, je ne suis pas certaine pour autant que cette lecture me marquera durablement."
Et comment cela s'est-il fini ?
"Je reste curieuse de découvrir le reste de l'oeuvre de Margaret Kennedy et de savoir quel texte choisira de nous proposer la maison d'édition la prochaine fois mais mon engouement du début commence peut-être à s'essouffler un peu."
http://booksaremywonderland.hautetfor...
"J'ai adoré le Festin de Margaret Kennedy, réédité aux éditions de la Table Ronde et j'ai eu un avis beaucoup plus mitigé sur le suivant, Divorce à l'Anglaise. J'avais hâte de savoir si celui-ci pencherait plutôt du côté du premier ou du second."
Dites-nous en un peu plus sur son histoire...
"Alors qu'un violent orage a secoué la petite ville de Summersdown sans faire de gros dégâts, il se pourrait bien que ses répercussions n'aillent finalement bien plus loin que l'on a pu le penser au premier abord..."
Mais que s'est-il exactement passé entre vous ?
"Je ne vais pas faire durer le suspense éternellement, je dirais que cette lecture se situe parfaitement au croisement des deux autres. Je n'ai pas eu de coup de coeur mais j'ai bien aimé tout de même. C'est un petit peu long à démarrer et à se mettre en place et une partie de l'histoire, celle des enfants, est indéniablement plus interessante que le reste. On y retrouve une vision assez pessimiste du couple que l'on commence à reconnaître chez Margaret Kennedy, une connaissance certaine de la nature humaine et humour noir que j'apprécie beaucoup. Il est peut-être plus léger que dans le Festin mais cette histoire de sculpture est quand même d'une ironie mordante. J'aurais aimé qu'elle finisse avec plus d'éclat et que le roman se termine sans amertume mais cela n'en rend le récit que plus réaliste. Si l'expérience ne fut pas du tout désagréable donc, je ne suis pas certaine pour autant que cette lecture me marquera durablement."
Et comment cela s'est-il fini ?
"Je reste curieuse de découvrir le reste de l'oeuvre de Margaret Kennedy et de savoir quel texte choisira de nous proposer la maison d'édition la prochaine fois mais mon engouement du début commence peut-être à s'essouffler un peu."
http://booksaremywonderland.hautetfor...
October 7, 2025
La vie dans les années 50 d'une petite ville du Royaume-Uni, avec ses habitants conformistes, ses femmes au foyers et ses potins, bousculés par l'irruption d'un artiste et sa famille.
Une charge ironique sur la vie conjugale et sur l'art contemporain, ses soutiens et ses contempteurs, qui d'ailleurs ne le comprennent pas plus les uns que les autres, à travers une double méprise.
Une charge ironique sur la vie conjugale et sur l'art contemporain, ses soutiens et ses contempteurs, qui d'ailleurs ne le comprennent pas plus les uns que les autres, à travers une double méprise.
March 10, 2025
Oraakkelit. Suom. Eila Pennanen.
November 11, 2017
The Oracles tells the story of the small community of East Head, somewhere off the Bristol channel, and the chain of peculiar events that are visited upon its inhabitants in the wake of a large storm. The storm came on a Saturday night, returning on the Sunday, causing damage to the power station and extinguishing lights all over the small town. The ferocity of the storm caused fright and unease among the people of the town, bringing back memories of the air raids during the war. The only damage was to an old tree in the middle of a field behind the town.
The tree was the playground of a group of neglected children – the children of artist Conrad Swann and his girlfriend Elizabeth – five children, two families brought together in what the locals consider scandalous circumstances. Here the children built dens among the branches, hid themselves from the strange forms that Conrad created, made believe and fought the demons of their fertile imaginations that they called the ‘artifaxes’. Serafina is the eldest and has tried to be the little mother to them all – but it’s all getting too much for a child of ten. An old garden chair that the children had used to mount the tree, was twisted into a strange and unrecognisable shape by the lightning strikes, and when the children unknowingly move the strange object to the shed where Conrad had previously stored his much-awaited new sculpture, the stage is set for all kinds of misunderstanding and artistic snobbery.
Full review: https://heavenali.wordpress.com/2017/...
The tree was the playground of a group of neglected children – the children of artist Conrad Swann and his girlfriend Elizabeth – five children, two families brought together in what the locals consider scandalous circumstances. Here the children built dens among the branches, hid themselves from the strange forms that Conrad created, made believe and fought the demons of their fertile imaginations that they called the ‘artifaxes’. Serafina is the eldest and has tried to be the little mother to them all – but it’s all getting too much for a child of ten. An old garden chair that the children had used to mount the tree, was twisted into a strange and unrecognisable shape by the lightning strikes, and when the children unknowingly move the strange object to the shed where Conrad had previously stored his much-awaited new sculpture, the stage is set for all kinds of misunderstanding and artistic snobbery.
Full review: https://heavenali.wordpress.com/2017/...
July 13, 2025
pas mal l’évolution des personnages est cool, il y a des paragraphes trop bien écrits et drôles mais l’histoire en elle-même à la fin s’étire un peu
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