عرض مشاركة واحدة
قديم 10-31-2012, 04:16 PM
المشاركة 109
ايوب صابر
مراقب عام سابقا

اوسمتي

  • موجود
افتراضي
جان ماري غوستاف لو كليزيو
(13 أبريل 1940 - ) في مدينة نيس الفرنسية، وقد قضى سنتين من طفولته في نيجيريا، وقام بالتدريس في جامعات في بانكوك وبوسطن ومسكيكو سيتي. روائي فرنسي حائز على جائزة نوبل للآداب 2008. كان لوكليزيو قد اشتهر عالم 1980 بعد نشر رواية "الصحراء" التي اعتبرتها الاكاديمية السويدية تقدم "صورا رائعة لثقافة ضائعة في صحراء شمال أفريقيا".
أعماله
في عام 1965 صدرت له مجموعة من القصص القصيرة بعنوان الحمَّى ثم مجموعة أخرى في العام التالي بعنوان الطوفان، ثم الأرض المقدسة في عام 1967 يليها «النشوة الحسية» في العام نفسه ثم كتاب «الهرب» عام 1969 ثم «الحرب» عام 1970 ثم «العمالقة» عام 1973. بعد ذلك توالت العناوين على النحو التالي:
  • نيدرياز 1973 Nydriase.
  • رحلات في البر الآخر 1975.
  • نبوءات شيلام بالام عام 1976.
  • المجهول على سطح الأرض 1978.
  • موندو وحكايات أخرى 1978.
  • صحراء 1980.
  • ثلاث مدن مقدسة 1980.
  • الدائرة وحوادث أخرى 1982.
ثم نشر قصصاً للأطفال منها:
  • «الذي لم يشاهد البحر في حياته مع جبل الله الحي» 1982.
  • رحلة إلى بلاد الأشجار 1984.
  • في العام التالي ظهر له كتاب «الباحث عن الذهب».
  • في العام نفسه كتاب «اليوم الذي عرف فيه بومون الألم».
  • في عام 1986 نشر لوكليزيو جزءاً من مذكراته.
  • في عام 1989 مجموعة قصصية بعنوان الربيع والفصول الأخرى.
  • في عام 1992 صدرت له روايتان بعنوان «النجمة الهائمة» و«باوانا».
  • في عام 1995 رواية «المحجر» ثم روايتان في عام 1997 «السمكة الذهبية» و«الحفلة الغنائية».
  • في عام 1999 رواية «مصادفة».
  • في عام 2000 مجموعة أخرى بعنوان «قلب يحترق وحكايات أخرى».
  • في 2003 رواية «ثورات» .
  • رواية «أورانيا» عام 2006.
  • وأخيراً رواية بعنوان «قَرْصُ الجوع» عام 2008.
كما نشر لوكليزيو العديد من البحوث والدراسات، و نشر الكثير من المقالات في عدد من الصحف والدوريات الأدبية المعروفة مثل الجريدة الفرنسية الجديدة، ولوموندو، والمجلة الأدبية، وكانزين ليتّيرير.
Jean-Marie Gustave Le Clézio born 13 April 1940), usually identified as J. M. G. Le Clézio, is a French-Mauritian author and professor. The author of over forty works, he was awarded the 1963 Prix Renaudot for his novel Le Procès-Verbal.
Le Clézio was awarded the 2008 Nobel Prize in Literature as an "author of new departures, poetic adventure and sensual ecstasy, explorer of a humanity beyond and below the reigning civilization".

Biography
Le Clézio's mother was born in the French Riviera city of Nice, his father on the island of Mauritius (which was a British possession, but his father was ethnically French).
Both his father's and his mother's ancestors were originally from Morbihan on the south coast of Brittany.
His paternal ancestor François Alexis Le Clézio fled France in 1798 and settled with his wife and daughter on Mauritius, which was then a French colony but would soon pass into British hands. The colonists were allowed to maintain their customs and use of the French language. Le Clézio has never lived in Mauritius for more than a few months at a time, but he has stated that he regards himself both as a Frenchman and a Mauritian. He has dual French and Mauritian citizenship (Mauritius gained independence in 1968) and calls Mauritius his "little fatherland"[
- Le Clézio was born in Nice, his mother's native city, during World War II when his father was serving in the British army in Nigeria.
- He was raised in Roquebillière, a small village near Nice until 1948 when he, his mother, and his brother boarded a ship to join his father in Nigeria.
- His 1991 novel Onitsha is partly autobiographical. In a 2004 essay, he reminisced about his childhood in Nigeria and his relationship with his parents.
After studying at the University of Bristol in England from 1958 to 1959,[8] he finished his undergraduate degree at Nice's Institut d’études littéraires.[9] In 1964 Le Clézio earned a master's degree from the University of Provence with a thesis on Henri Michaux.[10]
After several years spent in London and Bristol, he moved to the United States to work as a teacher. During 1967 he served in the French military in Thailand, but was quickly expelled from the country for protesting against child prostitution and sent to Mexico to finish his military obligation. From 1970 to 1974, he lived with the Embera-Wounaan tribe in Panama. He has been married since 1975 to Jémia, who is Moroccan, and has three daughters (one by his first marriage). Since the 1990s they have divided their residence between Albuquerque, Mauritius, and Nice.[11]
In 1983 he wrote a doctoral thesis on colonial Mexican history for the University of Perpignan, on the conquest of the P'urhépecha people (formerly known as "Tarascans") who inhabit the present day state of Michoacán. It was serialized in a French magazine and published in Spanish translation in 1985.[12]
He has taught at a number of universities around the world. A frequent visitor to South Korea, he taught French language and literature at Ewha Womans University in Seoul during the 2007 academic year.[13][14]
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Why do we write? I imagine that each of us has his or her own response to this simple question. One has predispositions, a milieu, circumstances. Shortcomings, too. If we are writing, it means that we are not acting. That we find ourselves in difficulty when we are faced with reality, and so we have chosen another way to react, another way to communicate, a certain distance, a time for reflection.
If I examine the circumstances which inspired me to write–and this is not mere self-indulgence, but a desire for accuracy–I see clearly that the starting point of it all for me was war. Not war in the sense of a specific time of major upheaval, where historical events are experienced, such as the French campaign on the battlefield at Valmy, as recounted by Goethe on the German side and my ancestor François on the side of the armée révolutionnaire. That must have been a moment full of exaltation and pathos. No, for me war is what civilians experience, very young children first and foremost. Not once has war ever seemed to me to be an historical moment. We were hungry, we were frightened, we were cold, and that is all. I remember seeing the troops of Field Marshal Rommel pass by under my window as they headed towards the Alps, seeking a passage to the north of Italy and Austria. I do not have a particularly vivid memory of that event. I do recall, however, that during the years which followed the war we were deprived of everything, in particular books and writing materials. For want of paper and ink, I made my first drawings and wrote my first texts on the back of the ration books, using a carpenter's blue and red pencil. This left me with a certain preference for rough paper and ordinary pencils. For want of any children's books, I read my grandmother's dictionaries. They were like a marvellous gateway, through which I embarked on a discovery of the world, to wander and daydream as I looked at the illustrated plates, and the maps, and the lists of unfamiliar words. The first book I wrote, at the age of six or seven, was entitled, moreover, Le Globe à mariner. Immediately afterwards came a biography of an imaginary king named Daniel III—could he have been Swedish?—and a tale told by a seagull. It was a time of reclusion. Children were scarcely allowed outdoors to play, because in the fields and gardens near my grandmother's there were land mines. I recall that one day as I was out walking by the sea I came across an enclosure surrounded by barbed wire: on the fence was a sign in French and in German that threatened intruders with a forbidding message, and a skull to make things perfectly clear.
It is easy, in such a context, to understand the urge to escape—hence, to dream, and put those dreams in writing. My maternal grandmother, moreover, was an extraordinary storyteller, and she set aside the long afternoons for the telling of stories. They were always very imaginative, and were set in a forest—perhaps it was in Africa, or in Mauritius, the forest of Macchabée—where the main character was a monkey who had a great talent for mischief, and who always wriggled his way out of the most perilous situations. Later, I would travel to Africa and spend time there, and discover the real forest, one where there were almost no animals. But a District Officer in the village of Obudu, near the border with Cameroon, showed me how to listen for the drumming of the gorillas on a nearby hill, pounding their chests. And from that journey, and the time I spent there (in Nigeria, where my father was a bush doctor), it was not subject matter for future novels that I brought back, but a sort of second personality, a daydreamer who was fascinated with reality at the same time, and this personality has stayed with me all my life—and has constituted a contradictory dimension, a strangeness in myself that at times has been a source of suffering. Given the slowness of life, it has taken me the better part of my existence to understand the significance of this contradiction.
Books entered my life at a later period. When my father's inheritance was divided, at the time of his expulsion from the family home in Moka, in Mauritius, he managed to put together several libraries consisting of the books that remained. It was then that I understood a truth not immediately apparent to children, that books are a treasure more precious than any real property or bank account. It was in those volumes—most of them ancient, bound tomes—that I discovered the great works of world literature: Don Quijote, illustrated by Tony Johannot; La vida deLazarillo de Tormes; the Ingoldsby Legends; Gulliver's Travels; Victor Hugo's great, inspired novels Quatre-vingt-treize, Les Travailleurs de la Mer, and L'Homme qui rit. Balzac's Les Contesdrôlatiques, as well. But the books which had the greatest impact on me were the anthologies of travellers' tales, most of them devoted to India, Africa, and the Mascarene islands, or the great histories of exploration by Dumont d'Urville or the Abbé Rochon, as well as Bougainville, Cook, and of course The Travels of Marco Polo. In the mediocre life of a little provincial town dozing in the sun, after those years of freedom in Africa, those books gave me a taste for adventure, gave me a sense of the vastness of the real world, a means to explore it through instinct and the senses rather than through knowledge. In a way, too, those books gave me, from very early on, an awareness of the contradictory nature of a child's existence: a child will cling to a sanctuary, a place to forget violence and competitiveness, and also take pleasure in looking through the windowpane to watch the outside world go by.
Shortly before I received the—to me, astonishing—news that the Swedish Academy was awarding me this distinction, I was re-reading a little book by Stig Dagerman that I am particularly fond of: a collection of political essays entitled Essäer och texter. It was no mere chance that I was re-reading this bitter, abrasive book. I was preparing a trip to Sweden to receive the prize which the Association of the Friends of Stig Dagerman had awarded to me the previous summer, to visit the places where the writer had lived as a child. I have always been particularly receptive to Dagerman's writing, to the way in which he combines a child-like tenderness with naïveté and sarcasm. And to his idealism. To the clear-sightedness with which he judges his troubled, post-war era—that of his mature years, and of my childhood. One sentence in particular caught my attention, and seemed to be addressed to me at that very moment, for I had just published a novel entitled Ritournelle de la faim. That sentence, or that passage rather, is as follows: "How is it possible on the one hand, for example, to behave as if nothing on earth were more important than literature, and on the other fail to see that wherever one looks, people are struggling against hunger and will necessarily consider that the most important thing is what they earn at the end of the month? Because this is where he (the writer) is confronted with a new paradox: while all he wanted was to write for those who are hungry, he now discovers that it is only those who have plenty to eat who have the leisure to take notice of his existence." (The Writer and Consciousness)
عاش بعيدا عن والده لمدة 8 سنوات.
يتيم اجتماعي.