Christ the Lord: Out of Egypt

Zusatztext Praise for Christ the Lord Riveting. . . . Rice's book is a triumph of tone -- her prose lean! lyrical! vivid -- and character. As he ponders his staggering responsibility! the boy is fully believable -- and yet there's something in his supernatural empathy and blazing intelligence that conveys the wondrousness of a boy like no other. . . . With this novel! she has indeed found a convincing version of him; this is fiction that transcends story and instead qualifies as an act of faith. Joins Nikos Kazantzakis's The Last Temptation of Christ and Endo's A Life of Jesus as one of the bolder re-tellings. Kirkus Reviews (starred) Praise for Blood Canticle When Anne Rice releases a new book in The Vampire Chronicles series! cheers from her huge fan base can be heard everywhere. The Edmonton Journal Informationen zum Autor Anne Rice Klappentext Having completed the two cycles of legend to which she has devoted her career so far, Anne Rice gives us now her most thoughtful and powerful book, a novel about the childhood of Christ the Lord based on the gospels and on the most respected New Testament scholarship. The book's power derives from the passion its author brings to the writing, and the way in which she summons up the voice, the presence, the words of the young Jesus who tells the story.I was seven years old. What do you know when you're seven years old? All my life, or so I thought, we'd been in the city of Alexandria, in the Street of the Carpenters, with the other Galileans, and sooner or later we were going home. Late afternoon. We were playing, my gang against his, and when he ran at me again, bully that he was, bigger than me, and catching me off balance, I felt the power go out of me as I shouted: You'll never get where you're going. He fell down white in the sandy earth, and they all crowded around him. The sun was hot and my chest was heaving as I looked at him. He was so limp. In the snap of two fingers everyone drew back. It seemed the whole street went quiet except for the carpenters' hammers. I'd never heard such a quiet. He's dead! Little Joseph said. And then they all took it up. He's dead, he's dead, he's dead. I knew it was true. He was a bundle of arms and legs in the beaten dust. And I was empty. The power had taken everything with it, all gone. His mother came out of the house, and her scream went up the walls into a howl. From everywhere the women came running. My mother lifted me off my feet. She carried me down the street and through the courtyard and into the dark of our house. All my cousins crowded in with us, and James, my big brother, pulled the curtain shut. He turned his back on the light. He said: Jesus did it. He killed him. He was afraid. Don't you say such a thing! said my mother. She clutched me so close to her, I could scarcely breathe. Big Joseph woke up. Now Big Joseph was my father, because he was married to my mother, but I'd never called him Father. I'd been taught to call him Joseph. I didn't know why. He'd been asleep on the mat. We'd worked all day on a job in Philo's house, and he and the rest of the men had lain down in the heat of the afternoon to sleep. He climbed to his feet. What's that shouting outside? he asked. What's happened? He looked to James. James was his eldest son. James was the son of a wife who had died before Joseph married my mother. James said it again. Jesus killed Eleazer. Jesus cursed him and he fell down dead. Joseph stared at me, his face still blank from sleep. There was more and more shouting in the street. He rose to his feet, and ran his hands back ...

Praise for Christ the Lord*

“Riveting. . . . Rice's book is a triumph of tone -- her prose lean, lyrical, vivid -- and character. As he ponders his staggering responsibility, the boy is fully believable -- and yet there's something in his supernatural empathy and blazing intelligence that conveys the wondrousness of a boy like no other. . . . With this novel, she has indeed found a convincing version of him; this is fiction that transcends story and instead qualifies as an act of faith. Joins Nikos Kazantzakis's *The Last Temptation of Christ and Endo's A Life of Jesus as one of the bolder re-tellings.”
—Kirkus Reviews (starred)

Praise for Blood Canticle*

“When Anne Rice releases a new book in *The Vampire Chronicles series, cheers from her huge fan base can be heard everywhere.”
—The Edmonton Journal

Auteur

Anne Rice

Texte du rabat

Having completed the two cycles of legend to which she has devoted her career so far, Anne Rice gives us now her most thoughtful and powerful book, a novel about the childhood of Christ the Lord based on the gospels and on the most respected New Testament scholarship.

The book's power derives from the passion its author brings to the writing, and the way in which she summons up the voice, the presence, the words of the young Jesus who tells the story.

Échantillon de lecture
I was seven years old. What do you know when you’re seven years old? All my life, or so I thought, we’d been in the city of Alexandria, in the Street of the Carpenters, with the other Galileans, and sooner or later we were going home.

Late afternoon. We were playing, my gang against his, and when he ran at me again, bully that he was, bigger than me, and catching me off balance, I felt the power go out of me as I shouted: “You’ll never get where you’re going.”

He fell down white in the sandy earth, and they all crowded around him. The sun was hot and my chest was heaving as I looked at him. He was so limp.

In the snap of two fingers everyone drew back. It seemed the whole street went quiet except for the carpenters’ hammers. I’d never heard such a quiet.

“He’s dead!” Little Joseph said. And then they all took it up. “He’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead.”

I knew it was true. He was a bundle of arms and legs in the beaten dust.

And I was empty. The power had taken everything with it, all gone.

His mother came out of the house, and her scream went up the walls into a howl. From everywhere the women came running.

My mother lifted me off my feet. She carried me down the street and through the courtyard and into the dark of our house. All my cousins crowded in with us, and James, my big brother, pulled the curtain shut. He turned his back on the light. He said:

“Jesus did it. He killed him.” He was afraid.

“Don’t you say such a thing!” said my mother. She clutched me so close to her, I could scarcely breathe.

Big Joseph woke up.

Now Big Joseph was my father, because he was married to my mother, but I’d never called him Father. I’d been taught to call him Joseph. I didn’t know why.

He’d been asleep on the mat. We’d worked all day on a job in Philo’s house, and he and the rest of the men had lain down in the heat of the afternoon to sleep. He climbed to his feet.

“What’s that shouting outside?” he asked. “What’s happened?”

He looked to James. James was his eldest son. James was the son of a wife who had died before Joseph married my mother.

James said it again.

“Jesus killed Eleazer. Jesus cursed him and he fell down dead.”

Joseph stared at me, his face still blank from sleep. There was more and more shouting in the street. He rose to his feet, and ran his hands back through his thick curly hair.

My little cousins were slipping through the door one by one and crowding around us.

My mother was trembling. “He couldn’t have done it,” she said. “He wouldn’t do such a thing.”

“I saw it,” said James. “I saw it when he …