- Taschenbuch: 208 Seiten
- Verlag: NYRB Classics (31. Dezember 2004)
- Sprache: Englisch
- ISBN-10: 9781590171332
- ISBN-13: 978-1590171332
- ASIN: 1590171330
- Größe und/oder Gewicht: 13,2 x 1 x 20,3 cm
- Durchschnittliche Kundenbewertung: Schreiben Sie die erste Bewertung
- Amazon Bestseller-Rang: Nr. 2.287 in Fremdsprachige Bücher (Siehe Top 100 in Fremdsprachige Bücher)
The Peregrine (New York Review Books Classics) (Englisch) Taschenbuch – 31. Dezember 2004
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"...the book is a work of tireless outward observation, with an astonishingly inventive and precise prose style....Baker’s feet may be on the ground, but his gaze is skyward, toward the birds he envies." — Lisa Darms, Bookforum
"Remarkable...the lyrical prose hammers home the attraction of pitting predator against quarry." — Daily Telegraph (London)
"A powerful evocation of East Anglia’s winter landscape, and an unforgettable portrait of a man’s passionate engagement with the natural world."
— London Review of Books
"The Peregrine should be known as one of the finest works on nature ever written…His words—precise, lyrical and intensely felt—seem to have been selected as if their author were under huge pressure, both from the depth of his feelings for the bird and the weight of experience he wished to impart…The only sadness about The Peregrine is that its author is no longer with us to be honoured afresh for his achievement."
— BBC Wildlife Magazine
"A nature study such as Mr. Baker has presented—not by any means restricted to the peregrine falcon—deserves warm praise for the remarkable perseverance and patience which has gone into its making, and when the observer is a gifted writer, as in the present instance, the result is even more gratifying."
— Daniel A. Bannerman, The New York Review of Books
"The Peregrine is one of the most beautifully written, carefully observed and evocative wildlife accounts I have ever read. Mr. Baker’s patience, his discriminating and unsentimental eye, and his passionate deliberations are utterly captivating."
— Barry Lopez
"This book goes altogether outside the bird book into something less naïve, into literature, into a kind of universal rapport…"
— Geoffrey Grigson, Sunday Times (London)
"…one need not know a hawk from a handsaw to take pleasure and profit from the book. It is an account by a curious, complicated man of a curious, complicated phenomenon, that will involve, instruct and excite a reader who can never hope and may never want to share the writer’s experience."
— Bil Gilbert, Washington Post Book World
"Mr. Baker is primarily a descriptive writer, and a good one, but his obsession has given him a kind of crazy empathy that lifts his book above mere observation."
— The New Yorker
“The Peregrine by J.A. Baker…[is] A darkly poetic and episodic work about a man obsessively watching wild peregrine falcons in the British countryside. Written at a time when the extinction of the peregrine and nuclear apocalypse both seemed imminent, this is a book about the poetry of death and loss as much as it is about hawks.” —Helen Macdonald, The Week
With no prior knowledge of birds, Baker is seized with an unexplained longing to track the peregrine falcons that hunt in the river valley behind his home each winter. Though his subjects are far more elusive than the pigeons and gulls on which they prey, on rare occasions he sees a peregrine roosting or bathing, or spots a fresh kill in the grass. He outlines their strict hunting ethos and as the winter approaches, he resolves to shun the world of men in fierce pursuit of the falcon's inner life. As the landscape thaws, Baker shares the hawk's absolute terror in the face of the stumbling, erratic human beings encroaching on its territory. Veering swiftly from the mundane to the miraculous, Baker's self-effacing diary of a long winter in the wild is a triumph of pure and immediate description.Alle Produktbeschreibungen
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He observed them very closely, with enormous patience and effort. He wanted to join with them, to become one if he could, as though one of Ovid's metamorphoses could be brought about by sheer willpower. He got at least halfway there. This is not a normal book. It is a voice from another world.
A more or less random sample:
"He climbed vertically upward, like a salmon leaping in the great waves of air that broke against the cliff of South Wood. He dived to the trough of a wave, then rose steeply within it, flinging himself high in the air, on stretched wings exultant. At five hundred feet he hung still, tail closed, wings curving far back with their tips almost touching the tip of his tail. He was stooping horizontally forward at the speed of the oncoming wind. He rocked and swayed and shuddered, close-hauled in a roaring sea of air, his furled wings whipping and plying like wet canvas. Suddenly he plunged to the north, curved over to the vertical stoop, flourished his wings high, shrank small and fell.
He fell so fast, he fired so furiously from the sky to the dark wood below that his black shape dimmed to grey air, hidden in a shining cloud of speed. He drew the sky about him as he fell. It was final. It was death. There was nothing more. There could be nothing more. Dusk came early. Through the almost dark, the fearful pigeons flew quietly down to roost above the feathered bloodstain in the woodland ride."
I'm counting the days until she's six. None of you should wait, unless you're five.
One encounters in turns the “musky opulence” of the moors, “a land...of remembered symmetries”, where the falcon’s dark eyes “shone, and the bare skin around them glittered like salt”, his kill “like the warm embers of a dying fire”…“his butchery beautifully done”, the victim “half submerged in flooded grass, cryptic even in death”. This is a labor of love, laced with exquisite description and soulful insight.
The following, much celebrated paragraph is the raison d’etre of this delightful book, one of the most vibrant and joyful nature treatises I’ve ever read:
“Wherever he goes, this winter, I will follow him. I will share the fear, and the exaltation, and the boredom, of the hunting life. I will follow him till my predatory human shape no longer darkens in terror the shaken kaleidoscope of colour that stains the deep fovea of his brilliant eye. My pagan head shall sink into the winter land, and there be purified.”