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Zusatztext PRAISE FOR THE NEEDLE'S EYE "Though I have admired Miss Drabble's writing for years, I will admit that nothing she has written in the past quite prepared me for the depth and richness of this book." -Joyce Carol Oates, The New York Times "The Needle's Eye is that rare thing, a book one wishes were longer than it is."-The New York Review of Books Informationen zum Autor MARGARET DRABBLE is the author of The Sea Lady, The Seven Sisters, The Peppered Moth , and The Needle's Eye , among other novels. For her contributions to contemporary English literature, she was made a Dame of the British Empire in 2008. Klappentext Simon Camish, an embittered, diffident lawyer in a loveless marriage, would not have particularly noticed Rose Vassiliou had he not been asked to drive her home one night after a dinner party. Yet at one time she had been notorious-her name constantly in the news. Now, separated from her Greek husband, she lives alone with her three children. Despite all the efforts and sneers of her friends, she refuses to move from her slum house in a decaying neighborhood to which she has become attached. Gradually, Simon becomes aware that Rose is a woman of remarkable integrity and courage. He is drawn into her affairs when her husband takes legal action to reopen the question of custody of the children-a scheme for getting his wife back. And, while the precise nature of their ties eludes him, Simon comes to realize that Rose and her Greek ex-husband are forever and inextricably bound to each other. Leseprobe HE STOOD THERE AND WAITED. He was good at that. There was no hurry. There was plenty of time. He always had time. He was a punctual and polite person, and that was why he was standing there, buying a gift for his hostess. Politeness was an emotion- could one call it an emotion, he wondered? that was how he regarded it, certainly-an emotion that he both feared and understood. There was only one woman in front of him in the off-licence, and she was certainly in no hurry either. She had not even got round to asking for anything yet, because she was too busy telling the man behind the counter about her granddaughter. Two weeks old, this child was, and the lady had just finished knitting her a pram-cover in stripes of white and blue: it didn't matter that it was blue and not pink, the daughter had said, she didn't like pink anyway. The man behind the counter was interested in the story: not merely polite, but interested. One can tell the difference. The woman was short and broad and she was wearing bedroom slippers. What raffish districts of London his friends inhabited: NW1, this was, with all its smart contrasts. They depressed him unbearably, the well-arranged gulfs and divisions of life, the frivolity with which his friends took in these contrasts, the pleasure they took in such abrasions. It appalled him, the complacency with which such friends would describe the advantages of living in a mixed area. As though they licenced seedy old ladies and black men to walk their streets, teaching their children of poverty and despair, as their pet hamsters and guinea pigs taught them of sex and death. He thought of these things, sadly. Though the old lady did not seem sad. On the contrary, she seemed happy enough, this new grandmother: pleased with herself, pleased with her pram-cover, pleased at the prospect of the evening she was just about to set up for herself-for she embarked, now, on the purchase of one bottle of Guinness, two of pale ale, and one of fizzy orange. The man wrapped them up for her carefully in tissue paper, while she thought about other things that she might want. A box of matches, she decided on, and then (curious order of choice) a packet of ten Players: one might have thought that that would be all, but it wasn't, because her eyes then lit upon the plastic display of crisps, and she thought she'd have...
