Parametry
- 290 stron
- 11 godzin czytania
Więcej o książce
Although purportedly an account of episodes from the life of an ordinary person, Chernobyl Strawberries traffics in the births and deaths of whole worlds in a way that lingers in the mind long after the final page. Vesna Goldsworthy's written words are like pebbles in a cool, clear, fast flowing stream. This remarkable memoir marks the emergence of a real literary 'I have tasted Chernobyl strawberries. Every spring, winds from the Ukraine bring rain to the fruit nurseries in the hills south-west of Belgrade. In the city, the trees and cobblestones glisten. The scent of glowing berries - the colour of fresh wounds and as warm as live blood - spills through the streets around the market square. The fragrance lingers in the rusty tramway cars winding their way around the old sugar factory and the promise of summer overpowers for a while the familiar smells of sweat, tobacco, machine oil and polished wood.'
Zakup książki
Chernobyl Strawberries, Vesna Goldsworthy
- Język
- Rok wydania
- 2005
- Oprawa
- (twarda)
Metody płatności
Brakuje nam tutaj Twojej recenzji.
- Tytuł
- Chernobyl Strawberries
- Język
- angielski
- Autorzy
- Vesna Goldsworthy
- Wydawca
- Atlantic
- Rok wydania
- 2005
- Oprawa
- twarda
- Liczba stron
- 290
- ISBN10
- 1843544148
- ISBN13
- 9781843544142
- Seria
- Kategorie
- Tagi
- Tematy historyczne, Fikcja wojenna, Wojny, Wspomnienia, Dom, Rak & Nowotwory, Powieści autobiograficzne, Dziennikarze, Emigracja & Wygnanie, Jugosławia, Serbia, Czarnobyl
- Oryginalna nazwa
- Chernobyl strawberries
- Ocena
- 3,6 z 5
- Opis
- Although purportedly an account of episodes from the life of an ordinary person, Chernobyl Strawberries traffics in the births and deaths of whole worlds in a way that lingers in the mind long after the final page. Vesna Goldsworthy's written words are like pebbles in a cool, clear, fast flowing stream. This remarkable memoir marks the emergence of a real literary 'I have tasted Chernobyl strawberries. Every spring, winds from the Ukraine bring rain to the fruit nurseries in the hills south-west of Belgrade. In the city, the trees and cobblestones glisten. The scent of glowing berries - the colour of fresh wounds and as warm as live blood - spills through the streets around the market square. The fragrance lingers in the rusty tramway cars winding their way around the old sugar factory and the promise of summer overpowers for a while the familiar smells of sweat, tobacco, machine oil and polished wood.'