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En descendant de l'avion Lagos, j'ai eu l'impression d'avoir cess d'tre noire. Ifemelu quitte le Nigeria pour aller faire ses tudes Philadelphie. Jeune et inexprimente, elle laisse derrire elle son grand amour, Obinze, ternel admirateur de l'Amrique qui compte bien la rejoindre. Mais comment rester soi lorsqu'on change de continent, lorsque soudainement la couleur de votre peau prend un sens et une importance que vous ne lui aviez jamais donns ? Pendant quinze ans, Ifemelu tentera de trouver sa place aux tats-Unis, un pays profondment marqu par le racisme et la discrimination. De dfaites en russites, elle trace son chemin, pour finir par revenir sur ses pas, jusque chez elle, au Nigeria. la fois drle et grave, doux mlange de lumire et d'ombre, Americanah est une magnifique histoire d'amour, de soi d'abord, mais galement des autres, ou d'un autre. De son ton irrvrencieux, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie fait valser le politiquement correct et les clichs sur la race ou le statut d'immigrant, et parcourt trois continents d'un pas vif et puissant.… (plus d'informations)
> AMERICANAH, par Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie (Gallimard, 2016, Poche, 704 pages). — « En descendant de l’avion à Lagos, j’ai eu l’impression d’avoir cessé d’être noire. » Ifemelu quitte le Nigeria pour aller faire ses études à Philadelphie. Jeune et inexpérimentée, elle laisse derrière elle son grand amour, Obinze, éternel admirateur de l’Amérique qui compte bien la rejoindre. Mais comment rester soi lorsqu’on change de continent, lorsque soudainement la couleur de votre peau prend un sens et une importance que vous ne lui aviez jamais donnés? Pendant quinze ans, Ifemelu tentera de trouver sa place aux États-Unis, un pays profondément marqué par le racisme et la discrimination. De défaites en réussites, elle trace son chemin, pour finir par revenir sur ses pas, jusque chez elle, au Nigeria. À la fois drôle et grave, doux mélange de lumière et d’ombre, Americanah est une magnifique histoire d’amour, de soi d’abord mais également des autres, ou d’un autre. De son ton irrévérencieux, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie fait valser le politiquement correct et les clichés sur la race ou le statut d’immigrant, et parcourt trois continents d’un pas vif et puissant. --Johnny Gimenez (Culturebox)
> AMERICANAH, par Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie (Gallimard, 523 pages). Par François Richard (LaPresse.ca) : Americanah: lendemains de rêve américain **** 5 avr. 2015 ... Que se passe-t-il lorsque la Terre promise ne tient pas ses promesses? Americanah, troisième roman de l'auteure nigériane Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie – dont 500 000 exemplaires ont été vendus aux États-Unis et au Royaume-Uni –, dresse le bilan d'une émigration douce-amère, alliant réussites et renoncements.
Très belle découverte. Magnifique roman. Avec une très belle écriture, l'auteur aborde la question de la race au travers du regard de Ifemelu et Obinze, deux Nigérians qui immigrent pour Ifemelu aux Etats-unis et réussit sa vie et pour Obinze en Angletterre finissant par être expulsé au bout de quelques mois. Par l'histoire et le parcours d'Ifemelu, Chimamanda Adichie nous fait découvrir le ressenti du racisme latent dans la société Nord américaine et malheureusement bien souvent inconscient dans les propos et attitudes des classes sociales éduquées, happy-few voulant justement démontrer leur ouverture d'esprit et leur anti-racisme. Elle nous raconte également les relations mélange d'incompréhensions et de fascination entre les noirs américains et les "vrais" noirs africain immigrés. Adichie nous donne à voir le Nigeria. Le livre est parcouru par cette métaphore de la chevelure, des cheveux crépus que notamment les noirs américains cherchent à effacer, lisser et que Ifemelu va afficher tel un étendard de sa négritude. Un roman intelligent, qui pose les bonnes questions sur la race et l'humain. ( )
Malgré un début un peu long, ce roman est formidable car il aborde de front, avec humour et une grande perspicacité les thèmes de l'identité, de la "race", notion que l'auteur reprend volontairement et avec une certaine insistance, de l'identité noire. Ifemelu, jeune femme nigériane, va quitter son pays pour les Etats-Unis, où elle rêve de voir sa vie s'élargir à plein de possibles. Elle quitte son premier amour mais ce qu'elle découvre là-bas n'est pas aussi beau qu'elle l'imaginait. Elle se prend de plein fouet le fait d'être noire de peau, alors que c'était jusque-là un élément de son identité qu'elle n'avait jamais considéré d'une manière particulière. Elle va découvrir le pays avec son regard à elle, celle d'une noire africaine, totalement différent de celui d'une noire américaine. Elle observe intensément, analyse les réactions de gens, qu'ils soient blancs ou noirs, scrute les significations des discours qui semblent les plus anodins et qui sont pourtant chargés de significations profondes. C'est dans un blog qu'elle créé qu'elle va consigner tout cela et acquérir une certaine notoriété. Son cheminement va la mener à une plus grande conscience de son identité noire et à l'envie de la revendiquer haut et fort. Elle va connaître divers amours, dont une belle histoire avec un blanc, mais elle décide finalement de rentrer au pays. Elle s'y retrouve un peu comme une étrangère au début, tout lui semble tellement différent de ce qu'elle avait en mémoire. Elle est l'Americanah", celle qui a vécu aux Etats-Unis. Elle retrouve son premier amour, Obinze, lui-même parti en exil un temps en Angleterre, d'où il est finalement expulsé. Il devient quelqu'un d'important au Nigéria, marié et père d'une petite fille, mais le retour d'Ifemelu, son amour de jeunesse qu'il n'a jamais oublié, va bousculer sa vie. Des personnages très attachants et une belle expérience de lecture qui permet de ressentir au plus près ce que c'est que d'être noir dans un monde de blancs. Une écriture simple, mais un vrai plaisir de lecture. ( )
The stories have shifted, too. Nowadays, there’s little angsting about national identity in a post-colonial context or, for that matter, over catastrophe and want. Instead, a bevy of young Africans are shaping the future of fiction, reportage and critique on their continent, and perhaps well beyond.
“It’s beyond an evolution — it’s a revolution,” says Nigerian-American Ikhide Ikheloa, a critic and prominent observer of the scene.
It may have begun in 2003, when Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s first novel, Purple Hibiscus, was published — and not just by an American publisher but by a Nigerian one, too. By now, Adichie is the still-young doyenne of the contemporary African lit scene. Her recent novel, Americanah, found a perch on the New York Times list of top 10 novels of 2013 — just weeks before Beyoncé sampled one of Adichie’s TED talks on her new album.
But what makes the book such a good read—despite an anticlimactic ending—is that it's not meant as a cultural criticism, but more as a series of rich observations.
“Americanah” examines blackness in America, Nigeria and Britain, but it’s also a steady-handed dissection of the universal human experience — a platitude made fresh by the accuracy of Adichie’s observations.
Informations provenant du Partage des connaissances anglais.Modifiez pour passer à votre langue.
This book is for our next generation, nda na-abia n'iru: Toks, Chisom, Amaka,
Chinedum, Kamsiyonna and Arinze
For my wonderful father in this, his eightieth year
And, as always, for Ivara.
Premiers mots
Informations provenant du Partage des connaissances anglais.Modifiez pour passer à votre langue.
Princeton, in the summer, smelled of nothing, and Ifemelu like the tranquil greenness of the many trees, the clean streets and stately homes, the delicately shops and the quiet, abiding air of earned grace, it was this, the lack of a smell, that most appealed to her, perhaps because the other American cities she knew well had all smelled distinctly.
Citations
Informations provenant du Partage des connaissances anglais.Modifiez pour passer à votre langue.
...her relationship with him was like being content in a house but always sitting by the window and looking out.
How easy it was to lie to strangers, to create with strangers the versions of our lives that we have imagined.
She was taking two sides at once, to please everyone; she always chose peace over truth, was always eager to conform.
She rested her head against his and felt, for the first time, what she would often feel with him: a self-affection. He made her like herself. With him, she was at ease; her skin felt as though it was her right size.
She liked how he wore their relationship so boldly, like a brightly colored shirt. Sometimes she worried that she was too happy. She would sink into moodiness, and snap at Obinze, or be distant. And her joy would become a restless thing, flapping its wings inside her, as though looking for an opening to fly away.
Depression was what happened to Americans, with their self-absolving need to turn everything into an illness.
But he might be satisfied with suggestiveness alone; he would flirt outrageously but not do more, because an affair would require some effort and he was the kind of man who took but did not give.
Sometimes I feel that they live in a parallel universe of academia speaking academese instead of English and they don't really know what's happening in the real world.
There was something in him, lighter than ego but darker than insecurity, that needed constant buffing, polishing, waxing.
Alexa, and the other guests, and perhaps even Georgina, all understood the fleeing from war, from the kind of poverty that crushed human souls, but they would not understand the need to escape from the oppressive lethargy of choicelessness. They would not understand why people like him, who were raised well fed and watered but mired in dissatisfaction, conditioned from birth to look towards somewhere else, eternally convinced that real lives happened in that somewhere else, were now resolved to do dangerous things, illegal things, so as to leave, none of them starving, or raped, or from burned villages, but merely hungry for choice and certainty.
Nathan had told her, some months earlier, in a voice filled with hauteur, that he did not read any fiction published after 1930. "It all went downhill after the thirties," he said.
"You can't write an honest novel about race in this country. If you write about how people are really affected by race, it'll be too obvious. Black writers who do literary fiction in this country, all three of them, not the ten thousand who write those bullshit ghetto books with the bright covers, have two choices: they can do precious or they can do pretentious. When you do neither, nobody knows what to do with you. So if you're going to write about race, you have to make sure it's so lyrical and subtle that the reader who doesn't read between the lines won't even know it's about race. You know, a Proustian meditation, all watery and fuzzy, that at the end just leaves you feeling watery and fuzzy."
Race matters because of racism. And racism is absurd because it's about how you look. Not about the blood you have. It's about the shade of your skin and the shape of your nose and the kink of your hair.
"One of the things I've learned is that everybody in this country has the mentality of scarcity. We imagine that even the things that are not scarce are scarce. And it breeds a kind of desperation in everybody. Even the wealthy."
But of course it makes sense because we are Third Worlders and Third Worlders are forward-looking, we like things to be new, because our best is still ahead, while in the West their best is already past and so they have to make a fetish of the past.
She had thought of them as "big," because one of the first things her friend Ginika told her was that "fat" in America was a bad word, heaving with moral judgment like "stupid" or "bastard," and not a mere description like "short" or "tall."
She had read many of them, because he recommended them, but they were like cotton candy that so easily evaporated from her tongue's memory.
He was no longer sure, he had in fact never been sure, whether he liked his life because he really did or whether he liked it because he was supposed to.
There was something immodest about her modesty: it announced itself.
For months, the air in their flat was like cracked glass.
Ifemelu imagined the writers, Nigerians in bleak houses in America, their lives deadened by work, nursing their careful savings throughout the year so that they could visit home in December for a week, when they would arrive bearing suitcases of shoes and clothes and cheap watches, and see, in the eyes of their relatives, brightly burnished images of themselves. Afterwards they would return to America to fight on the Internet over their mythologies of home, because home was now a blurred place between here and there, and at least online they could ignore the awareness of how inconsequential they had become.
They said "soon" to each other often, and "soon" gave their plan the weight of something real.
Sometimes, while having a conversation, it would occur to Ifemelu that Aunty Uju had deliberately left behind something of herself, something essential, in a distant and forgotten place.
Ifemelu saw women on the sidewalks going to lunch from work, wearing sneakers, proof of their American preference for comfort over elegance, and she saw young couples clutching each other, kissing from time to time as if they feared that, if they unclasped their hands, their love would dissolve, melt into nothingness.
In her honors history seminar, Professor Moore, a tiny, tentative woman with the emotionally malnourished look of someone who did not have friends, showed some scenes from Roots, the images bright on the board of the darkened classroom.
Ifemelu sensed, between them, the presence of spiky thorns floating in the air.
They reminded Ifemelu of television commercials, of people whose lives were lived always in flattering light, whose messes were still aesthetically pleasing.
He looked people in the eye not because he was interested in them but because he knew it made them feel that he was interested in them.
But Kimberly's unhappiness was inward, unacknowledged, shielded by her desire for things to be as they should, and also by hope: she believed in other people's happiness because it meant that she, too, might one day have it. Laura's unhappiness was different, spiky, she wished that everyone around her were unhappy because she had convinced herself that she would always be.
It had become a routine of Ifemelu's visits: Aunty Uju collected all her dissatisfactions in a silk purse, nursing them, polishing them, and then on the Saturday of Ifemelu's visit, while Bartholomew was out and Dike was upstairs, she would spill them out on the table, and turn each one this way and that, to catch the light.
He talked about himself with such gusto, as though determined to tell her everything there was to know, and all at once.
Ifemelu sometimes sensed underneath the well-oiled sequences of Kimberly's life, a flash of regret not only for things she longed for in the present but for things she had longed for in the past.
In London, night came too soon, it hung in the morning air like a threat, and then in the afternoon a blue-gray dusk descended, and the Victorian buildings all wore a mournful air.
When Shan walked into a room, all the air disappeared.
Their mutual dislike was a smoldering, stalking leopard in the room.
"The idea of interviewing someone and writing a profile is judgmental," Ifemelu said. "It's not about the subject. It's about what the interviewer makes of the subject."
Lagos became a gentler version of itself, and the people dressed in their bright church clothes looked, from far away, like flowers in the wind.
Back home, she heard the hollowness of her steps as she walked from bedroom to living room to verandah and then back again.
There was a moment, a caving of the blue sky, an inertia of stillness, when neither of them knew what to do, he walking towards her, she standing there squinting, and then he was upon her and they hugged.
"I realized I could buy America, and it lost its shine."
She should bring it up, she owed him that, but a wordless fear had seized her, a fear of breaking delicate things.
"When I started in real estate, I considered renovating old houses instead of tearing them down, but it didn't make sense. Nigerians don't buy houses because they're old. A renovated two-hundred-year-old mill granary, you know, the kind of thing Europeans like. It doesn't work here at all. But of course it makes sense because we are Third Worlders and Third Worlders are forward-looking, we like things to be new, because our best is still ahead, while in the West their best is already past and so they have to make a fetish of that past."
She would not cry, it was ridiculous to cry after so long, but her eyes were filling with tears and there was a boulder in her chest and a stinging in her throat. The tears felt itchy. She made no sound. He took her hand in his, both clasped on the table, and between them silence grew, an ancient silence that they both knew. She was inside this silence and she was safe.
...who had run for Governor in the last elections, had lost, and as all losing politicians did, had gone to court to challenge the results.
Derniers mots
Informations provenant du Partage des connaissances anglais.Modifiez pour passer à votre langue.
En descendant de l'avion Lagos, j'ai eu l'impression d'avoir cess d'tre noire. Ifemelu quitte le Nigeria pour aller faire ses tudes Philadelphie. Jeune et inexprimente, elle laisse derrire elle son grand amour, Obinze, ternel admirateur de l'Amrique qui compte bien la rejoindre. Mais comment rester soi lorsqu'on change de continent, lorsque soudainement la couleur de votre peau prend un sens et une importance que vous ne lui aviez jamais donns ? Pendant quinze ans, Ifemelu tentera de trouver sa place aux tats-Unis, un pays profondment marqu par le racisme et la discrimination. De dfaites en russites, elle trace son chemin, pour finir par revenir sur ses pas, jusque chez elle, au Nigeria. la fois drle et grave, doux mlange de lumire et d'ombre, Americanah est une magnifique histoire d'amour, de soi d'abord, mais galement des autres, ou d'un autre. De son ton irrvrencieux, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie fait valser le politiquement correct et les clichs sur la race ou le statut d'immigrant, et parcourt trois continents d'un pas vif et puissant.
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> AMERICANAH, par Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie (Gallimard, 2016, Poche, 704 pages). — « En descendant de l’avion à Lagos, j’ai eu l’impression d’avoir cessé d’être noire. »
Ifemelu quitte le Nigeria pour aller faire ses études à Philadelphie. Jeune et inexpérimentée, elle laisse derrière elle son grand amour, Obinze, éternel admirateur de l’Amérique qui compte bien la rejoindre.
Mais comment rester soi lorsqu’on change de continent, lorsque soudainement la couleur de votre peau prend un sens et une importance que vous ne lui aviez jamais donnés?
Pendant quinze ans, Ifemelu tentera de trouver sa place aux États-Unis, un pays profondément marqué par le racisme et la discrimination. De défaites en réussites, elle trace son chemin, pour finir par revenir sur ses pas, jusque chez elle, au Nigeria.
À la fois drôle et grave, doux mélange de lumière et d’ombre, Americanah est une magnifique histoire d’amour, de soi d’abord mais également des autres, ou d’un autre. De son ton irrévérencieux, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie fait valser le politiquement correct et les clichés sur la race ou le statut d’immigrant, et parcourt trois continents d’un pas vif et puissant.
--Johnny Gimenez (Culturebox)
> AMERICANAH, par Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie (Gallimard, 523 pages).
Par François Richard (LaPresse.ca) : Americanah: lendemains de rêve américain ****
5 avr. 2015 ... Que se passe-t-il lorsque la Terre promise ne tient pas ses promesses? Americanah, troisième roman de l'auteure nigériane Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie – dont 500 000 exemplaires ont été vendus aux États-Unis et au Royaume-Uni –, dresse le bilan d'une émigration douce-amère, alliant réussites et renoncements.