By Yasmina Reza
From the award-winning writer of "Art" and "Desolation" comes this bitingly humorous new novel that follows the absurd adventures of a guy suffering from a midlifecrisis.
Adam Haberberg is wasting his sight in his left eye. His new e-book is a flop. And his marriage isn't doing too good. yet whereas sitting at some point on a park bench, he sees an outdated buddy fromhigh tuition, Marie Theeacute;reegrave;se, and all of sudden his complete lifestyles turns out to alter. Adam quickly unearths that his personal lifestyles has by some means turn into intertwined with Marie Therese's, throwingeverything into query. A wry tragicomedy and a nuanced research of a guy within the throes of an existential drawback, "Adam Haberberg" has an identical wit and panache that experience marked all of YasminaReza's paintings to this point. "From the exchange Paperback edition."
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Extra resources for Adam Haberberg
Yes, first it was that, the smell of the myrtle, still green, the smell of Venus's shrub, that tore apart the mist, vibrating in the air like a powerful chord of brasses; immediately after, but only then, the very high, very pale pink curve in the diaphanous sky, the gentle concave line of the first bundle of metal cables. Such was, as I walked through the mist, my first sight of the bridge. "Adam," said Aerea as she cleared the table where we had had our breakfast, "I wouldn't mind knowing something about your life before we met.
H i s eyes lowered behind his shining glasses, Sokrat studied the game of goose set out between us. We were alone on the terrace of the open-air cafe, face to face at a table under the spring leaves. We were alone at that hour, still morning, occupied by our daily match under the trees with their newly limed trunks, away from the bursts of voices from the streets and the din of the cars. "I've noticed that you don't change, Adam. You remain a prisoner of your images. " Below our cafe under the trees, on the slopes of the uncultivated land sheets were drying in the wind, and from the Golden Horn plumes of black smoke rose into the sky.
The shadow of the smokestack lay along the deck. When the ship heeled to one side, it swept through space like a dark projector and the light shifted onto other white surfaces, onto other windowed walls, overexposed and bleached like old daguerrotypes, while the spraying of the water under the bow accompanied, in a parallel, sonorous way, the regular swaying of the bulwark handrail in front of the horizon line. "June," I murmured, leaning over her and stroking her hair, "what we lack is the vocabulary of navigation.