« Nous n’avons pas besoin de parler français, nous avons besoin du français pour parler » (André Belleau).
«More often the pair dined at Harry’s, where the steaks were as rare as the interruptions at the quiet table in the back of the restaurant that was reserved for them.»
Brad Wheeler, «Cathy Smith, who admitted to killing John Belushi, was a woman of mystery», The Globe and Mail, 26 août 2020.
(Une définition du zeugme ? Par là.)
«[…] I accordingly managed to be on the look-out in company with my cicerone at a quarter to ten, and the hour and the lady came with equal punctuality.»
Arthur Machen, The Great God Pan and Other Horror Stories, Oxford, Oxford World Classics, 2008, p. 45. Édition originale : 1894.
(Une définition du zeugme ? Par là.)
«In Europe, he had received a battlefield commission and a serious chest wound […].»
Philip Roth, «Defender of the Faith», dans Goodbye, Columbus and Five Short Stories, New York, Vintage International, 1993, 298 p., p. 162.
(Une définition du zeugme ? Par là.)
«The waitress appeared and leaned forward impressively. Carolyn gave her a full-tilt smile and ordered a martini, very cold, very dry, and very soon.»
Lawrence Block, The Burglar Who Painted Like Mondrian. A Bernie Rhodenbarr Mystery, New York, HarperCollins, 2005. Édition numérique. Édition originale : 1983.
(Une définition du zeugme ? Par là.)
(Accouplements : une rubrique où l’Oreille tendue s’amuse à mettre en vis-à-vis deux œuvres, ou plus, d’horizons éloignés.)
Et vous, vos jaquettes, vous en faites quoi ?
Block, Lawrence, The Burglar Who Painted Like Mondrian. A Bernie Rhodenbarr Mystery, New York, HarperCollins, 2005. Édition numérique. Édition originale : 1983.
«Like so many non-collectors, he’d disposed of the dust jackets of most of his books, unwittingly chucking out the greater portion of their value in the process. There are any number of modern firsts worth, say, a hundred dollars with a dust jacket and ten or fifteen dollars without it. Onderdonk was astonished to learn this. Most people are.»
Baker, Nicholson, U and I. A True Story, New York, Random House, 1991, 179 p.
«For Christmas my mother gave me Picked-Up Pieces, a collection that included the golf essay that had cracked her up a few years earlier : she said she liked the cover a lot, which was a wide-angle black-and-white shot of [John] Updike in his front yard holding out a handful of fallen leaves. I was secretly disappointed by the gift, because I wanted to own paperback fiction, not hardback collection of book reviews, and I threw out the jacket because I wanted the hardback books I did have on my shelf to look more like the books in university libraries, which, unlike the embarrassingly crinkly tenants of public institutions, weren’t shelved with their jackets on» (p. 29).