Your Blues Ain't Like Mine

Informationen zum Autor Bebe Moore Campbell was the author of several New York Times bestsellers: Brothers and Sisters; Singing in the Comeback Choir; What You Owe Me , which was also a Los Angeles Times Best Book of 2001; and 72 Hour Hold . Her other works include the novel Your Blues Ain't Like Mine , which was a New York Times Notable Book of the Year and the winner of the NAACP Image Award for literature. Bebe Moore Campbell died in 2006. Klappentext "Intriguing...A thoughtful, intelligent work...The novel traces the yeasr from he '50s to the ate '80s, from Eisenhower to George Bush....She writes with simple eloquence about small-town life in the South, right after the start of the great social upheaval of he civil rights movement....Campbell has a strong creative voice." THE WASHINGTON POST BOOK WORLD Chicago-born Amrstrong Tood is fifteen, black, and unused to the ways of the segregated Deep South, when his mother sends him to spend the summer with relatives in rural Mississippi. For speaking a few innocuous words in French to a white woman, Armstrong is killed. And the precariously balanced world and its determined people--white and black--are changed, then and forever, by the horror of poverty, the legacy of justice, and the singular gift of love's power to heal.The music was as much a gift as sunshine, rain, as any blessing ever prayed for. Lily woke up when the singing began. She lay quiet and still in her bed until her head was full of songs and the strong voices of the fieldworkers from the Pinochet Plantation seemed to be inside her. Part of the song was soft like a hymn; then it would rise to the full force of vibrant gospel and change again to something loud and searing, almost violent. The music was rich, like the alluvial soil that nourished everything and everyone in the Delta. Lily began to feel strong and hopeful, as if she was being healed. Colored people's singing always made her feel so good. Much too quickly, the song was over, without even leaving an echo to keep her company. Years later, she would fight to hum even a scrap of the notes that floated to her from the Pinochet Plantation that day, but by then the song had seeped into the land like spilled blood, and its vanishing echo was just another shadow on her soul. As Lily lay in bed looking out the window into the wee hours of that Mississippi morning, it seemed as if someone had drawn down a heavy black curtain on the world. She felt lonely and adrift in the sudden quiet. Daylight was at least an hour away, and she couldn't fall back asleep. She groped in the dark toward the still body of her husband, who was lying next to her. With movements as quick and furtive as a thief's, Lily pressed her breasts into Floyd's bare back; she wanted him to wake up feeling the tips of her nipples against his skin, the slight undulating movement of her groin rotating against his behind. It was like the ticking of a clock, the way her crotch burrowed into him: a small relentless movement. He'd been gone for nearly ten days and had returned earlier that evening. She felt frightened and weak when he was away from her. It was as though she didn't exist when he was absent. As she pressed into him, rubbing his shoulder blades with the tips of her nipples, she thought of how excited he would be when he woke up. She smiled, thinking of how she could make him want her, remembering the times he even begged. Maybe he would plead with her this time. She might yawn a little and act uninterested, which would only make him hotter. She gently stroked his behind with her thigh over and over again. Lily squeezed her small, white body against Floyd's back and rested the side of her face on his shoulder blade. She kissed his spine and thought: If I can get him to give me three dollars, I'll get me another Rio Red lipstick; ain't had a lipstick in going on three months. I mi...

Auteur

Bebe Moore Campbell was the author of several New York Times *bestsellers: *Brothers and Sisters; Singing in the Comeback Choir; What You Owe Me, which was also a Los Angeles Times Best Book of 2001; and 72 Hour Hold. Her other works include the novel Your Blues Ain’t Like Mine, which was a New York Times Notable Book of the Year and the winner of the NAACP Image Award for literature. Bebe Moore Campbell died in 2006.

Texte du rabat

"Intriguing...A thoughtful, intelligent work...The novel traces the yeasr from he '50s to the ate '80s, from Eisenhower to George Bush....She writes with simple eloquence about small-town life in the South, right after the start of the great social upheaval of he civil rights movement....Campbell has a strong creative voice."
THE WASHINGTON POST BOOK WORLD
Chicago-born Amrstrong Tood is fifteen, black, and unused to the ways of the segregated Deep South, when his mother sends him to spend the summer with relatives in rural Mississippi. For speaking a few innocuous words in French to a white woman, Armstrong is killed. And the precariously balanced world and its determined people--white and black--are changed, then and forever, by the horror of poverty, the legacy of justice, and the singular gift of love's power to heal.

Échantillon de lecture
The music was as much a gift as sunshine, rain, as any blessing ever prayed for.

Lily woke up when the singing began. She lay quiet and still in her bed until her head was full of songs and the strong voices of the fieldworkers from the Pinochet Plantation seemed to be inside her. Part of the song was soft like a hymn; then it would rise to the full force of vibrant gospel and change again to something loud and searing, almost violent. The music was rich, like the alluvial soil that nourished everything and everyone in the Delta. Lily began to feel strong and hopeful, as if she was being healed. Colored people's singing always made her feel so good. Much too quickly, the song was over, without even leaving an echo to keep her company. Years later, she would fight to hum even a scrap of the notes that floated to her from the Pinochet Plantation that day, but by then the song had seeped into the land like spilled blood, and its vanishing echo was just another shadow on her soul.

As Lily lay in bed looking out the window into the wee hours of that Mississippi morning, it seemed as if someone had drawn down a heavy black curtain on the world. She felt lonely and adrift in the sudden quiet. Daylight was at least an hour away, and she couldn't fall back asleep. She groped in the dark toward the still body of her husband, who was lying next to her.

With movements as quick and furtive as a thief's, Lily pressed her breasts into Floyd's bare back; she wanted him to wake up feeling the tips of her nipples against his skin, the slight undulating movement of her groin rotating against his behind. It was like the ticking of a clock, the way her crotch burrowed into him: a small relentless movement. He'd been gone for nearly ten days and had returned earlier that evening. She felt frightened and weak when he was away from her. It was as though she didn't exist when he was absent. As she pressed into him, rubbing his shoulder blades with the tips of her nipples, she thought of how excited he would be when he woke up. She smiled, thinking of how she could make him want her, remembering the times he even begged. Maybe he would plead with her this time. She might yawn a little and act uninterested, which would only make him hotter. She gently stroked his behind with her thigh over and over again. Lily squeezed her small, white body against Floyd's back and rested the side of her face on his shoulder blade. She kissed his spine and thought: If I can get him to give me three dollars, I'll get me another Rio Red lipstick; ain't had a lipstick in going on three months. I might can buy me some Evening in Paris and a scarf too. And maybe some …