en
Christa Wolf

Cassandra

Giv mig besked når bogen er tilgængelig
Denne bog er ikke tilgængelig i streaming pt. men du kan uploade din egen epub- eller fb2-fil og læse den sammen med dine andre bøger på Bookmate. Hvordan overfører jeg en bog?
Cassandra, daughter of the King of Troy, is endowed with the gift of prophecy but fated never to be believed. After ten years of war, Troy has fallen to the Greeks, and Cassandra is now a prisoner, shackled outside the gates of Agamemnon's Mycenae. Through memories of her childhood and reflections on the long years of conflict, Cassandra pieces together the fall of her city. From a woman living in an age of heroes, here is the untold personal story overshadowed by the battlefield triumphs of Achilles and Hector.

This stunning reimagining of the Trojan War is a rich and vivid portrayal of the great tragedy that continues to echo throughout history.

'A beautiful work.' —
Bettany Hughes
'
Cassandra is fierce and feverish poetry that engages with the ancient stories while also charting its own path. Filled with passionate and startling insight into human nature.' —
Madeline Miller, author of The Song of Achilles
'Christa Wolf wrote books that crossed and overcame the divide of East and West, books that have lasted: the great, allegorical novels.' —
Günter Grass
'A sensitive writer of the purest water — an East German Virginia Woolf.' —
Guardian
'One of the most prominent and controversial novelists of her generation.' —
New York Review of Books
Denne bog er ikke tilgængelig i øjeblikket
381 trykte sider
Copyrightindehaver
Bookwire
Oprindeligt udgivet
2013
Udgivelsesår
2013
Har du allerede læst den? Hvad synes du om den?
👍👎

Citater

  • Ivana Melgozahar citeretsidste måned
    It was for his sake, whom I hated, and for the sake of my father, whom I loved, that I had avoided screaming their state secret out loud. There was a grain of calculation in my self-renunciation. Eumelos saw through me. My father did not.
  • Ivana Melgozahar citereti går
    It was one of those dreams which I realised at once was significant, which I did not understand immediately but did not forget. I was walking alone through a strange city; it was not Troy, but Troy was the only city I had ever seen before. My dream city was larger, more extensive. I knew it was night, yet the moon and the sun were in the sky at the same time and were struggling for dominance. I had been appointed judge (by whom it was not stated): which of the two heavenly bodies could shine more brightly? There was something wrong about this contest, but try as I might, I could not find out what. Until finally, disheartened and anxious, I said that of course everyone knew and could see that it was the sun that shone most brightly. ‘Phoebus Apollo!’ a voice cried in triumph
  • Ivana Melgozahar citereti går
    I lay awake, tortured myself wondering whether he equated me with Herophile, the stubborn old high priestess. For my benefit – and his – I compiled the differences. To my amazement I found there was not much to choose between us for anyone looking on from the outside. The difference I took such pride in amounted to nothing more than my inner reservations. This was not enough to satisfy him, Aeneas. Was it enough for me?

På boghylderne

fb2epub
Træk og slip dine filer (ikke mere end 5 ad gangen)