en
Kamila Shamsie

Home Fire

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WINNER OF THE WOMEN'S PRIZE FOR FICTION
WINNER OF THE LONDON HELLENIC PRIZE
A BOOK OF THE YEAR IN THE GUARDIAN, OBSERVER, TELEGRAPH, NEW STATESMAN, EVENING STANDAND AND NEW YORK TIMES

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'The book for our times'
— Judges of the Women's Prize
'Elegant and evocative… A powerful exploration of the clash between society, family and faith in the modern world' Guardian

'Builds to one of the most memorable final scenes I've read in a novel this century' — New York Times
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Isma is free. After years spent raising her twin siblings in the wake of their mother's death, she is finally studying in America, resuming a dream long deferred. But she can't stop worrying about Aneeka, her beautiful, headstrong sister back in London — or their brother, Parvaiz, who's disappeared in pursuit of his own dream: to prove himself to the dark legacy of the jihadist father he never knew.
Then Eamonn enters the sisters' lives. Handsome and privileged, he inhabits a London worlds away from theirs. As the son of a powerful British Muslim politician, Eamonn has his own birthright to live up to — or defy. Is he to be a chance at love? The means of Parvaiz's salvation? Two families' fates are inextricably, devastatingly entwined in this searing novel that asks: what sacrifices will we make in the name of love?
A contemporary reimagining of Sophocles' Antigone, Home Fire is an urgent, fiercely compelling story of loyalties torn apart when love and politics collide — confirming Kamila Shamsie as a master storyteller of our times.
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NOW A BBC RADIO 4 BOOK AT BEDTIME
SHORTLISTED FOR THE INTERNATIONAL DUBLIN LITERARY AWARD
SHORTLISTED FOR THE COSTA NOVEL AWARD 2017

SHORTLISTED FOR THE DSC PRIZE FOR SOUTH ASIAN LITERATURE 2018
LONGLISTED FOR THE MAN BOOKER PRIZE 2017
Denne bog er ikke tilgængelig i øjeblikket
256 trykte sider
Udgivelsesår
2017
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Vurderinger

  • Refiloe Masitahar delt en vurderingfor 5 år siden
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Citater

  • b8443897393har citeretfor 3 år siden
    Grief manifested itself in ways that felt like anything but grief; grief obliterated all feelings but grief; grief made a twin wear the same shirt for days on end to preserve the morning on which the dead were still living; grief made a twin peel stars off the ceiling and lie in bed with glowing points adhered to fingertips; grief was bad-tempered, grief was kind; grief saw nothing but itself, grief saw every speck of pain in the world; grief spread its wings large like an eagle, grief huddled small like a porcupine; grief needed company, grief craved solitude; grief wanted to remember, wanted to forget; grief raged, grief whimpered; grief made time compress and contract; grief tasted like hunger, felt like numbness, sounded like silence; grief tasted like bile, felt like blades, sounded like all the noise of the world. Grief was a shape-shifter, and invisible too; grief could be captured as reflection in a twin’s eye. Grief heard its death sentence the morning you both woke up and one was singing and the other caught the song.
  • ☁️ ursula ☁️har citeretfor 7 år siden
    She ran over to her balcony. Moments later, he stepped out onto the street, rolling back his shoulders as if released from the weight of her company. He walked away without looking up, his stride long.
    Isma knelt down on the snow-dusted balcony floor and wept.
  • ☁️ ursula ☁️har citeretfor 7 år siden
    As she walked home she thought how much more pleasant life was when you lived among foreigners whose subtexts you couldn’t hear. That way you didn’t need to know that “Perhaps we’ll run into each other again” really meant “I have no particular wish to see you after this.”

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