Blue White Red

Blue White Red
Автор книги: id книги: 1619899     Оценка: 0.0     Голосов: 0     Отзывы, комментарии: 0 1116,45 руб.     (12,16$) Читать книгу Купить и скачать книгу Купить бумажную книгу Электронная книга Жанр: Контркультура Правообладатель и/или издательство: Ingram Дата добавления в каталог КнигаЛит: ISBN: 9780253007940 Скачать фрагмент в формате   fb2   fb2.zip Возрастное ограничение: 0+ Оглавление Отрывок из книги

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Описание книги

<P>This tale of wild adventure reveals the dashed hopes of Africans living between worlds. When Moki returns to his village from France wearing designer clothes and affecting all the manners of a Frenchman, Massala-Massala, who lives the life of a humble peanut farmer after giving up his studies, begins to dream of following in Moki’s footsteps. Together, the two take wing for Paris, where Massala-Massala finds himself a part of an underworld of out-of-work undocumented immigrants. After a botched attempt to sell metro passes purchased with a stolen checkbook, he winds up in jail and is deported. Blue White Red is a novel of postcolonial Africa where young people born into poverty dream of making it big in the cities of their former colonial masters. Alain Mabanckou's searing commentary on the lives of Africans in France is cut with the parody of African villagers who boast of a son in the country of Digol. </P>

Оглавление

Alain Mabanckou. Blue White Red

BLUE. WHITE. RED

CONTENTS

TRANSLATOR’S INTRODUCTION

AFRICAN MIGRATION AND AFRICAN DANDYS

PART ONE. The Country

PART TWO. Paris

Отрывок из книги

GLOBAL AFRICAN VOICES Dominic Thomas, EDITOR

ALAIN MABANCKOU

.....

We had walked several hundred yards on foot. The engines and railway cars were far behind us. A vast expanse opened before us with a horizon of antiquated buildings. We hurried toward them. Crows punctured the fog, cavorting high in the sky, in search of the tallest ledge of those buildings, their wings clenched in the cold.

Four thugs pushed open the gate without batting an eye when we arrived. We crossed a large deserted courtyard marked by tracks of gigantic boots. This place had clearly been used before. I noticed a fenced soccer field on the other side, a few barbells, and just one basketball hoop. We headed straight for the tallest building and took the stairs that led to the basement. The two men dragged me down an interminable corridor. Our steps reverberated in rhythm, as if we had planned it. The silence gave the place the feeling of a decrepit penitentiary, abandoned if not outright haunted.

.....

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