Informationen zum Autor Jean D'Amérique Klappentext "A brutal fable full of poetry, desire, and blood, where the naèivetâe of a young Haitian girl struggling against impossible odds collides with the unrelenting cruelty of the world. "You will be alone in the great night." That's what Papa has always prophesied to her. Papa, who isn't her real father-he disappeared when she was born. Since then, her mother has been forced to walk the streets to provide for herself and her daughter, while Papa robs and murders for the local gang leader, to ensure his access to ganja and alcohol, but also for the sheer pleasure of it. Often finding herself alone within the four walls of a hovel in a Haitian slum with corrugated iron for a roof, the young girl tirelessly tries to compose a letter that will capture what is in her heart and soul. She is consumed with love for a classmate, the daughter of her teacher, and struggles to find words to faithfully express her feelings and her dreams. In a poetic language that encompasses poverty and idealism, she quietly observes the violence, the shortcomings, and the addictions of the adults around her. Her love and passion make her resilient, nurturing her character and helping her to invent a destiny that enables her to escape the fate to which she seemed doomed"-- Leseprobe They're crazy, these birds criss-crossing my mind. Their wings, an archipelago of fire. Their singing, a rolling hill of turbulent skies. Messengers of light, without a doubt, who cause the memory of the touch against my skin on the last day of class to beat even louder inside of me. But, as usual, I still can't capture some small glimmer of this godsend, I still can't put to paper this flash of lightning that expands into a chill in my arteries. Words crossed out. I'm making a kingdom of crumpled papers. Papa puts on his robe of anger to get us worked up, to mess with our heads. A brief reminder of the purpose of his mouth, a machine gun on the lookout for the slightest opportunity. Blood open to fire, he rants and raves, drifts in his own storm, gives his whole body over to a violent tirade, and yells like he has never been yelled at, even in his childhood. If childhood is the age of silence, as he believes, then he didn't have an actual childhood. The most elusive chapter of his story that comes to mind is his alliance with the streets. And as the Angel of Metal says, you're not a child anymore when the streets are the only one cradling you. Papa stretches out under the roof, a raging wave. Outside, the sky gathers into a web of lace. The day's dying light hangs its veil silently on the end of an invisible wind. It's the night that has come to let us know. Streaming shadows soak up the sunset. The well-known uproar from our mouths that marks the restoring of electricity hasn't kicked off yet. Usually, if we've already put something in our stomachs and still have five gourdes left, we buy ourselves a candle to erode the darkness. It's our way of atoning for the days marked with basic light. Electricity, we don't expect it every day. There's hardly any of it, a common absence around here, like fathers in the household. The azure is fading, not a star to keep our eyes under the illusion of the blue sky, it contaminates the heart of the house. It's the flashlight of a phone that helps us shine a hole onto the skin of the shadowy visitor. You' ll be . . . If his cell phone's dead, he'll be more than just a little upset. There's no way he's missing a single call. Papa lands an impressive slap to my head and snatches his phone, which I was using to light up the room. He definitely would've ripped my arm off with it if he could. I try not to cry, fearing the onslaught isn't over. Instead, I scurry to scoop up off the floor the papers on which I was accusing language for its painful failure, right before Hurricane Papa put an end to it. Will I ever finish this letter...

Autorentext

Jean D'Amérique

Klappentext

"A brutal fable full of poetry, desire, and blood, where the naèivetâe of a young Haitian girl struggling against impossible odds collides with the unrelenting cruelty of the world. "You will be alone in the great night." That's what Papa has always prophesied to her. Papa, who isn't her real father-he disappeared when she was born. Since then, her mother has been forced to walk the streets to provide for herself and her daughter, while Papa robs and murders for the local gang leader, to ensure his access to ganja and alcohol, but also for the sheer pleasure of it. Often finding herself alone within the four walls of a hovel in a Haitian slum with corrugated iron for a roof, the young girl tirelessly tries to compose a letter that will capture what is in her heart and soul. She is consumed with love for a classmate, the daughter of her teacher, and struggles to find words to faithfully express her feelings and her dreams. In a poetic language that encompasses poverty and idealism, she quietly observes the violence, the shortcomings, and the addictions of the adults around her. Her love and passion make her resilient, nurturing her character and helping her to invent a destiny that enables her to escape the fate to which she seemed doomed"--

Zusammenfassung
In this modern fable full of poetry, desire, and blood, a creative young Haitian girl struggles against seemingly impossible odds to escape the cruel reality of her Port-au-Prince slum.

“You’ll be alone in the great night.” That’s what Papa has always prophesied to her. Papa, who isn’t her real father—he disappeared when she was born. Since then, her mother has been forced to walk the streets to provide for herself and her daughter, while Papa robs and murders for the local gang leader, to ensure his access to ganja and alcohol, but also for the sheer pleasure of it.
Often finding herself alone within the four walls of a hovel in a Haitian shantytown with corrugated iron for a roof, the young girl tirelessly tries to compose a letter that will capture what is in her heart and soul. She is consumed with love for a classmate, the daughter of her teacher, and searches for words to faithfully express her feelings and her dreams.
In a poetic language that encompasses poverty and idealism, she observes the violence, the shortcomings, and the addictions of the adults around her. Her passion makes her resilient, nurturing her character and helping her to invent a better fate than the one to which she seemed doomed.

Leseprobe
They’re crazy, these birds criss-crossing my mind. Their wings, an archipelago of fire. Their singing, a rolling hill of turbulent skies. Messengers of light, without a doubt, who cause the memory of the touch against my skin on the last day of class to beat even louder inside of me. But, as usual, I still can’t capture some small glimmer of this godsend, I still can’t put to paper this flash of lightning that expands into a chill in my arteries. Words crossed out. I’m making a kingdom of crumpled papers.
Papa puts on his robe of anger to get us worked up, to mess with our heads. A brief reminder of the purpose of his mouth, a machine gun on the lookout for the slightest opportunity. Blood open to fire, he rants and raves, drifts in his own storm, gives his whole body over to a violent tirade, and yells like he has never been yelled at, even in his childhood. If childhood is the age of silence, as he believes, then he didn’t have an actual childhood. The most elusive chapter of his story that comes to mind is his alliance with the streets. And as the Angel of Metal says, you’re not a child anymore when the streets are the only one cradling you.
Papa stretches out under the roof, a raging wave. Outside, the sky gathers into a web of lace. The day’s dying light hangs its veil silently on …