Descripciones mejoradas de Syndetics:

From the day her first Vampire Chronicle was published, critics and readers--readers by the hundreds of thousands--have been mesmerized by the writings of Anne Rice.nbsp;nbsp;And with the publication of The Witching Hour , she created for us yet another world and legend, and both the chorus of praise and the multitudes of her readers once more increased.

Now, Anne Rice brings us again--even more magically--into the midst of the dynasty of witches she introduced in The Witching Hour .

At the center:nbsp;nbsp;the brilliant an beautiful Rowan Mayfair, queen of the coven, and Lasher, the darkly compelling demon whom she finds irresistible and from whose evil spell and vision she must now flee.nbsp;nbsp;She takes with her their terrifying and exquisite child, one of "a brood of children born knowing, able to stand and talk on the first day."

Rowan's attempt to escape Lasher and his pursuit of her and their child are at the heart of this extraordinary saga.nbsp;nbsp;It is a novel that moves around the globe, backward and forward through time, and between the human and demonic worlds.nbsp;nbsp;Its many voices--of women, of men, of demons and angels, present and past--haunt and enchant us.nbsp;nbsp;With a dreamlike power, the novel draws us through twilight paths, telling a chillingly hypnotic story of occult and spiritual aspirations and passion.

Extracto provisto por Syndetics

One In the beginning was the voice of Father. "Emaleth!" whispering close to her mother's belly while her mother slept. And then singing to her, the long songs of the past. Songs of the Glen of Donnelaith and of the castle, and of where they would sometime come together, and how she would be born knowing all that Father knew. It is our way, he said to her in the fast language, which others could not understand. To others it sounded like humming, or whistling. It was their secret tongue, for they could hear syllables which ran too fast for the others to grasp. They could sing out to each other. Emaleth could almost do it, almost speak-- "Emaleth, my darling, Emaleth, my daughter, Emaleth, my mate." Father was waiting for her. She had to grow fast and grow strong for Father. When the time came, Mother had to help her. She had to drink Mother's milk. Mother slept. Mother cried. Mother dreamed. Mother was sick. And when Father and Mother quarreled, the world trembled. Emaleth knew dread. But Father always came after, singing to her, reminding her that the words of his song were too rapid for Mother to comprehend. The melody made Emaleth feel as if the tiny round world in which she lived had expanded and she was floating in a place without limits, pushed hither and thither by Father's song. Father said poetry which was beautiful, especially words that rhyme. Rhymes made a thrill pass through Emaleth. She stretched her legs and her arms, and turned her head this way and that, it felt so good, the rhymes. Mother didn't talk to Emaleth. Mother wasn't supposed to know that Emaleth was there. Emaleth was tiny, said Father, but perfectly formed. Emaleth already had her long hair. But when Mother talked, Emaleth understood her; when Mother wrote, Emaleth saw the words. Emaleth heard Mother's frequent whisper. She knew that Mother was afraid. Sometimes she saw Mother's dreams. She saw the face of Michael. She saw fighting. She saw Father's face as Mother saw it and it made Mother sad. Father loved Mother, but Mother made him fiercely angry, and when he struck Mother, Mother suffered, even falling, and Emaleth screamed, or tried to scream. But Father always came after, while Mother slept, and said Emaleth must not fear. That they would come together in the circle of stones at Donnelaith, and then he told stories to her of the old days, when all the beautiful ones had lived on an island, and it was Paradise, before the others and the little people had come. Sad and sorrowful the weakness of humans and the tragedy of the little people, and is it not better that all be driven from the Earth? "I tell you the things I know now. And things that were told to me," he said. And Emaleth saw the circle of stones, and the tall figure of Father as he was now, strumming the strings of the harp. Everyone was dancing. She saw the little people hiding in the shadows, spiteful and angry. She did not like them, she did not want them to steal down into the town. They loathe us instinctively, said Father, of the little people. How can they not? But they do not matter now. They are only a lingering from dreams which failed to come true. Now is the hour. The hour for Emaleth and Father. She saw Father in the old days, with his arms outstretched. This was Christmas and the glen was filled with snow. The Scots pines were close. Hymns rose from the people. Emaleth loved the rise and fall of the voices. There was so much she must see and learn later on. "If we are separated, my beloved, come to the glen at Donnelaith. You can find it. You can do this. People are searching for Mother, people who would divide us. But remember, you will be born into this world knowing all you need to know. Now can you answer me?" Emaleth tried but she could not. "Taltos," he said, and kissed Mother's belly, "I hear you, darling, I love you." And while Mother slept Emaleth was happy, because when Mother woke, Mother would cry. "You think I wouldn't kill him in an instant?" Father said to Mother. They were fighting about Michael. "I would kill him just like that. You leave me, and what makes you think that won't happen?" Emaleth saw this person, Michael, whom Mother loved and Father did not. Michael lived in New Orleans in a great house. Father wanted to go back to the great house. He wanted to possess it, it was his house, and it made him deeply angry that Michael was there. But he knew he must bide his time. Emaleth had to come to him, tall and strong. There had to be the Beginning. He wanted them to come together in the glen at Donnelaith. Beginning was everything. There was nothing if there was no beginning. Prosper, my daughter. Taltos. No one lived in Donnelaith anymore. But they would live there--Father and Emaleth and their children. Hundreds of children. It would become the shrine of the Beginning. "Our Bethlehem," he whispered to her. And that would be the beginning of all time. It was dark. Mother cried against the pillow, Michael, Michael, Michael. Emaleth knew when the sun rose. The color of everything brightened, and she saw Mother's hand high above her, dark and thin and immense, covering the whole world. Excerpted from Lasher by Anne Rice All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

Reseñas proporcionadas por Syndetics

Publishers Weekly Review

Returning to the Mayfair clan she introduced in The Witching Hour , Rice offers another vast, transcontinental saga of witchcraft and demonism in the tradition of Gothic melodrama. The eponymous Lasher is a demon spirit who preys on female Mayfairs in his attempt to procreate. Rowan Mayfair, queen of the coven who has borne Lasher's child, has now disappeared. At times this main narrative is lost as the story moves from the Louisiana Mayfairs to the Scottish Donnelaiths and the clandestine London Telamasca society, with copious personal histories and myriad characters. Long sections ramble without a compelling point of view, and are dampened by stock elements: cliched wind storms, sexy witches, the endless supply of money the Telemasca has at its disposal. At times, Lasher is too much in evidence (rattling the china, gnashing his teeth) to be frightening. But embedded in this antique demonism is a contemporary tale of incest and family abuse that achieves resonance. It is maintained through the character of Lasher, both child and man at the same time, who manipulates his victims with his own pain. At their best, Rice's characters rise above the more wooden plot machinations with an ironic and modern complexity: Mona, the young feminist witch with sharklike business instincts; Julien, the dead patriarch, who movingly recalls his male lovers; Yuri, the clever Serbian orphan. Despite lapses into uninspired language, ultimately the novel is compelling through its exhaustive monumentality. 700,000 first printing; Literary Guild main selection. (Oct.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

Booklist Review

So stunningly bad is the first third of this book that only the lunatic and the true devotee are likely to get beyond it. It is actually a riot of Rice's worst sins: strained and wooden characterizations, the abandonment of plot for the sake of a tangled and murky history, and a sort of mutant prose stumbling between a modern person's idea of old-fashioned elegance and an old-fashioned person's idea of how people actually talk in the 1990s. Part of the purpose of this 200-page cancer is to make the transition from the novel's progenitor, The Witching Hour (1990), but this could have been accomplished in 10 or 15 pages. Well, let's say you made it through. What you get now is the best of Rice: a deliciously perverse image of an infant, Lasher, who grows to sexual maturity within days of his birth and immediately starts copulating with his mother even while she swoons with the pleasure of his suckling. Of course, it's always nice to read about sex, and Rice's romantic imagination doesn't let her down: Lasher is dark, handsome, sadistic, childlike, and tender. His mother cannot resist him even after she has twice miscarried in the space of three months. But Rice cannot quite bring home the promising story of Lasher's desire to repopulate the earth with his own kind, and the story limps to an unsatisfying conclusion. By the end, then, we've had a bit of everything: the good, the bad, and the truly ugly. Indeed, without her reputation, Rice would never have found a publisher for this wretched mess. (Reviewed Aug. 1993)0679412956Stuart Whitwell

Notas de autor provistas por Syndetics

Anne Rice was born Howard Allen O'Brien on October 4, 1941 in New Orleans, Louisiana. She received a bachelor's degree in political science in 1964 and master's degree in English and creative writing in 1972 from San Francisco State University.

She published her first short story in 1965 called October 4, 1948. Her first book, Interview with the Vampire, was published in 1976. It was made into a film starring Brad Pitt, Kirsten Dunst, and Tom Cruise in 1994. She wrote various series in the same genre including the rest of the Vampire Chronicles, the Mayfair Witches books, and The Wolf Gift Chronicles. Her novel, Feast of All Saints, became a Showtime mini-series in 2001. Her other works include Cry to Heaven, Servant of the Bones, and Violin.

In 1998, Rice returned to the Catholic Church and for some time only wrote for Christ or about Christ. These works include Christ the Lord: Out of Egypt, Christ the Lord: The Road to Cana, and Called Out of Darkness.

Anne Rice died on December 11, 2021 at the age of 80.

(Bowker Author Biography)