Brick Lane 3 vélemény
At the tender age of eighteen, Nazneen's life is turned upside down. After an arranged marriage to a man twenty years her elder she exchanges her Bangladeshi village for a block of flats in London's East End. In this new world, where poor people can be fat and even dogs go on diets, she struggles to make sense of her existence – and to do her duty to her husband. A man of inflated ideas (and stomach), he sorely tests her compliance.
But Nazneen submits, as she must, to Fate and devotes her life to raising her family and slapping down her demons of discontent. Until she becomes aware of a young radical, Karim.
Against a background of escalating racial and gang conflict, they embark on an affair that finally forces Nazneen to take control of her life…
Most olvassa
Most nem olvassa senki.
Várólistán 4
Népszerű értékelések
Régóta szemeztem a könyvvel, MC blogján olvastam róla jókat, később többször a kezemben volt könyvesboltban, csak sokallottam az árát, meg mindenféle nyűgség volt. Persze hogy kiderült, hogy ezt a történetet most 2010-ben, most Londonban kellett elolvasnom, hogy halljam a bengáli hangokat és akcentust, hogy láthassak közelről bangladeshi nőket és hogy beleszagoljak a Brick Lane levegőjébe. Mindaz a sok változás, amiről Monica Ali írt Nazneen életével kapcsolatban, mindazok megtörténtek az enyémben is, képletesen. Ettől lett ez személyesen ötcsillagos nálam és szívcsücsökbe vackolódó kedvenc.
Maga a történet kellően lassú ahhoz, hogy alaposan ráérezzünk a dolgok menetére. És tele van nagyon gyors mondatokkal. Igazán érdekes úgy végigolvasni történeteket, hogy utánuk közvetlenül kapjunk az írónőtől egy tömör sort, amiben képes akár hónapokat is tömöríteni. Vagy ugyanilyen sűrű szavakkal jellemezni egy helyzetet. Jó stílus. A regény története akár száz százalékra is igaz lehet, de nem is ez a fontos, hanem hogy a végkicsengést teljesen alaposan a fejünkbe csöpögtesse. Hogy pontosan mikor is döntünk jól.
Közvetlenül az olvasás után megnéztem a filmet is belőle. Gyönyörű fényképezés. Kicsit kihagyott részek, de a fő szál hibátlan benne. De az a fényképezés és az a hangulat! Félelmetesen borzongatóan jó, és lehet rajta sírni sokat. Jó értelemben.
Népszerű idézetek
The village was leaving her. Sometimes a picture would come. Vivid; so strong she could smell it. More often, she tried to see and could not. It was as if the village was caught up in a giant fisherman's net and she was pulling at the fine mesh with bleeding fingers, squinting into the sun, vision mottled with netting and eyelashes. As the years passed the layers of netting multiplied and she began to rely on a different kind of memory. The memory of things she knew but no longer saw.
p217
She was on her knees and her hands were flat against the mat. Midday prayer. Everything must be kept clear now. All the complaints, all the anxieties and lists that made up her life must be set aside. She could be grateful. She could flush her body and mind with gratitude. There should be no room for other thoughts. Although she could think about God. And the words of the prayer. Glory be to my Lord, the Most High. God is greater than everything else. And remember the baby too, because God would not want her to forget that. Hasina, also. Because she was grateful for her safety, for the letter safely delivered. The baby she could not forget because he was scrambling around her belly, looking for footholds just beneath her ribs. She could not get her forehead down to the mat. It simply was not possible. There was a special dispensation for pregnant women. If she chose to, Nazneen could do namaz from her chair. She had tried it once and it made her feel lazy. But it was nice that the imams had thought of it. Such was the kindness and compassion of Islam towards women. Mind you, if any imam had ever been pregnant, would they not have made it compulsory to sit? That way, no one could feel it was simply down to laziness. How did I come to be so foolish, thought Nazneen. What is wrong with my mind that it goes around talking of pregnant imams? It does not seem to belong to me sometimes; it takes off and thumbs its nose like a practical joker.
p69
'Any news of the promotion?'
'My husband says they are racist, particularly Mr Dalloway. He thinks he will get the promotion, but it will take him longer than any white man. He says that if he painted his skin pink and white then there would be no problem.' Chanu had begun, she had noticed, to talk less of promotion and more of racism. He had warned her about making friends with 'them', as though that were a possibility. All the time they are polite. They smile. They say 'please' this and 'thank you' that. Make no mistake about it, they skake your hand with the right, and with the left they stab you in the back.
'Well', said Razia, 'this could be true.'
Nazneen turned the words over. This could be true. She waited for more. Razia was unpicking a thread from her jumper.
Nazneen said, 'My husband says it is discrimination.'
'Ask him this, then. Is it better than our own country, or is it worse? If it is worse, then why is he here? If it is better, why does he complain?'
p72
But he was philosophical. 'You see, all my life I have struggled. And for what? What good has it done? I have finished with all that. Now, I just take the money. I say thank you. I count it. ' He put a ball of rice and dal in his mouth and held it inside his cheek. 'You see, when the English went to our country, they did not go to stay. They went to make money, and the money they made, they took it out of the country. They never left home. Mentally. Just taking money out. And that is what I am doing now. What else can you do?'
These speeches he made in the simple language of a simple – though not ignorant-type – man. But when he took out his books in the evenings he spent at home, he began to speak differently.
p214
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