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Until I Find You: A Novel マスマーケット – 2006/5/30
英語版
John Irving
(著)
ダブルポイント 詳細
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Until I Find You is the story of the actor Jack Burns – his life, loves, celebrity and astonishing search for the truth about his parents.
When he is four years old, Jack travels with his mother Alice, a tattoo artist, to several North Sea ports in search of his father, William Burns. From Copenhagen to Amsterdam, William, a brilliant church organist and profligate womanizer, is always a step ahead – has always just departed in a wave of scandal, with a new tattoo somewhere on his body from a local master or “scratcher.”
Alice and Jack abandon their quest, and Jack is educated at schools in Canada and New England – including, tellingly, a girls’ school in Toronto. His real education consists of his relationships with older women – from Emma Oastler, who initiates him into erotic life, to the girls of St. Hilda’s, with whom he first appears on stage, to the abusive Mrs. Machado, whom he first meets when sent to learn wrestling at a local gym.
Too much happens in this expansive, eventful novel to possibly summarize it all. Emma and Jack move to Los Angeles, where Emma becomes a successful novelist and Jack a promising actor. A host of eccentric minor characters memorably come and go, including Jack’s hilariously confused teacher the Wurtz; Michelle Maher, the girlfriend he will never forget; and a precocious child Jack finds in the back of an Audi in a restaurant parking lot. We learn about tattoo addiction and movie cross-dressing, “sleeping in the needles” and the cure for cauliflower ears. And John Irving renders his protagonist’s unusual rise through Hollywood with the same vivid detail and range of emotions he gives to the organ music Jack hears as a child in European churches. This is an absorbing and moving book about obsession and loss, truth and storytelling, the signs we carry on us and inside us, the traces we can’t get rid of.
Jack has always lived in the shadow of his absent father. But as he grows older – and when his mother dies – he starts to doubt the portrait of his father’s character she painted for him when he was a child. This is the cue for a second journey around Europe in search of his father, from Edinburgh to Switzerland, towards a conclusion of great emotional force.
A melancholy tale of deception, Until I Find Youis also a swaggering comic novel, a giant tapestry of life’s hopes. It is a masterpiece to compare with John Irving’s great novels, and restates the author’s claim to be considered the most glorious, comic, moving novelist at work today.
From the Hardcover edition.
When he is four years old, Jack travels with his mother Alice, a tattoo artist, to several North Sea ports in search of his father, William Burns. From Copenhagen to Amsterdam, William, a brilliant church organist and profligate womanizer, is always a step ahead – has always just departed in a wave of scandal, with a new tattoo somewhere on his body from a local master or “scratcher.”
Alice and Jack abandon their quest, and Jack is educated at schools in Canada and New England – including, tellingly, a girls’ school in Toronto. His real education consists of his relationships with older women – from Emma Oastler, who initiates him into erotic life, to the girls of St. Hilda’s, with whom he first appears on stage, to the abusive Mrs. Machado, whom he first meets when sent to learn wrestling at a local gym.
Too much happens in this expansive, eventful novel to possibly summarize it all. Emma and Jack move to Los Angeles, where Emma becomes a successful novelist and Jack a promising actor. A host of eccentric minor characters memorably come and go, including Jack’s hilariously confused teacher the Wurtz; Michelle Maher, the girlfriend he will never forget; and a precocious child Jack finds in the back of an Audi in a restaurant parking lot. We learn about tattoo addiction and movie cross-dressing, “sleeping in the needles” and the cure for cauliflower ears. And John Irving renders his protagonist’s unusual rise through Hollywood with the same vivid detail and range of emotions he gives to the organ music Jack hears as a child in European churches. This is an absorbing and moving book about obsession and loss, truth and storytelling, the signs we carry on us and inside us, the traces we can’t get rid of.
Jack has always lived in the shadow of his absent father. But as he grows older – and when his mother dies – he starts to doubt the portrait of his father’s character she painted for him when he was a child. This is the cue for a second journey around Europe in search of his father, from Edinburgh to Switzerland, towards a conclusion of great emotional force.
A melancholy tale of deception, Until I Find Youis also a swaggering comic novel, a giant tapestry of life’s hopes. It is a masterpiece to compare with John Irving’s great novels, and restates the author’s claim to be considered the most glorious, comic, moving novelist at work today.
From the Hardcover edition.
- 本の長さ844ページ
- 言語英語
- 出版社Ballantine Books
- 発売日2006/5/30
- 寸法10.59 x 3.48 x 17.45 cm
- ISBN-100345492307
- ISBN-13978-0345492302
商品の説明
レビュー
“As ever, Irving is at his best with the family relationships he creates. They are simultaneously touching and infuriating. It is with these relationships that Irving firmly grasps universal truths and puts a chokehold on his readers…. Irving’s descriptions are distressing to read, but they force the reader to relate to the characters in a way they would not in most works of fiction.”
–Calgary Herald
“Bittersweet . . . moving.”
–People
“Until I Find You . . . cuts closer to the bone than any of [Irving’s] previous works.”
–Ottawa Citizen
Praise for John Irving:
John Irving has received awards from the Rockefeller Foundation, the National Endowment for the Arts and the Guggenheim Foundation; he has won an O. Henry Award, a National Book Award and an Oscar.
“Irving’s novels are perceptive and precise reflections of the world around us.”
—The Washington Post Book World
“John Irving is one of the very finest writers alive today.”
—The Associated Press
“A serious artist of remarkable powers.”
—Chicago Sun-Times
“Irving’s popularity is not hard to understand. His world is really the world according to nearly everyone.”
—Time
“A premier storyteller, master of the tragicomic and among the first rank of contemporary novelists.”
—Los Angeles Times Book Review
“[Irving’s] instincts are so basically sound, his talent for storytelling so bright and strong that he gets down to the truth of his time.
—The New York Times Book Review
“John Irving is a writer of prodigious talent.”
—Calgary Herald
“John Irving is devoted to his people and his plots in a way that makes him unique among the most popular and widely read of the living American novelists. He has become his generation’s Dickens.”
—NOW Magazine
“He is among the very best storytellers at work today. At the base of Irving’s own moral concerns is a rare and lasting regard for human kindness.”
—The Philadelphia Inquirer
Praise for The Fourth Hand:
“A rich and deeply moving tale. . .Vintage Irving: A story of two very disparate people, and the strange ways we grow. . . . Irving’s novels are perceptive and precise reflections of the world around us.”
—The Washington Post Book World
“Using comedy, satiric social commentary and his adroit ability to tell a good yarn, Irving proffers a sweet love story with the very serious underlying theme of human transformation.”
—Ottawa Citizen
“John Irving is one of the very finest writers alive today.”
—The Associated Press
From the Hardcover edition.
–Calgary Herald
“Bittersweet . . . moving.”
–People
“Until I Find You . . . cuts closer to the bone than any of [Irving’s] previous works.”
–Ottawa Citizen
Praise for John Irving:
John Irving has received awards from the Rockefeller Foundation, the National Endowment for the Arts and the Guggenheim Foundation; he has won an O. Henry Award, a National Book Award and an Oscar.
“Irving’s novels are perceptive and precise reflections of the world around us.”
—The Washington Post Book World
“John Irving is one of the very finest writers alive today.”
—The Associated Press
“A serious artist of remarkable powers.”
—Chicago Sun-Times
“Irving’s popularity is not hard to understand. His world is really the world according to nearly everyone.”
—Time
“A premier storyteller, master of the tragicomic and among the first rank of contemporary novelists.”
—Los Angeles Times Book Review
“[Irving’s] instincts are so basically sound, his talent for storytelling so bright and strong that he gets down to the truth of his time.
—The New York Times Book Review
“John Irving is a writer of prodigious talent.”
—Calgary Herald
“John Irving is devoted to his people and his plots in a way that makes him unique among the most popular and widely read of the living American novelists. He has become his generation’s Dickens.”
—NOW Magazine
“He is among the very best storytellers at work today. At the base of Irving’s own moral concerns is a rare and lasting regard for human kindness.”
—The Philadelphia Inquirer
Praise for The Fourth Hand:
“A rich and deeply moving tale. . .Vintage Irving: A story of two very disparate people, and the strange ways we grow. . . . Irving’s novels are perceptive and precise reflections of the world around us.”
—The Washington Post Book World
“Using comedy, satiric social commentary and his adroit ability to tell a good yarn, Irving proffers a sweet love story with the very serious underlying theme of human transformation.”
—Ottawa Citizen
“John Irving is one of the very finest writers alive today.”
—The Associated Press
From the Hardcover edition.
抜粋
Chapter 1
In the Care of Churchgoers and Old Girls
According to his mother, Jack Burns was an actor before he was an actor, but Jack’s most vivid memories of childhood were those moments when he felt compelled to hold his mother’s hand. He wasn’t acting then.
Of course we don’t remember much until we’re four or five years old — and what we remember at that early age is very selective or incomplete, or even false. What Jack recalled as the first time he felt the need to reach for his mom’s hand was probably the hundredth or two hundredth time.
Preschool tests revealed that Jack Burns had a vocabulary beyond his years, which is not uncommon among only children accustomed to adult conversation — especially only children of single parents. But of greater significance, according to the tests, was Jack’s capacity for consecutive memory, which, when he was three, was comparable to that of a nine-year-old. At four, his retention of detail and understanding of linear time were equal to an eleven-year-old’s. (The details included, but were not limited to, such trivia as articles of clothing and the names of streets.)
These test results were bewildering to Jack’s mother, Alice, who considered him to be an inattentive child; in her view, Jack’s propensity for daydreaming made him immature for his age.
Nevertheless, in the fall of 1969, when Jack was four and had not yet started kindergarten, his mother walked with him to the corner of Pickthall and Hutchings Hill Road in Forest Hill, which was a nice neighborhood in Toronto. They were waiting for school to be let out, Alice explained, so that Jack could see the girls.
St. Hilda’s was then called “a church school for girls,” from kindergarten through grade thirteen — at that time still in existence, in Canada — and Jack’s mother had decided that this was where Jack would begin his schooling, although he was a boy. She waited to tell him of her decision until the main doors of the school opened, as if to greet them, and the girls streamed through in varying degrees of sullenness and exultation and prettiness and slouching disarray.
“Next year,” Alice announced, “St. Hilda’s is going to admit boys. Only a very few boys, and only up to grade four.”
Jack couldn’t move; he could barely breathe. Girls were passing him on all sides, some of them big and noisy, all of them in uniforms in those colors Jack Burns later came to believe he would wear to his grave — gray and maroon. The girls wore gray sweaters or maroon blazers over their white middy blouses.
“They’re going to admit you,” Jack’s mother told him. “I’m arranging it.”
“How?” he asked.
“I’m still figuring that out,” Alice replied.
The girls wore gray pleated skirts with gray kneesocks, which Canadians called “knee-highs.” It was Jack’s first look at all those bare legs. He didn’t yet understand how the girls were driven by some interior unrest to push their socks down to their ankles, or at least below their calves — despite the school rule that knee-highs should be worn knee-high.
Jack Burns further observed that the girls didn’t see him standing there, or they looked right through him. But there was one — an older girl with womanly hips and breasts, and lips as full as Alice’s. She locked onto Jack’s eyes, as if she were powerless to avert her gaze.
At the age of four, Jack wasn’t sure if he was the one who couldn’t look away from her, or if she was the one who was trapped and couldn’t look away from him. Whichever the case, her expression was so knowing that she frightened him. Perhaps she had seen what Jack would look like as an older boy, or a grown man, and what she saw in him riveted her with longing and desperation. (Or with fear and degradation, Jack Burns would one day conclude, because this same older girl suddenly looked away.)
Jack and his mom went on standing in the sea of girls, until the girls’ rides had come and gone, and those on foot had left not even the sound of their shoes behind, or their intimidating but stimulating laughter. However, there was still enough warmth in the early-fall air to hold their scent, which Jack reluctantly inhaled and confused with perfume. With most of the girls at St. Hilda’s, it was not their perfume that lingered in the air; it was the smell of the girls themselves, which Jack Burns would never grow used to or take for granted. Not even by the time he left grade four.
“But why am I going to school here?” Jack asked his mother, when the girls had gone. Some fallen leaves were all that remained in motion on the quiet street corner.
“Because it’s a good school,” Alice answered. “And you’ll be safe with the girls,” she added.
Jack must not have thought so, because he instantly reached for his mom’s hand.
In that fall of the year before Jack’s admission to St. Hilda’s, his mother was full of surprises. After showing him the uniformed girls, who would soon dominate his life, Alice announced that she would work her way through northern Europe in search of Jack’s runaway dad. She knew the North Sea cities where he was most likely to be hiding from them; together they would hunt him down and confront him with his abandoned responsibilities. Jack Burns had often heard his mother refer to the two of them as his father’s “abandoned responsibilities.” But even at the age of four, Jack had come to the conclusion that his dad had left them for good — in Jack’s case, before he was born.
And when his mom said she would work her way through these foreign cities, Jack knew what her work was. Like her dad, Alice was a tattoo artist; tattooing was the only work she knew.
In the North Sea cities on their itinerary, other tattooists would give Alice work. They knew she’d been apprenticed to her father, a well-known tattooer in Edinburgh — officially, in the Port of Leith — where Jack’s mom had suffered the misfortune of meeting his dad. It was there he got her pregnant, and subsequently left her.
In Alice’s account, Jack’s father sailed on the New Scotland, which docked in Halifax. When he was gainfully employed, he would send for her — or so he had promised. But Alice said she never heard from him — only of him. Before moving on from Halifax, Jack’s dad had cut quite a swath.
Born Callum Burns, Jack’s father changed his first name to William when he was still in university. His father was named Alasdair, which William said was Scots enough for the whole family. In Edinburgh, at the time of his scandalous departure for Nova Scotia, William Burns had been an associate of the Royal College of Organists, which meant that he had a diploma in organ-playing in addition to his bachelor’s in music. When he met Jack’s mother, William was the organist at South Leith Parish Church; Alice was a choirgirl there.
For an Edinburgh boy with upper-class pretensions and a good education — William Burns had gone to Heriot’s before studying music at the University of Edinburgh — a first job playing the organ in lower-class Leith might have struck him as slumming. But Jack’s dad liked to joke that the Church of Scotland paid better than the Scottish Episcopal Church. While William was an Episcopalian, he liked it just fine at the South Leith Parish, where it was said that eleven thousand souls were buried in the graveyard, although there were not more than three hundred gravestones.
Gravestones for the poor were not permitted. But at night, Jack’s mom told him, people brought the ashes of loved ones and scattered them through the fence of the graveyard. The thought of so many souls blowing around in the dark gave the boy nightmares, but that church — if only because of its graveyard — was a popular place, and Alice believed she had died and gone to Heaven when she started singing for William there.
In South Leith Parish Church, the choir and the organ were behind the congregation. There were not more than twenty seats for the choir — the women in front, the men in back. For the duration of the sermon, William made a point of asking Alice to lean forward in the front row, so that he could see all of her. She wore a blue robe — “blue-jay blue,” she told Jack — and a white collar. Jack’s mom fell in love with his dad that April of 1964, when he first came to play the organ.
“We were singing the hymns of the Resurrection,” was how Alice put it, “and there were crocuses and daffodils in the graveyard.” (Doubtless all those ashes that were secretly scattered there benefited the flowers.)
Alice took the young organist, who was also her choirmaster, to meet her father. Her dad’s tattoo parlor was called Persevere, which is the motto of the Port of Leith. It was William’s first look at a tattoo shop, which was on either Mandelson Street or Jane Street. In those days, Jack’s mom explained, there was a rail bridge across Leith Walk, joining Mandelson to Jane, but Jack could never remember on which street she said the tattoo parlor was. He just knew that they lived there, in the shop, under the rumble of the trains.
His mother called this “sleeping in the needles” — a phrase from between the wars. “Sleeping in the needles” meant that, when times were tough, you slept in the tattoo parlor — you had nowhere else to live. But it was also what was said, on occasion, when a tattoo artist died — as Alice’s father had — in the shop. Thus, by both definitions of the phrase, her dad had always slept in the needles.
Alice’s mother had died in childbirth, and her father — whom Jack never met — had raised her in the tattoo world. In Jack’s eyes, his mom was unique among tattoo artists because she’d never been tattooed. Her dad had told her that she shouldn’t get a tattoo until she was old enough to understand a few essential things about herself; he must have meant those things that would never change.
“Like when I’m in my sixties or seventies,” Jack’s mom used to say to him, when she was still in her twenties. “You should get your first tattoo after I’m dead,” she told him, which was her way of saying that he shouldn’t even think about getting tattooed.
Alice’s dad took an instant dislike to William Burns, who got his first tattoo the day the two men met. The tattoo gripped his right thigh, where William could read it when he was sitting on the toilet — the opening notes to an Easter hymn he’d been rehearsing with Alice, the words to which began, “Christ the Lord is risen today.” Without the words, you’d have to read music, and be sitting very close to Jack’s father — perhaps on an adjacent toilet — to recognize the hymn.
But then and there, upon giving the talented young organist his first tattoo, Alice’s dad told her that William would surely become an “ink addict,” a “collector” — meaning he was one of those guys who would never stop with the first tattoo, or with the first twenty tattoos. He would go on getting tattooed, until his body was a sheet of music and every inch of his skin was covered by a note — a dire prediction but one that failed to warn Alice away. The tattoo-crazy organist had already stolen her heart.
But Jack Burns had heard most of this story by the time he was four. What came as a surprise, when his mother announced their upcoming European trip, was what she told him next: “If we don’t find your father by this time next year, when you’ll be starting school, we’ll forget all about him and get on with our lives.”
Why this was such a shock was that, from Jack’s earliest awareness that his father was missing — worse, that he had “absconded” — Jack and his mother had done a fair amount of looking for William Burns, and Jack had assumed they always would. The idea that they could “forget all about him” was more foreign to the boy than the proposed journey to northern Europe; nor had Jack known that, in his mom’s opinion, his starting school was of such importance.
She’d not finished school herself. Alice had long felt inferior to William’s university education. William’s parents were both elementary-school teachers who gave private piano lessons to children on the side, but they had a high regard for artistic tutelage of a more professional kind. In their estimation, it was beneath their son to play the organ at South Leith Parish Church — and not only because of the class friction that existed in those days between Edinburgh and Leith. (There were differences between the Scottish Episcopal Church and the Church of Scotland, too.)
Alice’s father was not a churchgoer of any kind. He’d sent Alice to church and choir practice to give her a life outside the tattoo parlor, never imagining that she would meet her ruin in the church and at choir practice — or that she would bring her unscrupulous seducer to the shop to be tattooed!
It was William’s parents who insisted that, although he was the principal organist for the South Leith Parish, he accept an offer to be the assistant organist at Old St. Paul’s. What mattered to them was that Old St. Paul’s was Scottish Episcopal — and it was in Edinburgh, not in Leith.
What captivated William was the organ. He’d started piano lessons at six and had not touched an organ before he was nine, but at seven or eight he began to stick bits of paper above the piano keys — imagining they were organ stops. He’d already begun to dream about playing the organ, and the organ he dreamed about was the Father Willis at Old St. Paul’s.
If, in his parents’ opinion, to be the assistant organist at Old St. Paul’s was more prestigious than being the principal organist at South Leith Parish Church, William just wanted to get his hands on the Father Willis. In Old St. Paul’s, Jack’s mother told him, the acoustics were a contributing factor to the organ’s fame. The boy would later wonder if she meant that almost any organ would have sounded good there, because of the reverberation time — that is, the time it takes for a sound to diminish by sixty decibels — being better than the organ.
Alice remembered attending what she called “an organ marathon” at Old St. Paul’s. Such an event must have been for fund-raising purposes — a twenty-four-hour organ concert, with a different organist performing every hour or half hour. Who played when was, of course, a hierarchical arrangement; the best musicians performed when they were most likely to be heard, the others at the more unsociable hours. Young William Burns got to play before midnight — if only a half hour before.
From the Hardcover edition.
In the Care of Churchgoers and Old Girls
According to his mother, Jack Burns was an actor before he was an actor, but Jack’s most vivid memories of childhood were those moments when he felt compelled to hold his mother’s hand. He wasn’t acting then.
Of course we don’t remember much until we’re four or five years old — and what we remember at that early age is very selective or incomplete, or even false. What Jack recalled as the first time he felt the need to reach for his mom’s hand was probably the hundredth or two hundredth time.
Preschool tests revealed that Jack Burns had a vocabulary beyond his years, which is not uncommon among only children accustomed to adult conversation — especially only children of single parents. But of greater significance, according to the tests, was Jack’s capacity for consecutive memory, which, when he was three, was comparable to that of a nine-year-old. At four, his retention of detail and understanding of linear time were equal to an eleven-year-old’s. (The details included, but were not limited to, such trivia as articles of clothing and the names of streets.)
These test results were bewildering to Jack’s mother, Alice, who considered him to be an inattentive child; in her view, Jack’s propensity for daydreaming made him immature for his age.
Nevertheless, in the fall of 1969, when Jack was four and had not yet started kindergarten, his mother walked with him to the corner of Pickthall and Hutchings Hill Road in Forest Hill, which was a nice neighborhood in Toronto. They were waiting for school to be let out, Alice explained, so that Jack could see the girls.
St. Hilda’s was then called “a church school for girls,” from kindergarten through grade thirteen — at that time still in existence, in Canada — and Jack’s mother had decided that this was where Jack would begin his schooling, although he was a boy. She waited to tell him of her decision until the main doors of the school opened, as if to greet them, and the girls streamed through in varying degrees of sullenness and exultation and prettiness and slouching disarray.
“Next year,” Alice announced, “St. Hilda’s is going to admit boys. Only a very few boys, and only up to grade four.”
Jack couldn’t move; he could barely breathe. Girls were passing him on all sides, some of them big and noisy, all of them in uniforms in those colors Jack Burns later came to believe he would wear to his grave — gray and maroon. The girls wore gray sweaters or maroon blazers over their white middy blouses.
“They’re going to admit you,” Jack’s mother told him. “I’m arranging it.”
“How?” he asked.
“I’m still figuring that out,” Alice replied.
The girls wore gray pleated skirts with gray kneesocks, which Canadians called “knee-highs.” It was Jack’s first look at all those bare legs. He didn’t yet understand how the girls were driven by some interior unrest to push their socks down to their ankles, or at least below their calves — despite the school rule that knee-highs should be worn knee-high.
Jack Burns further observed that the girls didn’t see him standing there, or they looked right through him. But there was one — an older girl with womanly hips and breasts, and lips as full as Alice’s. She locked onto Jack’s eyes, as if she were powerless to avert her gaze.
At the age of four, Jack wasn’t sure if he was the one who couldn’t look away from her, or if she was the one who was trapped and couldn’t look away from him. Whichever the case, her expression was so knowing that she frightened him. Perhaps she had seen what Jack would look like as an older boy, or a grown man, and what she saw in him riveted her with longing and desperation. (Or with fear and degradation, Jack Burns would one day conclude, because this same older girl suddenly looked away.)
Jack and his mom went on standing in the sea of girls, until the girls’ rides had come and gone, and those on foot had left not even the sound of their shoes behind, or their intimidating but stimulating laughter. However, there was still enough warmth in the early-fall air to hold their scent, which Jack reluctantly inhaled and confused with perfume. With most of the girls at St. Hilda’s, it was not their perfume that lingered in the air; it was the smell of the girls themselves, which Jack Burns would never grow used to or take for granted. Not even by the time he left grade four.
“But why am I going to school here?” Jack asked his mother, when the girls had gone. Some fallen leaves were all that remained in motion on the quiet street corner.
“Because it’s a good school,” Alice answered. “And you’ll be safe with the girls,” she added.
Jack must not have thought so, because he instantly reached for his mom’s hand.
In that fall of the year before Jack’s admission to St. Hilda’s, his mother was full of surprises. After showing him the uniformed girls, who would soon dominate his life, Alice announced that she would work her way through northern Europe in search of Jack’s runaway dad. She knew the North Sea cities where he was most likely to be hiding from them; together they would hunt him down and confront him with his abandoned responsibilities. Jack Burns had often heard his mother refer to the two of them as his father’s “abandoned responsibilities.” But even at the age of four, Jack had come to the conclusion that his dad had left them for good — in Jack’s case, before he was born.
And when his mom said she would work her way through these foreign cities, Jack knew what her work was. Like her dad, Alice was a tattoo artist; tattooing was the only work she knew.
In the North Sea cities on their itinerary, other tattooists would give Alice work. They knew she’d been apprenticed to her father, a well-known tattooer in Edinburgh — officially, in the Port of Leith — where Jack’s mom had suffered the misfortune of meeting his dad. It was there he got her pregnant, and subsequently left her.
In Alice’s account, Jack’s father sailed on the New Scotland, which docked in Halifax. When he was gainfully employed, he would send for her — or so he had promised. But Alice said she never heard from him — only of him. Before moving on from Halifax, Jack’s dad had cut quite a swath.
Born Callum Burns, Jack’s father changed his first name to William when he was still in university. His father was named Alasdair, which William said was Scots enough for the whole family. In Edinburgh, at the time of his scandalous departure for Nova Scotia, William Burns had been an associate of the Royal College of Organists, which meant that he had a diploma in organ-playing in addition to his bachelor’s in music. When he met Jack’s mother, William was the organist at South Leith Parish Church; Alice was a choirgirl there.
For an Edinburgh boy with upper-class pretensions and a good education — William Burns had gone to Heriot’s before studying music at the University of Edinburgh — a first job playing the organ in lower-class Leith might have struck him as slumming. But Jack’s dad liked to joke that the Church of Scotland paid better than the Scottish Episcopal Church. While William was an Episcopalian, he liked it just fine at the South Leith Parish, where it was said that eleven thousand souls were buried in the graveyard, although there were not more than three hundred gravestones.
Gravestones for the poor were not permitted. But at night, Jack’s mom told him, people brought the ashes of loved ones and scattered them through the fence of the graveyard. The thought of so many souls blowing around in the dark gave the boy nightmares, but that church — if only because of its graveyard — was a popular place, and Alice believed she had died and gone to Heaven when she started singing for William there.
In South Leith Parish Church, the choir and the organ were behind the congregation. There were not more than twenty seats for the choir — the women in front, the men in back. For the duration of the sermon, William made a point of asking Alice to lean forward in the front row, so that he could see all of her. She wore a blue robe — “blue-jay blue,” she told Jack — and a white collar. Jack’s mom fell in love with his dad that April of 1964, when he first came to play the organ.
“We were singing the hymns of the Resurrection,” was how Alice put it, “and there were crocuses and daffodils in the graveyard.” (Doubtless all those ashes that were secretly scattered there benefited the flowers.)
Alice took the young organist, who was also her choirmaster, to meet her father. Her dad’s tattoo parlor was called Persevere, which is the motto of the Port of Leith. It was William’s first look at a tattoo shop, which was on either Mandelson Street or Jane Street. In those days, Jack’s mom explained, there was a rail bridge across Leith Walk, joining Mandelson to Jane, but Jack could never remember on which street she said the tattoo parlor was. He just knew that they lived there, in the shop, under the rumble of the trains.
His mother called this “sleeping in the needles” — a phrase from between the wars. “Sleeping in the needles” meant that, when times were tough, you slept in the tattoo parlor — you had nowhere else to live. But it was also what was said, on occasion, when a tattoo artist died — as Alice’s father had — in the shop. Thus, by both definitions of the phrase, her dad had always slept in the needles.
Alice’s mother had died in childbirth, and her father — whom Jack never met — had raised her in the tattoo world. In Jack’s eyes, his mom was unique among tattoo artists because she’d never been tattooed. Her dad had told her that she shouldn’t get a tattoo until she was old enough to understand a few essential things about herself; he must have meant those things that would never change.
“Like when I’m in my sixties or seventies,” Jack’s mom used to say to him, when she was still in her twenties. “You should get your first tattoo after I’m dead,” she told him, which was her way of saying that he shouldn’t even think about getting tattooed.
Alice’s dad took an instant dislike to William Burns, who got his first tattoo the day the two men met. The tattoo gripped his right thigh, where William could read it when he was sitting on the toilet — the opening notes to an Easter hymn he’d been rehearsing with Alice, the words to which began, “Christ the Lord is risen today.” Without the words, you’d have to read music, and be sitting very close to Jack’s father — perhaps on an adjacent toilet — to recognize the hymn.
But then and there, upon giving the talented young organist his first tattoo, Alice’s dad told her that William would surely become an “ink addict,” a “collector” — meaning he was one of those guys who would never stop with the first tattoo, or with the first twenty tattoos. He would go on getting tattooed, until his body was a sheet of music and every inch of his skin was covered by a note — a dire prediction but one that failed to warn Alice away. The tattoo-crazy organist had already stolen her heart.
But Jack Burns had heard most of this story by the time he was four. What came as a surprise, when his mother announced their upcoming European trip, was what she told him next: “If we don’t find your father by this time next year, when you’ll be starting school, we’ll forget all about him and get on with our lives.”
Why this was such a shock was that, from Jack’s earliest awareness that his father was missing — worse, that he had “absconded” — Jack and his mother had done a fair amount of looking for William Burns, and Jack had assumed they always would. The idea that they could “forget all about him” was more foreign to the boy than the proposed journey to northern Europe; nor had Jack known that, in his mom’s opinion, his starting school was of such importance.
She’d not finished school herself. Alice had long felt inferior to William’s university education. William’s parents were both elementary-school teachers who gave private piano lessons to children on the side, but they had a high regard for artistic tutelage of a more professional kind. In their estimation, it was beneath their son to play the organ at South Leith Parish Church — and not only because of the class friction that existed in those days between Edinburgh and Leith. (There were differences between the Scottish Episcopal Church and the Church of Scotland, too.)
Alice’s father was not a churchgoer of any kind. He’d sent Alice to church and choir practice to give her a life outside the tattoo parlor, never imagining that she would meet her ruin in the church and at choir practice — or that she would bring her unscrupulous seducer to the shop to be tattooed!
It was William’s parents who insisted that, although he was the principal organist for the South Leith Parish, he accept an offer to be the assistant organist at Old St. Paul’s. What mattered to them was that Old St. Paul’s was Scottish Episcopal — and it was in Edinburgh, not in Leith.
What captivated William was the organ. He’d started piano lessons at six and had not touched an organ before he was nine, but at seven or eight he began to stick bits of paper above the piano keys — imagining they were organ stops. He’d already begun to dream about playing the organ, and the organ he dreamed about was the Father Willis at Old St. Paul’s.
If, in his parents’ opinion, to be the assistant organist at Old St. Paul’s was more prestigious than being the principal organist at South Leith Parish Church, William just wanted to get his hands on the Father Willis. In Old St. Paul’s, Jack’s mother told him, the acoustics were a contributing factor to the organ’s fame. The boy would later wonder if she meant that almost any organ would have sounded good there, because of the reverberation time — that is, the time it takes for a sound to diminish by sixty decibels — being better than the organ.
Alice remembered attending what she called “an organ marathon” at Old St. Paul’s. Such an event must have been for fund-raising purposes — a twenty-four-hour organ concert, with a different organist performing every hour or half hour. Who played when was, of course, a hierarchical arrangement; the best musicians performed when they were most likely to be heard, the others at the more unsociable hours. Young William Burns got to play before midnight — if only a half hour before.
From the Hardcover edition.
著者について
John Irving was born in New Hampshire. He studied at universities in America and Europe and published his first novel, Setting Free the Bears, at the age of twenty-six. The World According to Garp, published in 1978 to phenomenal acclaim, firmly established him as one of the most inventive and talented novelists in America.
During the 1980s John Irving wrote a series of absorbing and celebrated books: The Hotel New Hampshire, The Cider House Rules and A Prayer for Owen Meany. In these novels his originality and striking vision came brilliantly to the fore, along with his trademark subjects – as wide-ranging as feminism, religion, wrestling, sex and New England life.
More recent novels include the complex bestseller A Son of the Circus, the dark and funny novel A Widow for One Year and The Fourth Hand, a black comedy that was another popular success.
Several of John Irving’s novels have been made into films, and in 2000 he was awarded an Oscar for the screenplay for The Cider House Rules. He described the difficult, decade-long journey from page to screen in My Movie Business. He is also the author of Trying to Save Piggy Sneed and The Imaginary Girlfriend, memoirs of writing and wrestling.
In 1992, John Irving was inducted into the National Wrestling Hall of Fame in Stillwater, Oklahoma. In 2001, he was elected to the American Academy of Arts and Letters. He lives in Vermont and Toronto.
During the 1980s John Irving wrote a series of absorbing and celebrated books: The Hotel New Hampshire, The Cider House Rules and A Prayer for Owen Meany. In these novels his originality and striking vision came brilliantly to the fore, along with his trademark subjects – as wide-ranging as feminism, religion, wrestling, sex and New England life.
More recent novels include the complex bestseller A Son of the Circus, the dark and funny novel A Widow for One Year and The Fourth Hand, a black comedy that was another popular success.
Several of John Irving’s novels have been made into films, and in 2000 he was awarded an Oscar for the screenplay for The Cider House Rules. He described the difficult, decade-long journey from page to screen in My Movie Business. He is also the author of Trying to Save Piggy Sneed and The Imaginary Girlfriend, memoirs of writing and wrestling.
In 1992, John Irving was inducted into the National Wrestling Hall of Fame in Stillwater, Oklahoma. In 2001, he was elected to the American Academy of Arts and Letters. He lives in Vermont and Toronto.
登録情報
- 出版社 : Ballantine Books (2006/5/30)
- 発売日 : 2006/5/30
- 言語 : 英語
- マスマーケット : 844ページ
- ISBN-10 : 0345492307
- ISBN-13 : 978-0345492302
- 寸法 : 10.59 x 3.48 x 17.45 cm
- Amazon 売れ筋ランキング: - 1,128,242位洋書 (洋書の売れ筋ランキングを見る)
- - 33,808位Literary Fiction
- カスタマーレビュー:
著者について
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5つのうち4.3つ
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トップレビュー
上位レビュー、対象国: 日本
レビューのフィルタリング中に問題が発生しました。後でもう一度試してください。
2013年1月29日に日本でレビュー済み
Amazonで購入
overall I was happy with this book.. sucked in from the beginning and with so many details an amazing experience.. clear that it is AN John Irving story... where can it go wrong.. I have been at many of the places mentioned so can really connect with the read.. enjoy
2007年5月17日に日本でレビュー済み
Amazonで購入
主人公のジャックが母親アリスに連れられて 二人を捨てた父親を探すために ヨーロッパを点々とする事から始まる小説です。
冬のデンマーク オランダ スエーデンと転々としていく先々で刺青屋をしながら
アリスはジャックを育てて行くますが 父親は見つからずカナダに帰り二人の生活を開始します。
学校で演劇を学んだジャックは俳優となり 有名になります。そこで父親のうわさを聞き・・・
妻が夫を 子供が母親を 男が女を 息子が父親を探し続ける話です。
われわれは誰を捜し求め そして見つかった後はどうするのか?
個人的には最後5章で少し話がまとまらずに終わったのが残念
冬のデンマーク オランダ スエーデンと転々としていく先々で刺青屋をしながら
アリスはジャックを育てて行くますが 父親は見つからずカナダに帰り二人の生活を開始します。
学校で演劇を学んだジャックは俳優となり 有名になります。そこで父親のうわさを聞き・・・
妻が夫を 子供が母親を 男が女を 息子が父親を探し続ける話です。
われわれは誰を捜し求め そして見つかった後はどうするのか?
個人的には最後5章で少し話がまとまらずに終わったのが残念
2006年9月4日に日本でレビュー済み
Amazonで購入
I am an avid John Irving fan but I was kind of disappointed by this latest one. Whenever I pick up a new book by Irving I am always full of anticipation for the quirky unusual plot-lines and his humorous, down to earth story-telling, but it seems like lately he`s started to write less like a novelist and more like a screenwriter, trying his hand at bringing out the next Hollywood blockbuster. And why, oh why did we have to suffer through those long tedious descriptions of organs, and church music in the beginning chapters? It`s obvious that a fair amount of research went into this book, but is it really necessary to burden readers with all that background material???
I wish he would go back to writing novels in the style of "Hotel New Hampshire" and "A Son of the Circus."
I wish he would go back to writing novels in the style of "Hotel New Hampshire" and "A Son of the Circus."
他の国からのトップレビュー
Tonton
5つ星のうち5.0
Incredible
2022年10月22日にフランスでレビュー済みAmazonで購入
My second read was even better than the first ! I will read it again . It is John Irving to the nth power………
Ms. Constance V. Leeman
5つ星のうち5.0
Until I Find You
2012年12月19日にカナダでレビュー済みAmazonで購入
You need to be an avid reader to get through this 800 page book. I wondered why it had to be so long, but this story takes us to other parts of the world and gave me a better understanding of why people get tatoos.
I laughed, cried, enjoyed reading and then cried some more at the end. Don't be in a hurry to get through this one. I'll re-read it as I tend to speed read and skim over parts. This is the third J. Irving book I've read since September and I loved every one.
C.Leeman
I laughed, cried, enjoyed reading and then cried some more at the end. Don't be in a hurry to get through this one. I'll re-read it as I tend to speed read and skim over parts. This is the third J. Irving book I've read since September and I loved every one.
C.Leeman
Benjamin
5つ星のうち5.0
Never predicable but ever inventive
2013年1月7日に英国でレビュー済みAmazonで購入
We follow Jack Burns from an early age and on into maturity. As a child he is taken by his Scottish mother from Canada to tour Europe in search of his father who had deserted his mother. On his return to Canada we follow him through school, college and eventually into his career as an actor. But it is not until his mother dies that he begins the search of his own for his father, and what he discovers is very different from what he remembers from when he was a child.
Until I Find You is an involving novel, and one needs a good memory for many of the characters we meet in the early pages will reappear in one way or another much later, one also needs to remember events for we may well get a different slant on them as the story unfolds. But of course it is Jack that we follow throughout; and as a child he is a bright and endearing, but he may well loose some of our affections as he grows up for he is not always best behaved, but I am sure that if you stick with him and understand what made him he will reclaim your feelings, for ultimately this is a very touching and moving read, and Jack really does come out of it with honours.
Along the way we encounter an array of those characters beloved by Irving, the misfits, the mis-formed, the eccentrics and those on the borders of acceptable society, as well as some truly caring individuals; there really are those who are watching over Jack for his welfare.
It all adds up to a typically engrossing Irving novel, humour and wit intermingle with passages that are moving or touched with sadness or even tragedy. Never predictable but ever inventive, and of course beautifully written as one would expect from Irving, it all makes for a very worthy read.
Until I Find You is an involving novel, and one needs a good memory for many of the characters we meet in the early pages will reappear in one way or another much later, one also needs to remember events for we may well get a different slant on them as the story unfolds. But of course it is Jack that we follow throughout; and as a child he is a bright and endearing, but he may well loose some of our affections as he grows up for he is not always best behaved, but I am sure that if you stick with him and understand what made him he will reclaim your feelings, for ultimately this is a very touching and moving read, and Jack really does come out of it with honours.
Along the way we encounter an array of those characters beloved by Irving, the misfits, the mis-formed, the eccentrics and those on the borders of acceptable society, as well as some truly caring individuals; there really are those who are watching over Jack for his welfare.
It all adds up to a typically engrossing Irving novel, humour and wit intermingle with passages that are moving or touched with sadness or even tragedy. Never predictable but ever inventive, and of course beautifully written as one would expect from Irving, it all makes for a very worthy read.
Paul R
5つ星のうち5.0
John Irving Classic
2015年2月16日にオーストラリアでレビュー済みAmazonで購入
I have read this before and it is a classic John Irving book. Therev is everything in it, I loved the 'black' humour. If you like John Irving books like The World According to garp, you will love this
Alan L. Chase
5つ星のうち5.0
Until I Find You by John Irving
2006年1月12日にアメリカ合衆国でレビュー済みAmazonで購入
I have always appreciated John Irving's writing. There are manifold reasons why his work strikes a responsive chord with me. The sport of wrestling forms a continuing motif that somehow weaves itself into each of his works. He patterns himself after some of the same authors I most admire - Dickens, Dostoyevsky, Conrad. Like Dickens, Irving has a way of creating a world of memorable characters into which I find myself instantly transported as soon as I open the book.
About a year and a half ago, I had an opportunity to begin what has become a fascinating correspondence with Irving. It began with my writing to thank him for signing several of his books I had given as gifts. As an addendum to the thank you note, I mentioned how Irving's wrestling career at Philips Exeter Academy had almost overlapped with mine at Governor Dummer Academy. Irving captained the Exeter team five years before I served as the Captain of the GDA team. I also shared the fact that Irvin Foster, PEA's Captain, was the only wrestler to defeat me my senior year. I was shocked and delighted when Irving replied with a three page hand written letter revealing that he had been the Assistant Wrestling Coach at PEA that year, and had taught Irv Foster the takedown that he had used to defeat me!
Along the way, Irving started to talk about his writing in our exchange of letters. Exactly one year ago this week, he revealed that he had finished writing the manuscript for what would be called Until I Find You, but having finished the novel, he decided to rewrite it - changing the voice of the narration from first person to third. He does all of his writing by hand in pencil, so he had set for himself a formidable task. In September of last year, he shared with me that the work of rewriting the novel had bogged down because of injuries to his hand and forearm. By February, he was still struggling to finish the rewrite. Needless to say, I have been waiting with bated breath for the new novel to be published. It finally hit the bookstores and Amazon.com a few weeks ago.
Irving retraces familiar ground in his latest fictional offering - a tome of over 300,000 words. He returns to familiar places - Exeter, Amsterdam - and he revisits familiar themes - the search for a meaningful relationship with a missing or neglectful parent. As is the case in most of his works, Irving employs sexual themes - not gratuitously - but as a diaphanous scrim upon which to project the development of his character's sense of self and their place in the world. The world of tattoos - the cadre of artists who create them and the menagerie of individuals who use their bodies as blank canvases for the tattooists' needles - serves as a leitmotif for the indelible impression that persons have on one another. In the novel, some of the minor characters are sketched lightly - like tattoos that are only outlined and not filled in, while the core characters are limned in full color - like tattoos that have been lavishly shaded.
Irving traces the picaresque adventures of the protagonist, the actor Jack Burns, from his view of the world as a four year-old child "sleeping in the needles" with his tattoo artist mother, Alice, to the denouement of the adult Jack's reunion with his father, William, a gifted church organist addicted to having himself tattooed. The story is part freak show, part soap opera, part film noir, part grand opera, and part sweet odyssey. And it is all Irving at his best. This book was worth the wait and worth the physical pain that Irving endured in getting the voice of the narration tuned just right - like a delicate church organ whose complex array of ranks of pipes need to be calibrated just so to complement one another with overwhelming power and haunting beauty. The characters in this novel got under my skin - tattooed there by the needle of Irving's sharp imagination and his indelible way of depicting the human condition and our struggle to be known and loved.
If you already appreciate Irving's work, you will not be disappointed in Until I Find You. If you are new to Irving's writings, his latest book is a good place to begin to acquire a taste for his unique way of viewing and describing the world.
About a year and a half ago, I had an opportunity to begin what has become a fascinating correspondence with Irving. It began with my writing to thank him for signing several of his books I had given as gifts. As an addendum to the thank you note, I mentioned how Irving's wrestling career at Philips Exeter Academy had almost overlapped with mine at Governor Dummer Academy. Irving captained the Exeter team five years before I served as the Captain of the GDA team. I also shared the fact that Irvin Foster, PEA's Captain, was the only wrestler to defeat me my senior year. I was shocked and delighted when Irving replied with a three page hand written letter revealing that he had been the Assistant Wrestling Coach at PEA that year, and had taught Irv Foster the takedown that he had used to defeat me!
Along the way, Irving started to talk about his writing in our exchange of letters. Exactly one year ago this week, he revealed that he had finished writing the manuscript for what would be called Until I Find You, but having finished the novel, he decided to rewrite it - changing the voice of the narration from first person to third. He does all of his writing by hand in pencil, so he had set for himself a formidable task. In September of last year, he shared with me that the work of rewriting the novel had bogged down because of injuries to his hand and forearm. By February, he was still struggling to finish the rewrite. Needless to say, I have been waiting with bated breath for the new novel to be published. It finally hit the bookstores and Amazon.com a few weeks ago.
Irving retraces familiar ground in his latest fictional offering - a tome of over 300,000 words. He returns to familiar places - Exeter, Amsterdam - and he revisits familiar themes - the search for a meaningful relationship with a missing or neglectful parent. As is the case in most of his works, Irving employs sexual themes - not gratuitously - but as a diaphanous scrim upon which to project the development of his character's sense of self and their place in the world. The world of tattoos - the cadre of artists who create them and the menagerie of individuals who use their bodies as blank canvases for the tattooists' needles - serves as a leitmotif for the indelible impression that persons have on one another. In the novel, some of the minor characters are sketched lightly - like tattoos that are only outlined and not filled in, while the core characters are limned in full color - like tattoos that have been lavishly shaded.
Irving traces the picaresque adventures of the protagonist, the actor Jack Burns, from his view of the world as a four year-old child "sleeping in the needles" with his tattoo artist mother, Alice, to the denouement of the adult Jack's reunion with his father, William, a gifted church organist addicted to having himself tattooed. The story is part freak show, part soap opera, part film noir, part grand opera, and part sweet odyssey. And it is all Irving at his best. This book was worth the wait and worth the physical pain that Irving endured in getting the voice of the narration tuned just right - like a delicate church organ whose complex array of ranks of pipes need to be calibrated just so to complement one another with overwhelming power and haunting beauty. The characters in this novel got under my skin - tattooed there by the needle of Irving's sharp imagination and his indelible way of depicting the human condition and our struggle to be known and loved.
If you already appreciate Irving's work, you will not be disappointed in Until I Find You. If you are new to Irving's writings, his latest book is a good place to begin to acquire a taste for his unique way of viewing and describing the world.