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Donal Ryan

Portrait of Donal Ryan

Donal Ryan est né près de Nenagh, comté de Tipperary, en 1976. Fonctionnaire pendant de nombreuses années, il n'a pu se consacrer à l'écriture que depuis 2014, après le succès de « Le cœur qui tourne », le roman qu'il a écrit pendant les soirées de l'été 2010.

Ryan a été refusé 47 fois avant de trouver un éditeur. Ses romans ont recueilli beaucoup d'éloges de la critique et « Le cœur qui tourne » a été pré sélectionné pour le prix Man Booker. Il habite dans le comté de Limerick avec sa femme et leurs deux enfants.

  • EUPL Year: 
    2015
  • EUPL Country: 

Winning Book

The Spinning Heart (Le Coeur Qui Tourne)

"Mon père vit toujours dans la maison où j’ai grandi, sur la route au-delà du barrage. Chaque jour je vais voir s’il est mort, et chaque jour il me déçoit . Il n'y a pas un jour où il ne m'a pas décu." Dans la foulée de l'effondrement financier de l'Irlande, des tensions dangereuses émergent dans une ville irlandaise. Comme la violence commence à faire éruption, les personnages font face à une bataille entre l’image publique et les désirs intérieurs. Grâce à un chœur de voix uniques, chacun lutte pour raconter sa propre vérité, et une seule histoire authentique se déploie. "Le cœur qui tourne" parle de l'Irlande contemporaine comme aucun autre roman. Ironique, vulnérable, trop humain, il capture la langue et l'esprit de l'Irlande rurale, et avec une perception étrange, articule les mots et les pensées d'une génération. Techniquement audacieux et évocateur de Patrick McCabe et de JM Synge, ce roman retraçant la vie d'une petite ville, est plein d'esprit, sombre et doucement poignant. Ce début brillant de Donal Ryan révèle une superbe nouvelle voix dans la fiction littéraire.

Cover of The Spinning Heart

Publishing House

Address: 

28 Lower Leeson Street, Dublin, Irlande

Organisation: 
Doubleday - Transworld Ireland

Agent / Rights Director

Email Address: 
Representative: 
Marianne Gunn O’Connor

Translation Deals

  • Albania: Botime Pegi
  • Bulgaria: Colibri Publishers
  • Croatia: Naklada Ljevak DOO
  • Czech Republic: Kniha Zlin
  • Denmark: Jensen & Dalgaard
  • France: Albin Michel
  • Germany: Diogenes Verlag Ag
  • Georgia: Agora
  • Greek: Strange Days Books
  • Israel: Sendik Books
  • Italy: Minimum Fax
  • Japan: Hakusuisha Publishing co Ltd
  • Latvia: Lietusdārzs Ltd
  • North Macedonia: Tri Publishing Centre
  • Serbia: Heliks
  • Spain: Sajalin Editores
  • Ukraine: Astrolabe Publishing
  • United Kingdom & Ireland: Doubleday
  • USA: Steerforth

Excerpt

Bobby

 

MY FATHER still lives back the road past the weir in the cottage I was reared in. I go there every day to see is he dead and every day he lets me down. He hasn’t yet missed a day of letting me down. He smiles at me; that terrible smile. He knows I’m coming to check is he dead. He knows I know he knows. He laughs his crooked laugh. I ask is he okay for everything and he only laughs. We look at each other for a while and when I can no longer stand the stench off of him, I go away. Good luck, I say, I’ll see you tomorrow. You will, he says back. I know I will.

 

There’s a red metal heart in the centre of the low front gate, skewered on a rotating hinge. It’s flaking now; the red is nearly gone. It needs to be scraped and sanded and painted and oiled. It still spins in the wind, though. I can hear it creak, creak, creak as I walk away. A flaking, creaking, spinning heart.

 

When he dies, I’ll get the cottage and the two acres that’s left. He drank out Granddad’s farm years ago. After I have him buried, I’ll burn the cottage down and piss on the embers and I’ll sell the two acres for as much as I can get. Every day he lives lowers the price I’ll get. He knows that too; he stays alive to spite me. His heart is caked with muck and his lungs are shrivelled and black, but still he manages to draw in air and wheeze and cough and spit it back out. I was left go from my job two months ago and it was the best medicine he could have got. It gave him an extra six months, I’d say. If he ever finds out how Pokey Burke shafted me, he’ll surely make a full recovery. Pokey could apply to be beatified then, having had a miracle ascribed to him.

 

What reason would I have ever had not to trust Pokey Burke? He was young when I started working for him – three years younger than me – but the whole parish had worked for his auld fella and no one ever had a bad word to say much beyond the usual sniping. Pokey Burke was called after the Pope: Seán Pól, his parents christened him. But his brother Eamonn was not yet two years old when his parents brought the new baby home and he decided the new baby was Pokey and everybody agreed away with him and little Seán Pól was stuck with Pokey for a lifetime. And beyond, if he leaves anyone behind that will remember him or talk about him when he’s gone.

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