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S'està carregant… | 7,799 | 502 | 913 | 
(3.74) | 379 | A haunting novel about the tenuous friendship that blooms between two disparate strangers--one an illegal Nigerian refugee, the other a recent widow from suburban London. |
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 Apunta't a LibraryThing per saber si aquest llibre et pot agradar. ▾Converses (Enllaços) No hi ha cap discussió a Converses sobre aquesta obra. » Mira també 379 mencions ▾Relacions entre sèries i obres Pertany a aquestes col·leccions editorials
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Informació del coneixement compartit en anglès. Modifica-la per localitzar-la a la teva llengua. | |
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Informació del coneixement compartit en anglès. Modifica-la per localitzar-la a la teva llengua. | |
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Informació del coneixement compartit en anglès. Modifica-la per localitzar-la a la teva llengua. | |
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| Llocs importants |
Informació del coneixement compartit en anglès. Modifica-la per localitzar-la a la teva llengua. | |
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| Premis i honors |
Informació del coneixement compartit en anglès. Modifica-la per localitzar-la a la teva llengua. | |
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| Epígraf |
Informació del coneixement compartit en anglès. Modifica-la per localitzar-la a la teva llengua. Britain is proud of its tradition of providing a safe haven for people fleeting [sic] persecution and conflict. - From Life in the United Kingdom: A Journey to Citizenship (UK Home Office, 2005)  | |
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| Dedicatòria |
Informació del coneixement compartit en anglès. Modifica-la per localitzar-la a la teva llengua. For Joseph | |
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| Primeres paraules |
Informació del coneixement compartit en anglès. Modifica-la per localitzar-la a la teva llengua. Most days I wish I was a British pound coin instead of an African girl. | |
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| Citacions |
Informació del coneixement compartit en anglès. Modifica-la per localitzar-la a la teva llengua. (Little Bee, p.13/14:) "...and I ask you right here please to agree with me that a scar is never ugly. That's what the scar makers want us to think. But you and I, we must make an agreement to defy them. We must see all scars as beauty (...) Because take it from me, a scar does not form on the dying. A scar means, "I survived". Through the lobby of the Home Office building, the public sector shuffled past in its scuffed shoes, balancing its morning coffee on cardboard carry trays. The women bulged out of M&S trouser suits, wattles wobbling and bangles clacking. The men seemed limp and hypoxic--half-garroted by their ties. Everyone stooped, or scuttled, or nervously ticked. They carried themselves like weather presenters preparing to lower expectations for the bank-holiday weekend. We knew what we had: we had nothing. Your world and our world had come to this understanding. Even the missionaries had boarded up their mission. They left us with the holy books that were not worth the expense of shipping back to your country. In our village our only Bible had all of its pages missing after the forty-sixth verse of the twenty-seventh chapter of Matthew, so that the end of our religion, as far as any of us knew, was My God, my god, why hast thous forsaken me? We understood that this was the end of the story. That is how we lived, happily and without hope. I was very young then, and I did not miss having a future because I did not know I was entitled to one. Compromise, eh? Isn't it sad, growing up? You start off like my Charlie. You start off thinking you can kill all the baddies and save the world. Then you get a little bit older, maybe Little Bee's age, and you realize that some of the world's badness is inside you, that maybe you're a part of it. And then you get a little bit older still, and a bit more comfortable, and you start wondering whether that badness you've seen in yourself is really all that bad at all. You start talking about ten percent. There were people in that crowd, and strolling along the walkway, from all of the different colors and nationalities of the earth. There were more races even than I recognized from the detention center. I stood with my back against the railings and my mouth open and I watched them walking past, more and more of them. And then I realized it. I said to myself, Little Bee, there is no them. This endless procession of people, walking along beside this great river, these people are you. This isn't about the decisions you made anymore. Because the biggest thing in your life, the thing that killed Andrew and the thing that means you can't sleep, is something that happened without you. | |
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| Darreres paraules |
Informació del coneixement compartit en anglès. Modifica-la per localitzar-la a la teva llengua. | |
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| Nota de desambiguació |
Informació del coneixement compartit en anglès. Modifica-la per localitzar-la a la teva llengua. The Other Hand (UK) / Little Bee (US) | |
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Informació del coneixement compartit en alemany. Modifica-la per localitzar-la a la teva llengua. | |
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▾Referències Referències a aquesta obra en fonts externes.  Wikipedia en anglès (2)
▾Descripcions del llibre A haunting novel about the tenuous friendship that blooms between two disparate strangers--one an illegal Nigerian refugee, the other a recent widow from suburban London. ▾Descripcions provinents de biblioteques No s'han trobat descripcions de biblioteca. ▾Descripció dels membres de LibraryThing |
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