Maggie Estep Ordre des livres (chronologique)
Maggie Estep s'est taillé une niche littéraire unique grâce à son honnêteté brute et sans fard, ainsi qu'à ses observations perspicaces des franges de la société. Sa prose explore les complexités des liens humains et les aspects de la vie souvent négligés, empreinte d'un humour noir et d'une authenticité saisissante. Le style distinctif d'Estep se caractérise par un langage vibrant et des retournements inattendus, entraînant les lecteurs dans des récits qui résonnent d'une profondeur émotionnelle. Elle possède un rare talent pour trouver de la poésie dans ce qui sort de l'ordinaire et de la beauté dans l'imperfection.
"Hallo, ich heiße Zoe. Und dies ist mein Buch. Erfasst. Es geht mal wieder um die Tücken der Liebe, ums Chaos der Gefühle. Und mittendrin im Gewühle des menschlichen Miteinanders Ich: Die Gefühlsidiotin."""Tagebuch einer Gefühlsidiotin" ist eine glänzende Tragikkomödie über Anziehung und Abneigung, über Liebe und Verführung, über den Traumprinzen und den schlampigen Neurotiker mit dem Frau immer endet." Playboy"Rock 'n Roll und Literatur waren schon immer eng verwandt. Neuestes Beispiel dafür: Maggie Estep, jedermanns Lieblings-Kodderschnauze." Time out
Diary of an Emotional Idiot
- 184pages
- 7 heures de lecture
Hello, my name is Zoe and this is my book. It is a document of Emotional Idiocy told in two parts. There is the "then" part, which explains how I got here, and there is the "now" part, which documents what I am doing here. At the moment, I am sitting at my desk naked but for some men's boxer shorts and many silver bracelets. I like to see myself in men's underwear. I like to see men in men's underwear. Men in women's underwear is also acceptable. Other women in men's underwear doesn't do so much for me. However, if someone were to bring a tribe of women clad only in men's underwear to my house, I might find it slightly exciting. I might not kick them out of my house. My house is not a bad house. It is a small hovel in a tenement building on East Sixth Street in New York City. I live there with few furnishings, many books, and a cat named Wimpy given to me by Jim, a talented but ornery painter I used to sleep with. Wimpy weighs twenty-two pounds and has a psychological disorder: If I leave him alone too long, he becomes convinced that he has fleas and scratches himself raw. This I am telling you because it is an apt metaphor for how I feel in my skin right now. I am digging at my hide, rubbing it raw because I've been rubbed raw by love gone wrong. Yes. This is another tale of love gone wrong. This is me turned idiot in the face of human interaction.