#i've been reading every comic by neil gaiman i can get my hands on

[maddiesbookshelves]

Blurry Ramsès blessing a book, once again

[grandhotelabyss]

One more video from the same channel, on the "Who follows Cormac McCarthy?" question.

(Sometimes formulated as the "Who follows Cormac McCarthy and Toni Morrison?" question—an uneasy literary truce in the culture war, where conservative white men and radical women of color each get a representative great novelist, thus missing the radicalism of McCarthy and the conservatism of Morrison. Philip Roth seems to have been forgotten entirely. But I digress.)

Of our YouTuber's candidates, I fully endorse DeLillo and Ishiguro, two of my all-time favorites, never mind "living."

(With a gun to my head, I might even choose DeLillo over McCarthy and Morrison, despite the potential Italian-American identity politics involved. Or at least, in those three oeuvres, of which DeLillo's is admittedly the most uneven, the single book I'd choose for the proverbial desert island is probably Underworld.)

I agree that Erdrich and Silko are in the running, especially for those interested in McCarthy's own subject matter and regional commitments, even if I have quarreled with Silko's politics and sometimes found Erdrich a bit, well, middlebrow. Except for the visionary Housekeeping, written before her puritan turn, I dislike the preachy Marilynne Robinson.

I've never read a word of James Ellroy; please let me know if I must. For other "genre" candidates—I dabble in science fiction and comics, not crime fiction—one might propose Samuel R. Delany or Alan Moore. I read one book of Murakami's, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, sometimes acclaimed his masterpiece; I liked it, didn't love it, and it did not and would not occur to me to rate him above DeLillo.

Our YouTuber flippantly dismisses Joyce Carol Oates. I've advanced only inches into her vast oeuvre—a handful of short stories and essays, one book on writing, two short novels, one long novel—but it was enough to convince me that she's serious, her admittedly discrediting late turn to the genre of the Twitter shitpost notwithstanding. His dismissal of Stephen King may go without saying; I hate George Saunders; I agree that Franzen, along with David Mitchell, Neil Gaiman, and even to some extent Louise Erdrich, failed to follow through on their early promise.

I insist on the inclusion of Cynthia Ozick, not least because she does something like Marilynne Robinson's project right, with a much fuller, more anguished, and more properly abrasive acknowledgement of what happens in the soul of the believer-artist when an iconoclastic faith confronts the artistic imagination. Now 95, she released her most recent novel at age 93; I thought it was excellent. I concede, though, that it's probably her body of work as a whole—encompassing essays, stories, and novels, and possibly giving essays and stories pride of place—that is great rather than any one novel, great as some of her novels (The Cannibal Galaxy, Foreign Bodies) are.

(For at least one essay of my own, and often multiple essays, on every writer named above save Ellroy, please see the REVIEW INDEX on my main site.)

All of these writers are elderly or near enough—the youngest are in their 60s—and greatness is perhaps not stirring as obviously as we'd like in the under-60 set. It's harder to identify, though, due to the diminution of mainstream publishing, the proliferation of self-published work, and everything's having moved online. The novel isn't dead, but it is elsewhere. Some of us are doing what we can, and I concede I am probably too immersed in my own vision to judge adequately my more exact contemporaries.

[mrssimply]

21th Justice

I really loved The Sandman Netflix Show. I never read the comic but it made me want to, I've not acquired it yet but I will. When I say this is a Sandman AU, it's more that I liked Neil Gaiman's idea about concepts being personalized and I wanted to try my hand at it. Also loved the last episode of the show, though I know it's not everyone's favorite, I really felt for poor Calliope. This led to the fic you're gonna read now.

Also, we're back on the "let's torture Kerry bandwagon", please forgive me.

Also taking revenge on Kovachek for being an ass in the game >:] 

Thank you all for your fidelity during this event. I won't lie, it's been really intense and I'll be both sad and relieved when it's done (3 more days!). It's been really intense and the editing process was really done in a rush, I'm sorry for all the remaining mistakes! I might read the works over in a month or two to try and tidy it a bit more.

In the meantime, please enjoy!

You can find the prompt list here.

Every fic will be posted on my AO3 Account here.

The divine being appears in the circle of light as expected, and Kovachek’s eyes reflect the triumph he feels. It worked just as expected. 

The god looks around with calm eyes. If his attitude reflects his surprise, he doesn’t appear particularly worried about the situation.

“Ah,” he says. He looks male, even if Kovachek knows he’s liable to change his appearance at will. The Gods have their preferences, but they are fluid in gender and bodies, from what he understood. 

This one is naked, dressed only with threads of gold falling from a large necklace of the same precious metal. The strings loop across his chest and go around his hips, but they’re not hiding much. He’s also one of the most beautiful creatures the struggling artist has ever seen, and he has to fight the urge to fall on his knees when clear blue eyes look his way.

“This is embarrassing,” the divinity observes. 

“I summoned you, Divine Inspiration, and I’ll only free you if you help me.”

The God sighs and walks across the circle, toeing the runes, and feeling their energy. They're strong, they will hold him captive just fine, he concludes with internal dismay.

“We really need to update our policy on summoning, this is outdated,” the creature mumbles, ignoring Kovachek as he finishes his observation of his cage. The artist frowns, this is not how he envisioned the meeting going. He thought there would be more begging to be let out.

“Fine,” Creativity declares, turning back to his captor, “what’s your name?”

“Lilian Kovachek,” the man declares before wincing. Maybe he shouldn’t have given his name to the divinity he’s just captured. He doesn’t intend to keep him here, just long enough to wrench a deal out of him.

“I’m Kerrylis. You can call me Kerry,” the Divine Inspiration replies with a charming smile that makes Kovachek’s heart beats a little faster. Strange, because he’s never reacted to men before. 

“Well, Kerry,” he starts, clearing his throat, “here is what I want: I need you to make me into a rockstar.”

The God, Kerry, looks at him with mischievous eyes.

“Sure, got any talent?”

“Of course.”

“Let’s hear it.”

His smile is sweet, so Lilian doesn’t suspect a thing. He takes his guitar and gets into position, one leg up on a chair, before breathing in to focus. When he starts playing, he finds it easier than other times, and the realization makes something wicked soar inside him: it’s already working.

He stops after maybe ten minutes, only to find the divinity holding his hands over his ears.

“You done?”

Embarrassed and angry, Kovachek nods.

“Yeah, I get why you had to dig up really ancient and outdated blood rituals. You’ll never make it on your own,” the divinity casual throws. “My muses clearly didn’t took an interest in you. You should drop it, I’m sure you have a lot of other qualities.”

“You will make me a rockstar, or you’ll stay here forever!”

“Forever isn’t that long for me,” the God notes, “but sure, if I’m here, I’m not out there inspiring the really talented people, and that would be a loss. So I’ll cooperate.”

“Good,” Kovachek pronounces with dark satisfaction.

“So, let’s start by practicing guitar six hours a day, that should do it.”

“What?”

“Oh, what? You thought I would just snap my fingers and suddenly you would be famous? For that, you should have called Destiny or the Fates. Me and my muses, we nudge people in the right direction, we relieve art blocks, we inspire, but I can’t do nothing about technique. You need to practice,” the God explains with another disarming smile. He is standing with his arms crossed and hips cocked to the side. It moves the golden strings and gives an even better view of his perfect body. 

Kovachek feels ideas for lyrics grow inside of him, alongside a few other ideas not music related. Cheeks flaming, he turns away and sits on the chair he was propped against.

“That’s bullshit. I can feel you working your magic. You’re filling my head with weird ideas to distract me, but I won’t be fooled.”

He takes the old grimoire lying on the floor.

“I got a few more things to try out in there.”

For the first time, he sees a flash of worry in the creature’s eyes when he takes notice of the book.

“You know my job is only to inspire, I don’t put ideas into your head, I just make them blossom. Whatever you’re thinking about, it’s coming from you.”

“Sure. Now shut up and let me concentrate.”

-

Kerry is seated in the middle of the circle. It’s been a week, and it’s been as dreadful as he imagined it would be. The last time this happened, it lasted for a month, and the guy became very violent by the end. 

Kovachek is still hesitant for now. Kerry knows the grimoire contains the means of wrenching power out of him, so in theory, the talentless man could force Kerry to give up part of his gift to him. But it’s also said to be really painful for both parties, and highly risked for the receiver, so Kovachek is probably keeping that for last, as always. They love to think they’re good people.

“Hey Ker,” a voice says in the dark and the god wipes around. In his weakened state, he didn’t feel the appearance happening.

“Love,” he breathes and crawls to the edge of the circle. He wishes he could touch him.

The other divinity looks at the circle, then at the grimoire left open by the desk, and his eyes sadden. He’s been subjected to that, too, maybe more often than Kerry even, because his power has been even more ardently coveted. 

They are lovers. Well, everyone is Love’s lover, but he has favorites and Kerry is one of them. Together, they made great things: songs, paintings, sculptures, books… Together, they inspired innovations and a better society. Together, they also inspired madness, in their darkest moods. In their names, wars have been fought, too. 

“You shouldn’t be here," Kerry whispers, "the Mother knows what idea it will put into his head, and you know how fast they act on ideas when I’m near."

Love just shrugs.

“I felt your pain.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry? You’re the one suffering.”

“I don’t want you to be pulled into this mess. Please V, go away,” he begs, using the pet name they have together. It makes Love smile and hold up his hands, as if they could touch. The invisible barrier between them is an abomination, and Kerry feels anger rise inside him, reflected in V’s eyes. How dare a flimsy human separate them!

“He won’t hold you long, Adored, not this time,” Love promises. 

It makes Kerry suspicious.

“What did you do? Who did you call?”

V’s smile is wicked, and folly shines in his eyes for a second. Oh, this mortal doesn’t know what will hit him: he’s made Love mad, and he knows no bounds when he’s like this.

“I don’t like to be apart from you.”

Kerry snorts.

“Oh yeah? Want to talk about that time you fell in love with that mortal? What was her name? The warrior chick?”

“Panam,” V replies serenely with a soft smile.

“Well, I sure didn’t see much of you during that time.”

“You know me, it’s in my nature.”

They are all like this: fickle in their attention, changing, evolving, sometimes recluse, sometimes the life of the party. Kerry’s remark is more for the sake of banter than anything else. Panam was a great leader, her tribe thrived under her leadership, and Kerry even granted her a few bright ideas. He’s not jealous, not anymore.

“And right now,” V goes on, “I’m pissed because someone thought they could torture you, posess your gift by force, and take you away from me.” 

His gaze is covetous as his fiery eyes trails over Kerry’s form.

“Warn him. If he doesn’t release you tomorrow, tell him Justice will come.”

-

Kerry has a complicated relationship with Justice. He’s righteous, uncompromising, and swift in his punishment. You don’t argue with Justice, he can read intents and hearts better than any other, and judges by that, and that only. He doesn’t see the rest, for he’s mostly blind to begging and justifications. He asks for compensation and retribution, sometimes in the form of war, sometimes with blood and violence, often by using karma. 

On one hand, the wars Justice triggered led to many good ideas and artworks being lost because their creators died in the conflict. It infuriates Kerry to no end, which is why he sort of hates Justice for stepping all over his hard work. On the other hand, humans' many fights for justice brought social innovations, and forced humans to act creatively to adapt and survive. It also led to a few great symphonies and hymns, of painted masterpieces, architectural wonders, and other great artistic or scientific productions. Which is why Kerry loves Justice: for the way his influence leads the human heart to be better, and for the ideal he represents.

So Kerry waits until the sun rises and Kovachek gets down. He looks like he’s in a bad mood, which makes the Divine Inspiration grimaces. He knows people are generally less reasonable when they don't get quality sleep, which seems to be the case here.

“Bad dreams?” Kerry guesses. “A guilty conscience would do that to you.”

Kovachek just glares at him and goes through the book again. 

“You’re more stubborn than I imagined. I didn't think what I asked would be so hard for you.”

“It’s not hard, per se, it’s just not how it works.”

“Shut up.”

“Ok.”

A minute of silence where Kovachek peruses the book with angry muttering, before Kerry tries his luck.

“I had a visit last night. A warning.”

The mortal raises his head, obviously surprised.

“The circle prevents you from calling for help.”

“I didn’t call. He came on his own. He tends to do that when you whisk away one of his lovers.”

“Who?”

“Doesn’t matter. He has a good heart, though. He told me to tell you that if you don’t release me today, Justice will come.”

Kovachek pales noticeably, before he starts going through the cursed book again.

“You won’t find anything in there, you can’t stop Divine Justice,” Kerry explains, pacing back and forth in the circle. Now that he knows his captivity is coming to an end, he feels restless. “The Great flood, the plagues of Egypt? That’s him. He can’t be stopped, can’t bargain with him, and he’s got no mercy once he’s passed judgment. Wonder what he will decide once he’s weighed your deeds.”

Kovachek, now visibly nervous, comes closer to the circle.

“There must be something, there is always something with your lot.”

“Not with him. He’s the one that ends the tales, he is the moral at the end of every story. Each time one of you mortal fucks with one of us, it ends the same way: you get punished, and who do you think delivers the punishment?”

As Kerry gives his explanation, Kovachek’s face goes through several expressions: confusion, then realization, and fear, before it suddenly switches to calculation. 

“You’re lying, you’re just trying to threaten me into releasing you, but I won’t fall for it. There is only one way for you to be free, and that’s if I decide it.”

Kerry rolls his eyes, but he can’t say he’s surprised. Mortals are surprisingly prideful and self assured for a race that doesn’t live more than a century in the best case.

“Well, don’t come crying when you suffer the Divine Punishment.”

The man laughs, wild around the edges. 

“There is no mention of that in the book. It would have told me. There is everything to know about you in there.”

“Yeah, wonder why there is no chapter on Justice. Its many authors never got to write that part. They were dead before they could,” Kerry declares ominously, turning his back on his captor.

Kovachek rounds the circle to face him again, and his expression is now deformed by mad glee.

“You know what? If what you’re telling me is true, then I better get the most of you now. I was hesitant to use that spell, but…”

Kerry freezes.

“Please don’t,” the God of Creativity implores, but it only makes his jailer laugh. 

“Ah, now you’re begging, that’s right, that’s exactly how I like you.”

“You don’t understand what you’re doing,” Kerry tries to reason with him, knowing it’s hopeless. It never works: when they get like this, they have to see it through. “This will only worsen your case, and it’s really unpleasant for both of us, I can tell you.”

Kovachek shrugs and goes back to the book, pursuing the content of the opened page.

“I need to prepare. You should do that, too. As you said, it’s gonna be very painful.”

-

Kerry lies curled in the middle of the circle, shivering madly. He feels weak, and he hates it. Feeling mortal is dreadful, he doesn’t know how they bear it. Then again, they don’t know anything else, except when they steal a God’s power, just like Lilian Kovachek did tonight. It’s not just that he feels mortal, it’s that he feels like a mortal who is dying and it’s excruciating. He won’t die, he knows it, he is a concept and concepts can’t die, but still. At the moment, he really hates it.

Footsteps echo in the ether, making Kerry perk up. He can’t raise his head, but he moves it slightly so he can see black leather boots appear out of the void. The new apparition comes closer, and in his wake comes another, and this one doesn’t make a sound. 

The first one crouches in front of Kerry, and blows out the smoke of his cigarette. Back in the 90’, Justice decided to live among humans for a while. He regularly has existential crises, when he sort of disappears to the corners of the universe, or does that kind of thing. That time, not only did he start a revolution that would make the Berlin Wall fall, but he adopted a rocker look and a new name he’s been adamant they call him by. He traded the Sword of Justice for a metal arm and a gun, and his weighing scales for a guitar, arguing justice needed a new face. Kerry thinks it’s his best appearance since the dawn of time, though he has a weak spot for his years as Athena. 

“Hello, Ker,” Justice says.

“Hi Johnny,” The Divine Inspiration whispers back before closing his eyes. The relief he feels overwhelms him for a moment and tears burn behind his eyelids.

“Don’t cry,” Justice says softly, “I’m here now.”

“I know. I just — It hurts.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll make them pay,” says another voice, young and full of rage. Revenge. Justice brought his daughter, the one he had with Violence. With her two brothers, Retribution and Retaliation, they form a hellish trio of pain, violence and suffering, and Kerry really doesn’t like them. But at least, he didn’t bring War. Johnny is known to be overdramatic, so Kerry wouldn’t have put it past him. He would have been surprised if Justice had summoned his other daughter, the one he had with Love, whose name is Forgiveness. They have a complicated father/daughter relationship: the father finds his daughter too lenient, the daughter finds her father too swift in his punishments.

But right now, Kerry is glad it’s Revenge here and not her half sister, because in his weakened state, he can’t find it in himself to be kind. 

Johnny rounds the circle slowly, testing its resistance, looking at the runes that compose it.

“That one was a bit more intelligent than the last. It can only be undone by his voice. Get him, Revenge.”

“Yes father,” she replies, not bothering to hide the glee in her voice.

“Always that damn book,” Johnny comments, looking at the wretched thing. 

They can’t destroy it. As a general rule, they can’t interact with human things, and can only influence mortals. The book has great self-preservation instincts: it knows how to call to the deepest fears in the human heart, and irrevocably, they save it from its fate, just in case.

Justice goes back to Kerry and kneels as close as he can.

“I shouldn’t have waited. Love shouldn’t have allowed him even a chance. We know their kind; when they are desperate, they get violent.”

“It’s in his nature. He believes they can act charitably. He sees the potential in their heart,” Kerry replies weakly, opening tired eyes to look at Johnny, who scoffs.

“I know their heart and their mind. I know them best, Love is a fool.”

“A fool you love.”

“Who doesn’t?” Johnny replies with a smile and a shrug.

Kerry extends a hand until only the invisible barrier separates them.

“Thanks for coming.”

“Always.”

A ruckus starts upstairs and grows closer, making Johnny turn to the entrance of the room. Soon, Revenge appears, her face deformed by manic triumph: every fiber of her being thrums with anticipation.

“Kneels,” she orders, and doesn’t leave Kovachek any opportunity to disobey, hitting him behind the knees to force him down. The man looks pale and afraid, and loses the last of his colors when he catches sight of the strange rocker in the room.

“Who are you?” He still asks.

“I think you know who I am. You’ve been warned I would come.”

Kovachek glances at Kerry before his gaze goes back to Johnny.

“I thought he was bluffing to free himself!”

“Interesting how when mortals play at being god, they always doom themselves. I think the myths are very clear on that. And yet, and yet…” Johnny chides like he’s feeling benevolent. Kerry knows better, but Kovachek doesn’t.

“I didn’t want to play god, I just wanted… I just needed some inspiration, and he wouldn't give it to me, it's… It’s his fault, I was only — I just needed help.”

“I see, you had a good reason to summon him in a prison, then,” Johnny goes on. Behind the wannabe god, Revenge smiles with all her teeth.

“Yes, I never wanted to harm him, never wanted to take it by force! I wanted to bargain, that’s all, but he was being difficult!”

Johnny walks to the man and paces back and forth in front of him like he’s in deep reflection. The other two divinities know perfectly it’s just for show: his mind is made up. Justice is swift. 

Then, he stops and faces Kovachek.

“When your race evolved enough to develop higher thoughts and we started to appear in your minds, we made a deal with you. There is a code of conduct, rules to follow when a mortal wants to ask the favor of a God. Do you know them?” he asks, using the Voice of Justice.

Kovachek seems to think hard, but despite his newfound power, he appears at a loss to find the correct answer. He shakes his head.

“You pray to us. That is the way. You offer us precious things, and if we find your gift worthy, if we find you worthy, then we bestow upon you a favor. Now tell me, Kovachek: did you pray to him? Did you offer your most prized possession in the thin hope he would look upon you and find you worthy of his exquisite nature?”

During Johnny’s speech, Kerry found the strength to sit up, which allows him to see Kovachek’s face as he hesitates to answer.

“I…”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Justice’s voice booms through the room, making the walls shake and the floor tremble. The mortal cowers and over him, like a cursed bird of prey, Revenge laughs.

“You broke the rules by trying to make yours what is beyond your understanding. I can feel it already, eating up your mind.”

Kerry looks at his captor, his wide eyes and ashen face, and he can tell the man hasn’t slept: too many ideas and thoughts prevented him from sleeping while the magic now running through his veins tried to find an outlet. Soon, it will turn on him if he doesn’t use it, and the god fears what he would do with it. He won’t get the opportunity, this time.

“Release the power you stole, let it go back to its rightful owner,” Johnny orders, looming over Kovachek.

“I… I don’t know how.”

“Close your eyes,” Kerry answers with a tired voice, kneeling in the circle with difficulty, “my power is an energy coursing through your veins. Feel it, and drive it toward your hands. Form a chalice with your palms, and imagine it pouring out of your fingers into the chalice.”

As he speaks, the divinities watch the man obey, and slowly, light drips out of his fingers and coalesce into a soft looking ball of light. It grows until it’s the size of a basketball, before it travels through the room and toward Kerry.

The god breathes it in and feels the energy fill his veins once more. He sags on the floor again, focusing on leashing the wild power into his body.

“Now, break the seal,” Johnny demands and Kovachek hesitates. He’s weak and trembling, but the relief he feels now that the foreign power has left him makes him too confident. Johnny crouches in front of him and grasps his chin between his fingers, the ones made of steel.

“I don’t think you understand your situation here, buddy,” he says, switching back to his normal voice, using a falsely cajoling tone. “You played and you lost.”

“You can’t undo the seal without me,” Kovachek retorts hotly, seeing what he hopes is a way out.

Johnny’s eyes flicker to Revenge, who suddenly grabs the mortal’s hair to drag him forward. She bashes his face to the ground, right next to the first row of ancient runes that make up Kerry’s prison.

“I’ve been known to be fair,” Johnny goes on with an ironic smile. “If you cooperate, I shall make your punishment less… painful.”

“If I break the seals, do you promise not to hurt me?”

“Are you trying to bargain with the Divine Justice?” Revenge asks, incredulous.

“I won’t release the seals without a few guarantees!”

“That one has balls,” Johnny mutters as he lights a new cigarette.

Revenge shrugs and once again, bashes the man’s head to the ground, until blood starts to spill over the runes. Kovachek tries to protect his face, and move around wildly. With a shriek, Revenge releases him and he falls forward. His hands smudge the runes as he put them under him to soften his landing. Dizzy and with blood dripping in his eyes, he feels more than he sees the seal break.

“That’s cheating,” he garbles.

“You cheated first,” Revenge whispers back, bending over him to say it right in his ear, “an eye for an eye…”

As she holds him down, Johnny steps into the circle and crouches to gather Kerry in his arms. 

“I can stand on my own,” Creativity protests, but his companion just ignores him and straightens with a grunt, holding him tight against himself. Kerry loops his arms around Johnny’s neck and hides his face, he’ll deal with his dignity later, right now, this just feels nice.

“Burn everything,” Johnny tells Revenge as the ether opens to him. The book will probably survive, it always does, but that’s a problem they can’t face just by all three of them, especially with Kerry in that state.

“Please,” Kovachek begs as Revenge grins at him. 

Johnny passes the portal, leaving the man to his fate at the hand of his violent daughter.

[maddiesbookshelves]

Coraline, by Neil Gaiman & P. Craig Russell (Illustrator)

When Coraline steps through a door in her family's new house, she finds another house, strangely similar to her own (only better). At first, things seem marvelous. The food is better than at home, and the toy box is filled with fluttering wind-up angels and dinosaur skulls that crawl and rattle their teeth. But there's another mother there and another father, and they want her to stay and be their little girl. They want to change her and never let her go. Coraline will have to fight with all her wit and all the tools she can find if she is to save herself and return to her ordinary life.

I've been wanting to read the book for a while, and then during my internship I started reading every Neil Gaiman comics I could get my hands on (minus Sandman and his work for DC). I really love the movie so seeing this version of Coraline was weird, but it helped me see them as two separate things, which was a plus. I've got to admit, I don't really remember my reading experience, I only remember liking it a lot and it making me want to rewatch the movie and finally read the book, haha

French version under the cut

Lorsque Coraline passe une porte dans la nouvelle maison de ses parents, elle découvre une autre maison, étrangement semblable à la sienne (mais en mieux). Au début, tout semble merveilleux. La nourriture y est meilleure qu'à la maison, et le coffre à jouets est rempli d'anges mécaniques volants et de crânes de dinosaures qui rampent et claquent des dents. Mais il y existe aussi d'autres parents, copies conformes des vrais avec des boutons cousus à la place des yeux. Coraline devra employer toute son intelligence et tous les outils à sa disposition pour se sauver et retourner à sa vie ordinaire.

Je voulais lire le livre depuis un moment puis pendant mon stage je me suis mise à lire tous les comics de Neil Gaiman auxquels j’avais accès (sauf Sandman et ses comics pour DC). J’aime énormément le film donc voir cette version de Coraline était bizarre, mais ça m’a aidé à les voir comme deux choses séparées, ce qui est un plus. Je vous avoue que je me souviens pas bien de ma lecture, je me souviens juste avoir beaucoup aimé et avoir eu envie de revoir le film et d’enfin lire le livre, haha