#polar nordique

[lecturedesam]

L'Île de Bornholm - Nouveauté polar scandinave 2024

Auteur : Katrine Engberg Titre : L’île de Bornholm Date de parution : 4 juillet 2024 EAN : 9782265157620 – Edition Fleuve edition     4eme de couverture :  Sur cette île, la tranquillité a un prix… Dans un parc de Copenhague, un cadavre est découvert dans une valise, scié en deux dans le sens de la longueur. L’affaire est confiée à Anette Werner et, pour sa première enquête solo, la jeune femme…

[gaboninfoslive]

Littérature : Aslak Nore, la nouvelle grande voix du polar scandinave

Connaissez-vous Aslak Nore, le nouveau maître du polar nordique ? Avec déjà plus de 70 000 lecteurs et lectrices en Norvège et des traductions dans une vingtaine de pays, il s’annonce déjà comme un romancier incontournable de sa génération. Avec la saga familiale des Falck, il vous embarque sur les terres froides de Norvège. Querelles entre héritiers, géopolitique, souvenirs terribles de la…

[aforcedelire]

Ceux d’à côté, M. T. Edvardsson

Après la Norvège, direction la Suède avec ce nouveau polar de chez Sonatine !

Mikael et Bianca Andersson ont quitté Stockholm pour élever leurs enfants William et Bella dans le calme de la petite ville de Köpinge. Dans cette bourgade résidentielle, tout le monde se connaît, et la bonne entente entre voisins fait office de loi. Du moins, en apparence : Mikael et Bianca découvrent vite que tout est loin d’être aussi idyllique. Entre Jaqueline, l’ex-mannequin croqueuse d’hommes, son fils Fabian, Ola, le voisin collant au passif agressif, et Åke et Gun-Britt, le couple de retraités avide de ragots, les tensions ne sont jamais loin. Bientôt, le malaise monte aussi au sein des Andersson… jusqu’à un accident qui va faire basculer leurs vies.

J’ai vraiment bien aimé ! Le roman est construit entre avant et après l’accident. On évolue entre 2015 et 2017, un chapitre sur deux ; les temporalités se mélangent, comme les points de vue, partagés entre Mikael, Jaqueline, et Fabian. Au début, on se dit que tout est beau, tout est rose… et on déchante très vite !

Petit à petit, on voit que chacun.e a quelque chose à cacher. On voit vraiment l’envers du décor, et c’est pas très jojo — et finalement, aucun des personnages n’est très jojo ! Des tensions par-ci, des flirts par-là… Côté personnages, il n’y en a pas un pour rattraper l’autre.

C’est un peu un huis-clos dans les limites d’un quartier résidentiel ! Une sorte de Desesperate Housewives version polar… ou Petits secrets entre voisins, mais en carrément mieux fait ! On accroche dès le début, et on est menés par le bout du nez jusqu’au chapitre final qui fait froid dans le dos.

14/01/2022 - 19/01/2022

[underleaves]

Here are Veli and Sisko, two other wolves and (theoretically) only secondary figures. Veli is a gray wolf, Sisko a Siberian wolf, and both grew up together and safely in an alliance of Animalïs wolf clans in Finland.

My rookies were gathered from all over Europe (and even a little beyond) by four persons from Austria and each seeking in one direction from their starting point on a journey of at least two years. Lupe was saved in Spain by the person who went west. When he was told that at the end of the trip he would likely meet other wolves from the north, he was kinda scared, especially since the clans of the north had never had the reputation of being particularly friendly.

But that was without counting the family spirit of the two Nordics who had already adopted with open arms a Jackal and a Polar fox in their new pack, and who literally piled up on their cousin. X’)

----------------------

Voici Veli et Sisko, deux nouveaux louloups et (théoriquement) seulement des figures secondaires. Veli est un loup gris, Sisko une louve de Sibérie et tous les deux ont grandi ensemble et protégés au sein d’une alliance de clans de loups Animalïs en Finland.

Mes rookies ont été rassemblés depuis les 4 coins de l’Europe (et même un peu au-delà) par quatre personnes partant d’Autriche et ratissant chacun dans une direction depuis leur point de départ sur un voyage de bien deux ans. Lupe a été récupéré en Espagne par la personne partie vers l’Ouest. Quand on lui a dit qu’à l’issu du voyage il rencontrerait probablement d’autres loups venant du nord, il n’en menait pas large, d’autant que les clans du nord n’avaient jamais eu la réputation d’être particulièrement amicaux.

Mais c’était sans compter l’esprit de famille des deux nordiques qui avaient déjà adopté à bras ouvert une Chacal et un Renard polaire dans leur nouvelle meute, et qui se sont littéralement jetés sur leur cousin. X’)

[kenpisaniwritesdirectsprodu-blog]

The Defection and Subsequent Resurrection of Nikolai Pushkin

A novel by Ken Pisani

CHAPTER ONE: NIKOLAI

On the day of Nikolai Pushkin’s scheduled flight to the United States, a van pulled up to the US embassy in Stockholm, Sweden, and four men with unsavory reputations and faces like pounded meat exited the vehicle. Another remained inside, maintaining his stranglehold on the steering wheel. Two of the four lumbered into the Embassy while the other two stood watch; minutes later, the first pair exited flanking a nervous young man, his face shielded by dark glasses and a Buffalo Sabres baseball cap. They all piled into the van, which sank noticeably under their weight, and took off at a high rate of speed. Right behind them was a rented Saab driven by a large KGB agent stuffed into the driver’s seat.

It was just ten days earlier that twenty-year-old Nikolai Pushkin had led the Soviet team to the gold medal at the 1989 Ice Hockey World Championship, scoring seven goals with five assists in the tournament. No contest, really, as the Soviets won all ten of their games, leaving the world’s best hockey players skittering like seals under the assault of a polar bear. It was the Soviets’ sixth consecutive World Championship and twenty-second overall, just two fewer than America’s New York Yankee baseball club. The team celebrated with a trip to a shopping mall in Stockholm, where a pair of KGB agents trailed Nikolai like a clumsy shadow.

Did they know? Had they guessed? Or was this just reasonable suspicion: one year earlier Nikolai had been drafted by the Buffalo Sabres in the 1988 NHL draft—a wasted gesture, albeit with the eighty-ninth pick in round five. Other teams followed suit as the Capitals used their sixth-round pick and the Nordiques their seventh on Soviet players; by the final pick of the draft eight more Soviet players had been earmarked by NHL teams—wasted late-round picks gambled against the history that no Soviet had ever played in the National Hockey League. And it remained unlikely, even in the waning days of the Cold War, that any might be allowed to leave the Motherland to join that capitalist enterprise.

Nikolai lifted a blazer off the rack without a look, pastel colored and big shouldered and two sizes too small. As he headed into the dressing room the two agents pretended to riffle through the shirt rack; quickly entranced by the unfamiliar fashions, they soon stopped pretending.

“Magnum P.I.,” the shorter one said in Russian, holding a Hawaiian shirt against himself, and the taller one laughed.

But the tall man’s mind was elsewhere, in the dressing room with Nikolai—not as a function of his job as it should have been, but in imagining him naked. During the course of the championship, he’d seen, under the guise of surveillance, all these sturdy young men in varying degrees of nudity in their locker room. On more than one occasion, he’d had to conceal or physically restrain his erection.

Alone in the dressing room, Nikolai stared at his reflection. He’d known fear in his life: fear of failure, or being cut from the team, of his coach’s wrath and the state’s power over him. In his youth he feared hunger, cold, the disapproval of his mother and the fate of his father to be inconsequential. And he harbored a terrible fear of flying. But nothing like the terror of what he was about to do, fright etched on the face that looked back at him like a soundless shriek.

It took a moment for both agents to realize that Nikolai had exited the opposite end of the dressing room and was covering ground in increasingly quicker strides toward the Gallerian’s exit. As they floundered to catch up Nikolai broke into a run, leaving the pair of them behind as he had so many defensemen on a breakaway. The revolving door slowed him like a full body check, and he emerged, stumbling, on the other side, startling the executive from the Buffalo Sabres waiting by the car, Don Woolf. Woolf waved and shouted, the cigarette dropping from his mouth, and both jumped into the vehicle and sped off as the two agents lurched from the same quadrant of the revolving door, the shorter one losing his shoe and watching it spin back inside the store. The taller one swore in Russian.

It wasn’t until he was several blocks away that Nikolai realized how, in addition to having just defected from the Soviet Union, he’d also stolen an ill-fitting blazer from the Gallerian.

Two weeks earlier Don Woolf, head of player development for the Sabres, had received a phone call from Nikolai, whom he’d met at the World Juniors in 1988 and presented with his business card of inscrutable letters to a teenager schooled in Cyrillic. Nikolai had called to tell him in fractured English that he wanted to “come over” to the Sabres of New York. It took a moment for Woolf to realize that he meant “defect.” Woolf couldn’t be sure the voice belonged to Nikolai and not a pretender for the Nordiques—a prank phone call would be just like them, the fucking frogs. He asked “Nikolai” to tell him something only he could know about their meeting.

Nikolai replied something about Woolf’s hands—like hockey mitts, and that his own had disappeared in Woolf’s handshake.

Woolf had in fact remarked at the time about Nikolai’s hands, surprisingly delicate for a hockey player. But Nikolai’s power wasn’t in his fists; he was all about speed and motion, a blur on skates with breakaway speed, Soviet discipline, and the indefatigable energy of youth. Woolf believed Nikolai was a shortcut to beating Edmonton, and he wanted him enough to risk an international incident.

The Sabres had been eliminated in the first round just a week earlier, losing to Boston for the fourth time in as many playoffs, and Woolf had little interest in watching the eight teams still chasing the Stanley Cup. The next day he and Sabres general manager Jack Horstmeyer were on a plane to Sweden, and shortly thereafter in a car speeding away from the Gallerian, and now at the United States Embassy, where a career consular officer tried to talk all three of them out of their plan.

“I’m not sure he qualifies for political asylum,” she said. “This isn’t exactly Svetlana Alliluyeva we have here. He’s a hockey player.”

“America’s taken grandmasters of chess, ballerinas, conductors, playwrights, violinists, tenors, pianists…” Horstmeyer noted. “This man is an artist with a hockey stick.”

“Who the hell is Svetlana Ali-who-ha?” Woolf asked.

“Are you really sure that you want to leave home?” she turned her attention to Nikolai, imagining that he might wish to be included in this discussion of his future. “You’ve got a family there, and you’ll never see them again. Also, as a member of the Red Army this isn’t just a defection—you’ll be charged as a deserter.”

Nikolai’s fear was gone now, dispersed in the act of his defection. He explained his desire to win the Stanley Cup, see Cats, meet Koch.

“Koch?” Woolf wondered.

“Ed Koch, mayor of New York?” she asked. “You understand that Buffalo, New York, isn’t the same as—”

“America’s greatest state,” Horstmeyer interrupted. “Everyone heartsNew York. You can do all those things if you come with us.”

“You’re Jewish,” Woolf realized why he wanted to meet Koch.

“Yes! Yes he is,” Horstmeyer took his opening and ran with it. “Fleeing the well-documented persecution of Soviet Jews.”

The consular official scribbled something, adding with undisguised skepticism, “And if in so fleeing, he happens to do so in the direction of this Stanley Cup…?”

She wasn’t really certain what a Stanley Cup was, but she could tell by the way the three men lapsed into a dreamlike state in the silence following her unfinished sentence that it was more important to them than politics, international relations, or world peace.

“This is a big step,” she pleaded with Nikolai to understand, sensing the worldview of a twenty-year-old Russian hockey player to be as small as the gap between the sutures in his brow. “Have you really thought this through?”

Nikolai repeated the phrases Stanley Cup, Cats,and Koch, and with that plans were put in motion to whisk him to Buffalo where none of those things had ever been present…but with Nikolai’s help, perhaps one of them might.

There remained obstacles: Nikolai was without his passport. It was routine for Soviet players traveling internationally to surrender their passports to the KGB agents who traveled with them against the eventuality Nikolai had just committed. It would take time to secure the necessary paperwork for Nikolai to travel and enter the United States. In the meantime, the consular officer assured them, it was likely KGB agents would attempt to stop Nikolai’s defection.

“The Soviets fear every defection might lead to a wave,” she declared. “It’s also a terrible propaganda blow, for America to flaunt as proof that our way of life is better.”

“Which it is,” Woolf urged, hoping to dispel any second thoughts in Nikolai, who had none.

The means by which the Soviets might undermine his defection were these: they’d attempt to contact Nikolai, give him a final chance to change his mind before committing an irrevocable act; they’d take advantage of his youth and naivety, and if the idea of never seeing his family weren’t enough, they’d add the threat of reprisals against them for his act of treason. And if persuasion failed, the KGB might even attempt to kidnap him, international law be damned.

The final hurdle belonged to Nikolai, as he was terrified of flying.

He could cite casualties of the year’s flight accidents so far: a British Airways crash in England, 47 people dead; an Italian charter in the Azores, 144 tourists killed; a cargo door blown off a flight near Hawaii, 9 passengers pulled to their deaths. He concluded with Pan Am,Lockerbie, bomb, delivered with the same affect but none of the hope with which he’d intoned Stanley Cup, Cats, Koch.

“You didn’t walk here to Stockholm, son,” Woolf reminded Nikolai.

Nikolai had in fact flown to Stockholm the same way he’d always traveled internationally with the Soviet team by air: heavily sedated, and carried onboard by his teammates. On arrival, propped up between two of them long enough to pass customs, he was dumped on a skycap’s cart and wheeled through Stockholm’s Arlanda Airport to a waiting bus.

(Nikolai was never available for practice on a travel day but with the recuperative powers of youth, he’d play with speed and accuracy a day later as if nothing had happened. It was like removing the batteries from a toy before shipping, and replacing them on arrival to watch it perform perfectly.)

The American embassy would offer no safe haven for Nikolai while it prepared his paperwork, a task that could take as long as a week. Having arranged only to spend a couple of days in Stockholm, Woolf and Horstmeyer had only their overnight bags; Nikolai was even less well prepared for a lengthier stay on the run—beyond the clothes on his back, all he owned in the world wasthe too-snug blazer he’d stolen from the Gallerian, and his gold medal from the Worlds. Woolf’s solution to that immediate problem was to purchase a stack of T-shirts from a street vendor, allowing them to blend in with the rest of the tourists touting Swedish icons Garbo, Björn Borg, and ABBA.

They headed to the Swedish countryside to stay in small motels and inns for a single night only before moving on to another, continuous motion designed to confound pursuit. While a pair of middle-aged Americans and a youth of indeterminate origin who rarely spoke were arguably more conspicuous in these smaller locales, it seemed preferable to the city where the Soviet team had dominated the news for the past two weeks and Nikolai was likely to be recognized.

(Not that Woolf or Horstmeyer were happy with the plan. One of the perks of their positions with the Sabres was the opportunity to escape Buffalo under the guise of player development. Aside from adding a speedy Soviet to their roster, both had been eager to flee “The City of No Illusions” and enjoy the pleasures of Stockholm, global metropolis and birthplace of the Nobel Prize, home of museums, concert halls, Jugend architecture, an opera house, and even a jazz festival. None of which they gave a shit about; they were far more interested in Stockholm’s more than one thousand bars and restaurants, and a world-class brothel left winger Mikael Andersson used to brag about before they’d traded him to Hartford after scoring one lousy goal against fucking Edmonton in the playoffs last year.)

By the third day both Horstmeyer and Woolf were struggling with insomnia, an effect of the northernmost situation of the region that, at this time of year, saw the sun rising at just after four in the morning and remaining aloft and bright for eighteen hours before not quite setting around 9:30 p.m. Even then, the sky never darkened completely, retaining an azure glow until the cycle repeated.

None of this seemed to faze Nikolai, who slept well and ate even better, feeding the enormous appetite of youth on reindeer and meatballs (both incongruously served with jam), fruit soups made of rose hips and blueberries, gravlax, and an uncountable variety of pickled herring. The kid would eat anything, even blodpalt, dumplings made from animal blood. A traditional Swedish breakfast in the countryside consisted of sandwiches of hard cheese, cold cuts, cucumber and tomatoes served on crisp bread, and soupy adornments of porridge, yogurt, marmalade, chocolate. Woolf and Horstmeyer would have killed for a plate of bacon, but at least the coffee was strong.

Nikolai stayed fit with a series of calisthenics overseen by Woolf: squats, sit-ups, push-ups, core twists, butt lifts, and sprints. They avoided skating at the risk of calling attention to themselves, but on the fifth day they passed a rink and neither Sabres executive could resist the opportunity to see in action the player for whom they’d flown across the ocean and spent the past five days eating gravlax and porridge.

Nikolai strapped on a pair of rented skates and proceeded to blister the ice into shavings. He could stop on a dime and change direction like a darting fish, and skate backward faster than most of the Sabres could skate forward at full speed. By the time he started mimicking shooting with an invisible stick, a small crowd had gathered to watch and Horstmeyer put an end to their impromptu workout…but neither he nor Woolf could stop grinning.

Nikolai was always quiet, but at night he’d withdraw to a near-invisible state. It was in this quietude, away from workouts and skating and moving from place to place, that his family invaded his thoughts. He’d grown up with his younger sister Valeriya in the small village of Kalach, located at the terminus of a nineteenth-century railway built to transport lumber from the region’s dense forests. The villagers drew their water from wells, no one owned a car, and there were no telephones. Not that there was anyone to call in the vast outside world, nor was anyone interested in calling them. Because Kalach also had no schools, Nikolai traveled by train to nearby Sankin for his education, while his father Yuri remained functionally illiterate. Yuri trained dancing bears for a living, a staple of rural Russian entertainment, which Nikolai’s mother had found delightful as a sixteen-year-old peasant but less so as children and the future came.

Nikolai’s athleticism gave the family prominence. He was recruited by the state and drilled in the rigors of the Soviet hockey system, and finally inducted into the Red Army where he skated alongside Russia’s great stars. The Pushkins were placed in a Moscow apartment, one they had all to themselves while many of their neighbors did not. Willfully ignoring her early life among squalor and dancing bears, Valeriya grew up a true Muscovite, a child of minor privilege in a place where privilege was no minor thing.

Nikolai’s hockey prowess had pulled his family from the bog of poverty like a tractor. It was unavoidable that they were all about to suffer for Nikolai’s sins.

Watching from the embassy window, Woolf and Horstmeyer were pleased to see the quartet of thugs they’d hired, along with their imposter defector, drive away in the decoy van. Also watching with them was Nikolai, grinning stupidly, greatly amused in his sedation to somehow see himself borne away. He’d remember none of this; nor would he recall the drive to the airport or the struggle to remain standing, propped under each arm by Woolf and Horstmeyer as they made their way through the terminal and onto the waiting TWA flight to Buffalo via JFK International Airport. He wouldn’t remember the swivel seats in first class, or how Horstmeyer and Woolf visibly relaxed once the plane was aloft, or the celebratory cigars and bourbon that followed. He wouldn’t remember the brief, adrenal fear that came with becoming suddenly aware of his airborne state, or yet another pill pressed between his lips by Woolf and washed down with bourbon as he passed out once more.

He wouldn’t even remember being half-carried early the next morning through JFK, where they dodged a waiting phalanx of reporters, or attempts to rouse him from his stupor with several cups of steaming coffee so he could respond more lucidly to waiting immigration officials about his unresolved alien status.

Horstmeyer presented documents from the US Embassy in Sweden and stated Nikolai’s intention to apply for political asylum. Nikolai nodded dully in agreement. When asked about the consequences of returning to the Soviet Union should his petition be denied, it was Woolf who answered:

“Seven years in prison and a death sentence.”

Whether it was the sudden realization of the consequences of his actions, or a combination of jet lag and a pot of coffee, Nikolai’s response was to vomit the contents of his stomach. To the immigration officials administering the interview, this seemed only to reinforce Nikolai’s case, and he was granted entry into the United States. He seemed relieved until informed there was one more flight to Buffalo.

[framblog-universe]

L'UNITE ALPHABET de Jussi Adler Olsen

L’UNITE ALPHABET de Jussi Adler Olsen

  L’Unité Alphabet est le service psychiatrique d’un hôpital militaire où, pendant la Seconde Guerre mondiale, les médecins allemands infligeaient d’atroces traitements à leurs cobayes, pour la plupart des officiers SS blessés sur le front de l’Est. Bryan, pilote de la RAF, y a survécu sous une identité allemande en simulant la folie. Trente ans ont passé mais, chaque jour, il revit ce cauchemar…

[jessicacousin35]

#coupdecoeur Salut les p’tits grammes ! Je viens de finir l’excellentissime « Complot » de @nicolasbeuglet C’est un cataclysme ! Si vous aimez comme moi, les polars nordiques genre Stieg Larsson, vous allez être servi! C’est très documenté, extrêmement pertinent, passionnant et palpitant! Un véritable page turner qui me réconcilie avec les auteurs français ! Merci Monsieur ! Pour vous donnez envie de le lire? 🕵🏼‍♀️L’histoire : Sarah est inspectrice en Norvège. Elle est prise en charge par les forces armées directement chez elle en hélicoptère pour à se rendre vers une destination inconnue. Elle arrive bientôt sur une île coupée de tout pour découvrir le corps sans vie de la Première ministre dans une mise en scène très particulière. L’inspectrice et son ami journaliste et français vont mener une enquête à travers plusieurs pays et plusieurs époques. 📝Mon avis: c’est très rythmé et accrocheur. C’est bien documenté et les descriptions et actions sont fabuleuses! Un véritable page turner à lire absolument !!!! #roman #thriller #romanpolicier #romanfrancais #nicolasbeuglet #complot #talent #coupdecoeur #pageturner #bookstagramfrance #bookstagram https://www.instagram.com/p/CgkKMW1KfNoYwr-gTYh9GSSozCpmrtGwssPvpo0/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[ebouks]

Product

Moins 18° – Stefan AHNHEM (2020) « Impossible de lâcher ce polar nordique. Un sus Pense à couper le souffle. » The Sunday Post Après une course folle, une BMW plonge dans les eaux de la gare maritime d’Helsingborg. Quelques heures plus tard l’identité du passager défraie la chronique : Peter Brise, star nationale des technologies de l’information, était promis à un avenir florissant.Que s’est-il…

[lecturedesam]

Delivrez nous du mal

Auteur : Johannes Selaker Titre : Delivrez nous du mal ISBN :9782487149090 Format numerique – Éditions Mera Date de sortie officiel : 27 juin 2024     Johannes Selåker est un auteur de thrillers et un journaliste qui a travaillé pour l’Aftonbladet, Expressen et Aller Media, à la fois comme directeur des actualités et comme rédacteur en chef. Il a également dirigé quelques-unes des plus grandes…

[charlesendshere]

🌹

"Le soir elle lit des polars américains et nordiques. Elle trouve que les français sont trop chiants, qu'ils essaient d'y mettre trop de philosophie galvaudée. Véronique aime les phrases sèches des polars norvégiens et danois, dans un monde où les vieux briscars alcooliques et malaimables sont réellement géniaux, au fond. Elle aime les forêts de sapin où les enquêteurs respirent le froid et la dureté des hommes. Elle aime bien que les sales types attrapent d'autres sales types, au lieu d'être juste des pauvres cons."

[aforcedelire]

La vertu du mensonge, Ellen G. Simensen

À Hønefoss en Norvège, le policier Lars Lukassen enquête sur le meurtre d’un ancien camarade de classe. Peu après, on apprend qu’une silhouette sinistre rôde autour des cours d’écoles et tourmente des enfants en leur chuchotant des histoires effrayantes… et dans le même temps, une nouvelle enseignante, Johanna, rejoint la classe de la petite Annie, la fille de Lars. Lars tombe sous le charme de la jeune femme, mais Johanna semble distante, secrète ; quels secrets a-t-elle amenés dans les profondes forêts de Hønefoss en fuyant ses terres natales près fjord de Nordgulen ?

Un nouvel ouvrage des éditions Gallmeister que je me suis empressée de dévorer ! C’est un (excellent) premier roman, et un très bon polar norvégien. On est plongés dans ces grands espaces froids, dans les fjords et les forêts. La nature est présente, et participe à planter le décor.

Il y a beaucoup de personnages, et au début j’avoue que j’étais un peu perdue avec les différentes temporalités et les différents points de vue. Cela étant, c’est un roman vraiment addictif, et j’avais vraiment envie de voir où ça allait me mener !

La quatrième de couverture (et le titre) parle beaucoup de mensonges, mais je trouve que ce n’est pas tant que ça le cœur de l’histoire : pour moi, La vertu du mensonge est un roman sur l’emprise qu’a passé sur notre présent. C’est aussi une histoire qui aborde beaucoup de thèmes importants (et pas forcément faciles) : le harcèlement scolaire, les traumatismes… et autre chose, mais je ne peux pas en parler sans spoiler.

Ce que j’ai particulièrement apprécié, c’est que les pièces du puzzle se mettent lentement en place, et c’est agréable : on prend vraiment le temps, et au plus on a d’indices, au plus on veut savoir ce qui s’est passé ! Se pourrait-il que les deux affaires sur lesquelles travaille Lars et le passé de Johanna soient liés ? Mystère et boule de gomme ! En tout cas, j’étais vraiment à fond dans ma lecture, et j’ai adoré !

11/01/2022 - 13/01/2022

[rainbowtheque]

Betty

Titre : Betty

Auteur : Arnaldur Indriðason

Roman policier

Maison d’édition : Points

Disponible en version numérique et papier - Nombre de pages : 240

Âge conseillé : adulte

Résumé

Dans ma cellule je pense à elle, Betty, si belle, si libre, qui s'avançait vers moi à ce colloque pour me dire son admiration pour ma conférence. Qui aurait pu lui résister ? Ensuite, que s'est-il passé ? Je n'avais pas envie de ce travail, de cette relation. J'aurais dû voir les signaux de danger. J'aurais dû comprendre bien plus tôt ce qui se passait.

J'aurais dû... J'aurais dû... J'aurais dû... Maintenant son mari a été assassiné et c'est moi qu'on accuse. La police ne cherche pas d'autre coupable. Je me remémore toute notre histoire depuis le premier regard et lentement je découvre comment ma culpabilité est indiscutable, mais je sais que je ne suis pas coupable.

Identités représentées :

Lesbienne

Thématiques présentes :

Policier, passion, suspense, manipulation, adultère, meurtre, Islande

la thématique LGBT+ n'est pas au coeur de l'histoire

TW : Violences physiques, emprisonnement

Avis de Naboutix

Ça se lit rapidement, c'est très intense, et tellement surprenant. On ne s'ennuie pas une seconde ! Et surtout : ça se relit ;)

[georgettelahaine]

Parce-que j’avais littéralement dévoré Né d’aucune femme de Franck Bouysse, j’étais bien curieuse de découvrir cet auteur sous format policier. Loin des polars très noirs,  glauques et nordiques que j’ai l’habitude de lire, cet ouvrage aussi fin que subtil m’a déroutée. Bouysse partage avec Pierre Lemaître la noirceur de l’âme humaine  dans son plus simple appareil, à travers la simplicité des gens normaux, la banalité des sentiments et des destins sans lendemain. Louis est un prof de bio sans ambition qui se retrouve séquestré du jour au lendemain sans n’avoir aucune idée du pourquoi lui ? ni du comment va-t-il s’en sortir ? Bouysse retrace habilement au fil des chapitres l’introspection de son personnage central. Petit à petit, Louis semble comprendre (à sa plus grande peur) ce qu’il fait enchaîné dans un sous sol moisi. J’ai particulièrement adoré le portrait du monde professoral que nous dresse l’auteur. Une pensée particulière pour cette professeure de français que nous avons peut être rencontrée dans nos vies, celle qui donne tout à ses élèves et à son triste engagement pédagogique. Le dernier chapitre me glace encore, tant il est dérangeant et malheureusement criant de réalisme. Un polar un tantinet sociologique et profondément poignant. Le thème de la séquestration n’y est que secondaire et c’est ce qui m’a particulièrement plu. Ce qui importe, ce sont les petits gestes et les rencontres de la vie ordinaire.

[framblog-universe]

MACBETH de Jo Nesbo Dans une ville industrielle ravagée par la pauvreté et le crime, le nouveau préfet de police Duncan incarne l’espoir du changement.

[jessicacousin35]

Salut les p’tits grammes ! J’espère que ça se rafraichit chez vous 🥵 Aujourd’hui, je vous parle de #lecri de #nicolasbeuglet C’est le premier roman que je lis de l’auteur et j’avoue que je ne suis pas déçue! (Litote) 🕵🏼‍♀️L’histoire : Déjà, ça se passe en Norvège (et là, je me dis que ça commence bien!) dans un hôpital psychiatrique (génial!) avec une mort suspecte😈 Une inspectrice au bout du rouleau et après, tout s’enchaîne! Notre très distante et froide Sarah va devoir parcourir le monde (et le temps) pour parvenir au bout de son enquête (aidée par un petit Frenchy 😁) 📝Mon avis: Je crois que je viens de trouver l’équivalent de Stieg Larsson, mesdames, messieurs! C’est efficace, bien construit, bien écrit et documenté ! Enfin, un auteur français à la hauteur des grands maîtres nordiques ! Merci Monsieur !!! Coup de cœur assuré pour les fans du genre mais pas que! Un roman à lire absolument véritable page turner. Je crois que je vais suivre cet auteur de plus près ! Et vous? Vous l’avez déjà lu? #coupdecoeur #litterature #polar #thriller #crimebook #lecture #roman #lectureachevée #chroniqueurlitteraire #avislecture #bookstagram #bookstagramfrance https://www.instagram.com/p/CgLvgweqAY1zoglVw7CDAb9x8_TMZNF6tWNhXY0/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[lecturedesam]

La poupée

  Auteur : Yrsa Sigurdardottir Titre : La poupée Date de parution : 6 septembre 2023 – Edition Actes Sud EAN : 9782330181307 – 395 pages   Yrsa Sigurðardóttir est titulaire d’une licence en ingénierie civile de l’université d’Islande ainsi que d’une maîtrise dans le même domaine, obtenue en 1997 à l’université Concordia de Montréal. Elle exerce son métier d’ingénieur civile en Islande…