By François Barcelo
«Si, dans cent ans, on lit encore un de mes livres, j’aimerais que ce soit Vie de Rosa. Les personnages sont fictifs, les événements sont imaginaires et les lieux sont inventés. Mais ils vous seront bizarrement familiers, parce que le vingtième siècle en Amérique est présent à toutes les pages, avec ses beautés et ses horreurs: l’antisémitisme, l. a. guerre, l. a. state of affairs des femmes, l. a. faith, le racisme, le chômage, l. a. misère, l. a. folie, los angeles cupidité. Bref, los angeles vie. Pas seulement celle de Rosa: los angeles vôtre aussi, peut-être.»
«Il y a une ambition commune aux romans de Barcelo: réinventer le monde.»
Claude Grégoire, Québec français
«Mais si on ne voulait retenir de l’œuvre dans son ensemble que ce qu’elle nous donne d’humour, avec une générosité qui lui est specific, il faudrait quand même reconnaître qu’elle est vraiment littéraire par los angeles qualité du kind, par los angeles finesse des dialogues, par l’efficacité discrète de los angeles narration.»
Réginald Martel, los angeles Presse
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You sound like you're soft on him," he said, standing up. " "Let's say," she appeared to ignore the astringency of his words, and she again gave the impression she was by herself, "that I can't resist his story, that's all. Coming back and not knowing you had a son, coming back and meeting yourself in that son. I don't care what happens to me. He must stay. After all, I'm not in it as deep as Decatur or Mrs. Coultas, or Lewis Coultas, once he is back. They're in deep. " She saw that he was finally angry with her, very put out, and rather than say in sharper words all that his disapprobation was bringing to his lips, he left her.
No, Todd did not ask Bess to order Decatur out. He made almost no suggestions at all. "I suppose it was to be expected," he said with infuriating calm, and he stooped down to pick up one of her fallen hairpins from a tiny crevice in the floor near the spinet desk. " She spoke as if she were alone, or still with Decatur the night of the fracas. Todd turned to look at her on his way out of the room. "I even believe he had war paint on," she continued. "And Decatur kept saying again and again I am not an Indian.
They were not hostile, or cruel, or even exactly curious. They stared benevolently. His feet were webbed! The men studied and stared. Helpless under their scrutiny, fearful they would presently turn their attention from his feet to his complexion, call him Indian or maybe even Nigger, he patiently allowed them to examine him. Each toe, they pointed out to one another, was webbed like that of a duck. And queerly enough the soldiers did not find this peculiarity anything to be ashamed of. Rather they thought it was a mark of something special.