Coraline

Coraline

by Neil Gaiman, Hélène Collon

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Overview

Coraline vient d’emménager dans une étrange maison et, comme ses parents n’ont pas le temps de s’occuper d’elle, elle décide d’explorer ce nouveau lieu. Ouvrant une porte condamnée, elle pénètre dans un appartement pratiquement identique au sien, où vivent ses « autres parents », copie conforme de ses vrais parents, mais qui ont des boutons cousus à la place des yeux. Aimables, séducteurs, ils veulent convaincre Coraline de rester pour toujours avec eux. La petite fille réussit à s’enfuir et à rentrer chez elle, mais découvre que ses vrais parents ont disparu. Elle retourne alors les sauver des griffes de ses « autres parents », aidée par un chat noir…

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9782226432032
Publisher: Albin Michel
Publication date: 05/02/2019
Series: Wiz
Sold by: ALBIN MICHEL
Format: NOOK Book
File size: 3 MB
Age Range: 11 Years

About the Author

Né en 1960 en Angleterre, Neil Gaiman vit aujourd'hui aux États-Unis. Auteur d'une série culte de comics, The Sandman, scénariste, romancier, il s'est imposé comme un des maîtres incontestés de la nouvelle vague fantastique. Adapté au cinéma par Henry Selick, Coraline est un best-seller international.

Hometown:

Minneapolis, Minnesota

Date of Birth:

November 10, 1960

Place of Birth:

Portchester, England

Education:

Attended Ardingly College Junior School, 1970-74, and Whitgift School, 1974-77

Read an Excerpt

Coraline (AER)

Chapter One

Fairy Tales are more than true: not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten
— G.K. Chesterton.

Coraline discovered the door a little while after they moved into the house.

It was a very old house — it had an attic under the roof and a cellar under the ground and an overgrown garden with huge old trees in it.

Coraline's family didn't own all of the house, it was too big for that. Instead they owned part of it.

There were other people who lived in the old house.

Miss Spink and Miss Forcible lived in the flat below Coraline's, on the ground floor. They were both old and round, and they lived in their flat with a number of ageing highland terriers who had names like Hamish and Andrew and Jock. Once upon a time Miss Spink and Miss Forcible had been actresses, as Miss Spink told Coraline the first time she met her.

"You see, Caroline," Miss Spink said, getting Coraline's name wrong, "Both myself and Miss Forcible were famous actresses, in our time. We trod the boards, luvvy. Oh, don't let Hamish eat the fruit cake, or he'll be up all night with his tummy."

"It's Coraline. Not Caroline. Coraline," said Coraline.

In the flat above Coraline's, under the roof, was a crazy old man with a big moustache. He told Coraline that he was training a mouse circus. He wouldn't let anyone see it.

"One day, little Caroline, when they are all ready, everyone in the whole world will see the wonders of my mouse circus. You ask me why you cannot see it now. Is that what you asked me?"

"No,"said Coraline quietly, "I asked you not to call me Caroline. It's Coraline."

"The reason you cannot see the Mouse Circus," said the man upstairs, "is that the mice are not yet ready and rehearsed. Also, they refuse to play the songs I have written for them. All the songs I have written for the mice to play go oompah oompah. But the white mice will only play toodle oodle, like that. I am thinking of trying them on different types of cheese."

Coraline didn't think there really was a mouse circus. She thought the old man was probably making it up.

The day after they moved in, Coraline went exploring.

She explored the garden. It was a big garden: at the very back was an old tennis court, but no-one in the house played tennis and the fence around the court had holes in it and the net had mostly rotted away; there was an old rose garden, filled with stunted, flyblown rose-bushes; there was a rockery that was all rocks; there was a fairy ring, made of squidgy brown toadstools which smelled dreadful if you accidentally trod on them.

There was also a well. Miss Spink and Miss Forcible made a point of telling Coraline how dangerous the well was, on the first day Coraline's family moved in, and warned her to be sure she kept away from it. So Coraline set off to explore for it, so that she knew where it was, to keep away from it properly.

She found it on the third day, in an overgrown meadow beside the tennis court, behind a clump of trees — a low brick circle almost hidden in the high grass. The well had been covered up by wooden boards, to stop anyone falling in. There was a small knot-hole in one of the boards, and Coraline spent an afternoon dropping pebbles and acorns through the hole, and waiting, and counting, until she heard the plopas they hit the water, far below.

Coraline also explored for animals. She found a hedgehog, and a snake-skin (but no snake), and a rock that looked just like a frog, and a toad that looked just like a rock.

There was also a haughty black cat, who would sit on walls and tree stumps, and watch her; but would slip away if ever she went over to try to play with it.

That was how she spent her first two weeks in the house — exploring the garden and the grounds.

Her mother made her come back inside for dinner, and for lunch; and Coraline had to make sure she dressed up warm before she went out, for it was a very cold summer that year; but go out she did, exploring, every day until the day it rained, when Coraline had to stay inside.

"What should I do?" asked Coraline.

"Read a book," said her mother. "Watch a video. Play with your toys. Go and pester Miss Spink or Miss Forcible, or the crazy old man upstairs."

"No," said Coraline. "I don't want to do those things. I want to explore."

"I don't really mind what you do," said Coraline's mother, "as long as you don't make a mess."

Coraline went over to the window and watched the rain come down. It wasn't the kind of rain you could go out in, it was the other kind, the kind that threw itself down from the sky and splashed where it landed. It was rain that meant business, and currently its business was turning the garden into a muddy, wet soup.

Coraline had watched all the videos. She was bored with her toys, and she'd read all her books.

She turned on the television. She went from channel to channel to channel, but there was nothing on but men in suits talking about the stock market, and schools programmes. Eventually, she found something to watch: it was the last half of a natural history programme about something called protective coloration. She watched animals, birds and insects which disguised themselves as leaves or twigs or other animals to escape from things that could hurt them. She enjoyed it, but it ended too soon, and was followed by a programme about a cake factory.

It was time to talk to her father.

Coraline's father was home. Both of her parents worked, doing things on computers, which meant that they were home a lot of the time. Each of them had their own study...

Coraline (AER). Copyright © by Neil Gaiman. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.

What People are Saying About This

Philip Pullman

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, rise to your feet and applaud: Coraline is the real thing.”

Diana Wynne Jones

“The most splendidly original, weird, and frightening book I have read, and yet full of things children will love.”

Terry Pratchett

“It has the delicate horror of the finest fairy tales, and it is a masterpiece.”

Orson Scott Card

“A deliciously scary book that we loved reading together as a family.”

Interviews

How I Came to Write Coraline
More than ten years ago, I started to write a children's book. It was for my daughter, Holly, who was five years old. I wanted it to have a girl as a heroine, and I wanted it to be refreshingly creepy.

When I was a boy, I lived in a house that had been made when a larger house had been divided up. The irregular shape of the house meant that one door of the house opened onto a stark brick wall. I would open it from time to time, always suspicious that one day the brick wall would be gone, and a corridor would be there instead.

I started to write a story about a girl named Coraline. I thought that the story would be five or ten pages long. The story itself had other plans.

We moved to America. The story, which I had been writing in my own time, between things that people were waiting for, ground to a halt.

Years passed. One day I looked up and noticed that Holly was now in her teens, and her younger sister, Maddy, was the same age Holly had been when I had started the book for her. I sent the story so far to Jennifer Hershey, my editor at Harper Collins. She read it. "I love it," she said. "What happens next?"

I suggested she give me a contract, and we would both find out. She agreed enthusiastically.

I bought a notebook and started to write in it. It sat on my bedside table, and for the next couple of years I would scrawl 50 words, sometimes 100 words, every night, before I went to sleep. A three-day train journey across America was an opportunity to work, uninterrupted on Coraline. Getting stuck on American Gods, a long novel I was working on, gave me the opportunity I needed to finish Coraline's story. A year later, I wrote a chapter I had meant to write but had never gotten around to, and Coraline was finished.

Where it all came from -- the Other Mother with her button eyes, the Rats, the Hand, the sad voices of the ghost-children -- I have no real idea. It built itself and told itself, a word at a time.

A decade before, I had begun to write the story of Coraline, who was small for her age, and would find herself in darkest danger. By the time I finished writing, Coraline had seen what lay behind mirrors, and had a close call with a bad hand, and had come face to face with her other mother; she had rescued her true parents from a fate worse than death and triumphed against overwhelming odds.

It was a story, I learned when people began to read it, that children experienced as an adventure, but which gave adults nightmares. It's the strangest book I've written, and, I like to think, the one of which I am most proud.

--Neil Gaiman

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