Dans un climat d'heroic myth, celui d'un vieux château abandonné où règnent pour un soir des enfants lors d'une fête étrange, le jeune Augustin Meaulnes s'éprend d'Yvonne de Galais : toute sa vie, il n'aura de cesse de los angeles retrouver...
Ce livre partiellement autobiographique est avant tout l'histoire d'un adolescent qui ne veut pas grandir. Roman distinctive d'un auteur mort à vingt-sept ans au début de l. a. Première Guerre mondiale, Le Grand Meaulnes, devenu un véritable best-seller, a séduit des générations de lecteurs, et proceed, près d'un siècle plus tard, à fasciner les plus grands écrivains de notre temps.
Ainsi que l'écrit le romancier Pierre Michon : Ce livre t'apprendra clairement ce que tu sais déjà: le bonheur est un jeu d'enfants. Le bonheur et l. a. probability sont des jeux d'enfants. Le malheur aussi.
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Extra info for Le Grand Meaulnes
Whenever it stopped of its own accord at one of those holes bordered with thorns that farmers dig along the edge of their ploughed land, Charles, waking with a start, would quickly remember the broken leg, and try to recall all the fractures that he knew. It was no longer raining; day was breaking, and, on the leaﬂess branches of the apple trees, birds sat motionless, ﬂuﬃng out their tiny feathers in the cold morning wind. The ﬂat landscape extended as far as the eye could see, the clumps of trees round the farms making widely spaced splashes of dark purple on that vast grey surface which, at the horizon, merged with the dreary tones of the sky.
When he entered Les Bertaux his horse took fright, and shied violently. It was a prosperous-looking farm. Through the open half-doors of the stables you could see huge draught horses placidly feeding from brand-new mangers. A stream of vapour arose from the big manureheap that ﬂanked the buildings, and, standing out among the hens and turkeys, ﬁve or six peacocks––that luxury of Pays de Caux farmyards––were pecking for food. The sheep-run was long and the barn tall, with walls as smooth as the back of your hand.
Père Rouault embraced his future son-in-law. They put oﬀ any discussion of money matters, there was plenty of time for that, since the marriage could not decently take place before the end of Charles’s mourning, that is to say, not until the following spring. The winter passed in waiting. Mademoiselle Rouault busied herself with her trousseau. Part of it was ordered from Rouen, and she made herself nightgowns and nightcaps with the help of fashionplates which she borrowed. During the visits Charles made to the Madame Bovary farm they talked about the preparations for the wedding, wondering which room they’d use for the wedding feast, how many courses they’d have, and what particular dishes they’d serve.