رمان انگلیسی Outline نوشته راشل کاسک Rachel Cusk ،داستان در مورد نوشتن و صحبت کردن ، درباره تواضع و بیان خود ،درباره تمایل به خلق و هنر انسان در تعریف خود که در آن آرزو شکل جهانی خود را پیدا می کند

Download Outline by Rachel Cusk

معرفی و دانلود کتاب رمان انگلیسی طرح نوشته راشل کاسک 

نام انگلیسی کتاب:

Outline

نام فارسی کتاب:

طرح

نویسنده:

راشل کاسک  

  Rachel Cusk

درباره کتاب رمان انگلیسی Outline نوشته Rachel Cusk :

یک نویسنده زن در اوج تابستان برای تدریس دوره نویسندگی به آتن می رود.گرچه شرایط خودش مشخص نیست اما او روایات مشخصی را برای مخاطبین بیان می کند زیرا افرادی که با او ملاقات می کنند یکی پس از دیگری داستانهای زندگی خود را برای او بازگو می کنند.

با شروع مسافر همسایه در پرواز و داستان های قایق های سریع و ازدواج های ناکام ، داستان گویان از عشق و جاه طلبیها ، دردها و اضطراب ها و درک زندگی روزمره خود صحبت می کنند.

در گرما و سر و صدای حیرت انگیز شهر ، توالی صدا شروع به بافتن میله پیچیده انسانی می کند. هرچه بیشتر صحبت می کنند ، شنوندگان بیشتر می شوند .او آنها را راهنمایی می کند تا اینکه مضامین خاصی شروع به ظهور کنند: تجربه ضرر ، ماهیت زندگی خانوادگی ، دشواری صمیمیت و رمز و راز خلاقیت.

طرح رمانیست در مورد  نوشتن و صحبت کردن ، درباره تواضع و بیان خود ،درباره تمایل به خلق و هنر انسان در تعریف خود که در آن آرزو شکل جهانی خود را پیدا می کند.

توضیحات  انگلیسی کتاب طرج نوشته راشل کاسک :

Outline by Rachel Cusk

A woman writer goes to Athens in the height of summer to teach a writing course. Though her own circumstances remain indistinct, she becomes the audience to a chain of narratives, as the people she meets tell her one after another the stories of their lives.

Beginning with the neighbouring passenger on the flight out and his tales of fast boats and failed marriages, the storytellers talk of their loves and ambitions and pains, their anxieties, their perceptions and daily lives. In the stifling heat and noise of the city the sequence of voice begins to weave a complex human tapestry. The more they talk the more elliptical their listener becomes, as she shapes and directs their accounts until certain themes begin to emerge: the experience of loss, the nature of family life, the difficulty of intimacy and the mystery of creativity itself.

Outline is a novel about writing and talking, about self-effacement and self-expression, about the desire to create and the human art of self-portraiture in which that desire finds its universal form.

جملات و بخش هایی از کتاب رمان انگلیسی طرج نوشته راشل کاسک

Outline by Rachel Cusk Quotes

“As it happened, I was no longer interested in literature as a form of snobbery or even self-definition. I had no desire to prove that one book was better than another; in fact, if I read something I admired, I found myself increasingly disinclined to mention it at all. What I knew personally to be true had come to seem unrelated to the process of persuading others. I did not, any longer, want to persuade anyone of anything.”

“What Ryan had learned from this is that your failures keep returning to you, while your successes are something you always have to convince yourself of.”
― Rachel Cusk, Outline

“Sometimes it has seemed to me that life is a series of punishments for such moments of unawareness, that one forges one’s own destiny by what one doesn’t notice or feel compassion for; that what you don’t know and don’t make the effort to understand will become the very thing you are forced into knowledge of.”

“The human capacity for self-delusion is apparently infinite – and if that is the case, how are we ever meant to know, except by existing in a state of absolute pessimism, that once again we are fooling ourselves?”

“But everything falls away, try as you might to stop it. And for whatever returns to you, be grateful.”
― Rachel Cusk, Outline

“People are least aware of others when demonstrating their own power over them.”

“I felt that I could swim for miles, out into the ocean: a desire for freedom, an impulse to move, tugged at me as though it were a thread fastened to my chest. It was an impulse I knew well, and I had learned that it was not the summons from a larger world I used to believe it to be. It was simply a desire to escape from what I had.”

“I mean, you never hear someone say they wanted to have an affair but they couldn’t find the time, do you?”
― Rachel Cusk, Outline

“There was a great difference, I said, between the things I wanted and the things I could apparently have, and until I had finally and forever made my peace with that fact, I had decided to want nothing at all.”

“I suppose, I said, it is one definition of love, the belief in something that only the two of you can see.”

“That’s writing for you: when you make space for passion, it doesn’t turn up.”
― Rachel Cusk, Outline

“You could spend your whole life’, she said, ‘trying to trace events back to your own mistakes.”

“…when my sons were the ages of those two leaping boys, they were so intimate it would have been hard to disentangle their separate natures. They used to play together without pause from the moment they opened their eyes in the morning to the moment they closed them again. Their play was a kind of shared trance in which they created whole imaginary worlds, and they were forever involved in games and projects whose planning and execution were as real to them as they were invisible to everyone else: sometimes I would move or throw away some apparently inconsequential item, only to be told that it was a sacred prop in the ongoing make-believe, a narrative which seemed to run like a magic river through our household, inexhaustible, and which they could exit and re-enter at will, moving over that threshold which no one else could see into another element. And then one day the river dried up: their shared world of imagination ceased, and the reason was that one of them – I can’t even recall which one it was – stopped believing in it. In other words, it was nobody’s fault; but all the same it was brought home to me how much of what was beautiful in their lives was the result of a shared vision of things that strictly speaking could not have been said to exist.”

“A sentence is born into this world neither good nor bad, and that to establish its character is a question of the subtlest possible adjustments, a process of intuition to which exaggeration and force are fatal.”
― Rachel Cusk, Outline

“It was impossible, I said in response to his question, to give the reasons why the marriage had ended: among other things a marriage is a system of belief, a story, and though it manifests itself in things that are real enough, the impulse that drives it is ultimately mysterious. What was real, in the end, was the loss of the house, which had become the geographical location for things that had gone absent and which represented, I supposed, the hope that they might one day return. To move from the house was to declare, in a way, that we had stopped waiting;”

“But in a way it’s like looking at old photographs of yourself. There comes a point at which the record needs to be updated, because you’ve shed too many links with what you were. He doesn’t quite know how it happened; all he knows is that he doesn’t recognize himself in those stories any more, though he remembers the bursting feeling of writing them, something in himself massing and pushing irresistibly to be born. He hasn’t had that feeling since; he almost thinks that to remain a writer he’d have to become one all over again, when he might just easily become an astronaut, or a farmer. It’s as if he can’t quite remember what drove him into words in the first place, all those years before, yet words are what he still deals in. I suppose it’s a bit like marriage, he said. You build a whole structure on a period of intensity that’s never repeated. It’s the basis of your faith and sometimes you doubt it, but you never renounce it because too much of your life stands on that ground.”

“For many women,’ she said, ‘having a child is their central experience of creativity, and yet the child will never remain a created object; unless,’ she said, ‘the mother’s sacrifice of herself is absolute, which mine never could have been, and which no woman’s ought to be these days.”
― Rachel Cusk, Outline

“But what other people thought was no longer of any help to me. Those thoughts only existed within certain structures, and I had definitively left those structures.”

“And of those two ways of living – living in the moment and living outside it – which was more real?”

“Music,’ she said, in a languorous and dreamlike manner. ‘Music is a betrayer of secrets; it is more treacherous even than dreams, which at least have the virtue of being private.”
― Rachel Cusk, Outline

“And likewise I was beginning to see my own fears and desires manifested outside myself, was beginning to see in other people’s lives a commentary on my own.”

“I would like to be a D.H. Lawrence character, living in one of his novels. The people I meet don’t even seem to have characters. And life seems so rich, when I look at it through his eyes, yet my own life very often appears sterile, like a bad patch of earth, as if nothing will grow there however hard I try.”

“I probably didn’t share his feelings – he hoped, really, that I didn’t – but he was no longer interested in socialising; in fact, increasingly he found other people positively bewildering. The interesting ones are like islands, he said: you don’t bump into them on the street or at a party, you have to know where they are and go to them by arrangement.”
― Rachel Cusk, Outline

“My neighbour turned to me again, and asked me what work it was that was taking me to Athens. For the second time I felt the conscious effort of his enquiry, as though he had trained himself in the recovery of objects that were falling from his grasp. I remembered the way, when each of my sons was a baby, they would deliberately drop things from their high chair in order to watch them fall to the floor, an activity as delightful to them as its consequences were appalling. They would stare down at the fallen thing – a half-eaten rusk, or a plastic ball – and become increasingly agitated by its failure to return. Eventually they would begin to cry, and usually found that the fallen object came back to them by that route. It always surprised me that their response to this chain of events was to repeat it: as soon as the object was in their hands they would drop it again, leaning over to watch it fall. Their delight never lessened, and nor did their distress. I always expected that at some point they would realise the distress was unnecessary and would choose to avoid it, but they never did. The memory of suffering had no effect whatever on what they elected to do: on the contrary, it compelled them to repeat it, for the suffering was the magic that caused the object to come back and allowed the delight in dropping it to become possible again. Had I refused to return it the very first time they dropped it, I suppose they would have learned something very different, though what that might have been I wasn’t sure.”

“Yet I still, he said, believe in love. Love restores almost everything, and where it can’t restore, it takes away the pain.”

“All the same, it seemed to him now that that life had been lived almost unconsciously, that he had been lost in it, absorbed in it, as you can be absorbed in a book, believing in its events and living entirely through and with its characters. Never again since had he been able to absorb himself; never again had he been able to believe in that way. Perhaps it was that – the loss of belief – that constituted his yearning for the old life.”
― Rachel Cusk, Outline

“That is always a dangerous moment, he said, to make a big decision, when you are not sure of what you deserve. Evidently his friends shared his opinion, because all of them urged him, without hesitation, to take it. It is interesting how keen people are for you to do something they would never dream of doing themselves, how enthusiastically they drive you to your own destruction: even the kindest ones, the ones that are most loving, can rarely have your interests at heart, because usually they are advising you from within lives of greater security and greater confinement, where escape is not a reality but simply something they dream of sometimes. Perhaps, he said, we are all like animals in the zoo, and once we see that one of us has got out of the enclosure we shout at him to run like mad, even though it will only result in him becoming lost.”

“What she couldn’t stand, she said, was pretence of any kind, especially the pretence of desire, wherein someone feigned the need to possess her wholly when in fact what he wanted was to use her temporarily. She herself, she said, was quite willing to use others too, but she only recognised it once they had admitted this intention in themselves.”

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