Sophie

Informationen zum Autor Guy Burt Klappentext "[Sophie] combines the creepy narrative power of a young William Golding with the disturbingly accurate memory of what it is like to be a child. . . . So good that one can only wonder what [Burt] will do next. The Times (London) In a dark room of a dilapidated house! as a storm rages outside! Matthew lights a candle and places it in the center of the floor. Its light spreads across the wall and illuminates Sophie! tied up in a chair facing him. She is frightened! fearful of what he might do next. But for now! it seems! all Matthew wants to do is talk. Talk about the events of nearly twenty years ago! about their strange childhood! and about the summer when Sophie grew up and everything changed . . . forever. Young Mattie and Sophie lived in a world seemingly without constraints. Their cold mother barely paid attention to her children. Their father! a mere shadow in their lives! was never home. So Mattie and Sophie had the run of the gardens and the woods beyond. They played youthful games! but Sophie was extraordinarily intelligent! a fact she took great pains to hide from her teachers! so as not to stand out. Sophie was everything to Mattie! and he worshiped her. He wanted to know her secrets! the things that went on inside her brilliant mind. But Sophie was changing. And the summer before she went away to boarding school! the things she had worked so hard to conceal would come spilling outand Mattie would have to live with the shocking consequences. Now he's all grown up! too! and Matthew wants answers to the questions that still darken his mindno matter what the cost. . . . Leseprobe one Matthew sits across from me on the boards of the empty room. His eyes are not on me at the moment. The side of my face hurts where he hit me. Outside, the sounds of the storm are loud; he keeps glancing at the windows as the plywood nailed up over them shudders and grates. We are in the kitchen of the old house. Shadows from the guttering candle flame dance and flare in the corners of the room, while the garden is torn and swept by the wind. The passages upstairs crick and murmur, as if they were alive with the walking memories of years. I am breathing more calmly now. I am finding out where the boundaries are, beginning to know what rules we are following. He seems nervous, fidgety. I raise my hands awkwardly to rub the hair away from my face, and he sees the movement, turns his head. I'm sorry, he says. I don't know how to reply, so I say nothing. He says, Sophie? I'm sorry I hit you. I don't want to hurt you. But we have to stop theyou know, all the lies. We're past that now. No more games. All right? I nod, and he seems to relax a little. There is a splintering shriek as a branch pulls away from one of the trees outside, but he doesn't give any indication of having heard. There should be other things here, he says. It feels like things are missing. I have no idea what he is talking about, but I nod anyway; it has become the easiest thing to do. I have no idea where this is leading, either. I shift my back against the wall, try to focus on the restless flame of the candle. There is heavy tape around my wrists, but my ankles are free, and I have drawn up my legs so I can rest my arms on them. I am very afraid. He seems unsure of what to do next. The important things stay the same, he says. What? Everything's changed. The house, the garden, the room. Everything's different. He sighs. The important things stay the same, though. You. Me. You know. He smiles, and his face softens a little. He looks away. When Sophie and I were young, our garden was large, stretching away from the side of the house, lined with flowerbeds and tall hedges. When the time of year was right, there were climbing roses and honeysuckle on the trellises. The g...

Auteur

Guy Burt

Texte du rabat

"[Sophie] combines the creepy narrative power of a young William Golding with the disturbingly accurate memory of what it is like to be a child. . . . So good that one can only wonder what [Burt] will do next.”
—The Times (London)

In a dark room of a dilapidated house, as a storm rages outside, Matthew lights a candle and places it in the center of the floor. Its light spreads across the wall and illuminates Sophie, tied up in a chair facing him. She is frightened, fearful of what he might do next. But for now, it seems, all Matthew wants to do is talk. Talk about the events of nearly twenty years ago, about their strange childhood, and about the summer when Sophie grew up and everything changed . . . forever.

Young Mattie and Sophie lived in a world seemingly without constraints. Their cold mother barely paid attention to her children. Their father, a mere shadow in their lives, was never home. So Mattie and Sophie had the run of the gardens and the woods beyond. They played youthful games, but Sophie was extraordinarily intelligent, a fact she took great pains to hide from her teachers, so as not to stand out. Sophie was everything to Mattie, and he worshiped her. He wanted to know her secrets, the things that went on inside her brilliant mind. But Sophie was changing. And the summer before she went away to boarding school, the things she had worked so hard to conceal would come spilling out—and Mattie would have to live with the shocking consequences.

Now he's all grown up, too, and Matthew wants answers to the questions that still darken his mind—no matter what the cost. . . .

Échantillon de lecture
one

Matthew sits across from me on the boards of the empty room. His eyes are not on me at the moment. The side of my face hurts where he hit me. Outside, the sounds of the storm are loud; he keeps glancing at the windows as the plywood nailed up over them shudders and grates. We are in the kitchen of the old house. Shadows from the guttering candle flame dance and flare in the corners of the room, while the garden is torn and swept by the wind. The passages upstairs crick and murmur, as if they were alive with the walking memories of years.

I am breathing more calmly now. I am finding out where the boundaries are, beginning to know what rules we are following. He seems nervous, fidgety. I raise my hands awkwardly to rub the hair away from my face, and he sees the movement, turns his head.

“I’m sorry,” he says. I don’t know how to reply, so I say nothing.

He says, “Sophie? I’m sorry I hit you. I don’t want to hurt you. But we have to stop the—you know, all the lies. We’re past that now. No more games. All right?”

I nod, and he seems to relax a little. There is a splintering shriek as a branch pulls away from one of the trees outside, but he doesn’t give any indication of having heard.

“There should be other things here,” he says. “It feels like things are missing.” I have no idea what he is talking about, but I nod anyway; it has become the easiest thing to do. I have no idea where this is leading, either. I shift my back against the wall, try to focus on the restless flame of the candle.

There is heavy tape around my wrists, but my ankles are free, and I have drawn up my legs so I can rest my arms on them. I am very afraid. He seems unsure of what to do next.

“The important things stay the same,” he says.

“What?”

“Everything’s changed. The house, the garden, the room. Everything’s different.” He sighs. “The important things stay the same, though. You. Me. You know.” He smiles, and his face softens a little. He looks away.

When Sophie and I were young, our garden was large, stretching away from the side of the house, lined with flowerbeds and tall hedges. When the time of year was right, there were climbing roses and honeysuckle on the trellises. The ground was carved away i…