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Zone One de Colson Whitehead
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Zone One (original: 2011; edição: 2012)

de Colson Whitehead (Autor)

MembrosResenhasPopularidadeAvaliação médiaMenções
1,6471158,215 (3.34)200
Mark Spitz and his squad of three "sweepers" move through Zone One of lower Manhattan, a walled-off enclave scheduled for resettlement in the aftermath of a zombie plague. The great masses of the undead have been violently dispatched by a Marine detachment. It falls to Spitz and his fellows to take care of the handful that remain, as well as a second-tier of the infected known as "stragglers": zombies who have bypassed the cannibalistic urges of their more lethal fellows in favor of a hollow-eyed, eerily nostalgic repetition of some mundane act.… (mais)
Membro:HelenIs
Título:Zone One
Autores:Colson Whitehead (Autor)
Informação:Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group (2012), Edition: Reprint, 336 pages
Coleções:eBook, Unread and owned
Avaliação:
Etiquetas:Nenhum(a)

Work Information

Zone One de Colson Whitehead (2011)

  1. 60
    World War Z de Max Brooks (ahstrick)
  2. 20
    The Walking Dead, Volume 01: Days Gone Bye de Robert Kirkman (ahstrick)
  3. 00
    Pontypool Changes Everything de Tony Burgess (bertilak)
  4. 00
    Living with the Dead de Darrell Schweitzer (bertilak)
    bertilak: Living with the dead. Or not.
  5. 00
    Severance de Ling Ma (susanbooks)
    susanbooks: Ma takes Whitehead's neoliberal zombie narrative further, making for a more satisfying read, but I'm not sure I'd have appreciated Ma's without Whitehead's.
  6. 12
    The Waste Land de T. S. Eliot (bertilak)
    bertilak: Zombies as a metaphor for Hollow Men.
  7. 12
    Station Eleven de Emily St. John Mandel (Euryale)
    Euryale: Another literary treatment of the breakdown of civilization. No zombies, but it does have more of a plot.
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Mostrando 1-5 de 115 (seguinte | mostrar todas)
Pensive but still engrossing. Less an exercise in how a zombie apocalypse would change the world, and more about the ways in which it wouldn't. ( )
  misslevel | Sep 22, 2021 |
Way too ambiguous a vision that Whitehead apparently had for this book. I looked forward to reading it, but it was not organized enough to make it interesting. ( )
  larrybenfield | Jul 14, 2021 |
No doubt: Colson Whitehead is a quality writer. Very descriptive, impressive vocabulary. In this post-apocalytpic world, protagonist Mark Spitz is ridding areas of NY City of zombies for its eventual re-occupation. I found the numerous transitions between real time and memories to be confusing, even though I think that was Whitehead's intention. Kudos for his ending, which was not expected. ( )
  skipstern | Jul 11, 2021 |
adult fiction. I'm fairly certain that a sharper, more intelligent novel about the zombie apocalypse has never been written--unfortunately, CW drones on for a good 100-200 pages longer than I've got the time or patience for. If you enjoy reading elegant prose just for the sake of reading elegant prose, by all means, devour this from cover to cover--if however, you'd just as soon move on to the next book in your to-read stack, read the first 100 pages or so, then skip ahead to the ending. ( )
  reader1009 | Jul 3, 2021 |
Zone One by Colson Whitehead is an interesting story that blends genre fiction with literary merit as the author sets this novel in a zombie ravaged post-apocalyptic America. A few years have passed since a mysterious plague caused society to crumble. Survivors have now gathered together and are optimistically going about reestablishing a government, carving out camps and cleaning out territory. One such mission is trying to reclaim New York City, or as they now call it, Zone One.

The story unfolds over a 3-day period as “Sweeper” Mark Spitz and his companions patrol portions of Manhattan. Along with this zombie clean-up the reader gets a number of flashbacks that explain how Mark Spitz survived the apocalypse and how he got his nickname. Of course, this all seems a little too easy, so we can’t help but wonder if things are about to take a turn for the worse.

What makes this story different to other zombie fiction is that although the author gives us a certain amount of zombie gore, he also gives us a self absorbed, deep thinking character that offers the reader a lot of well written observations and philosophy. I felt that the novel was a little too full of prose and lyrical language, that the pure punch of a zombie story was lost. There is no question about the excellence of the writing but I have to admit that I missed the cheesy zombie fun that I was hoping for. ( )
  DeltaQueen50 | Jul 3, 2021 |
Mostrando 1-5 de 115 (seguinte | mostrar todas)
“Zone One” spares the form’s conventional reliance on summer-movie scares and chase scenes — though there’s plenty of those too — and instead turns an unsparing focus on the dark reality such a world-crumbling plague unleashes. ... At one point, Whitehead compares humanity’s shift to the ravenous undead as self-actualization for the secretly immoral or those too timid to chase their dreams. “I have always been like this,” Whitehead coldly observes in a mob of townspeople-turned-monsters. “Now I’m more me.” ... Linguistically cryptic military diagnoses, the PR churn of the war machine and a merciless city that fed on its own long before its citizens started feeding on one another still endure in Whitehead’s apocalypse, all the way to the bitter end.
adicionado por Lemeritus | editarLos Angeles Times, Chris Barton (Web site pago) (Oct 30, 2011)
 
A literary novelist writing a genre novel is like an intellectual dating a porn star. It invites forgivable prurience: What is that relationship like? ... Colson Whitehead is a literary novelist, but his latest book, “Zone One,” features zombies, which means horror fans and gore gourmands will soon have him on their radar. He has my sympathy. Broad-spectrum marketing will attract readers for whom having to look up “cathected” or “brisant” isn’t just an irritant but a moral affront. These readers will huff and writhe and swear their way through (if they make it through) and feel betrayed and outraged and migrained. But unless they’re entirely beyond the beguilements of art they will also feel fruitfully disturbed, because “Zone One” will have forced them, whether they signed up for it or not, to see the strangeness of the familiar and the familiarity of the strange. ... There will be grumbling from self-­appointed aficionados of the undead (Sir, I think the author will find that zombies actually . . .) and we’ll have to listen for another season or two to critics batting around the notion that genre-slumming is a recent trend, but none of that will hurt “Zone One,” which is a cool, thoughtful and, for all its ludic violence, strangely tender novel, a celebration of modernity and a pre-emptive wake for its demise.
adicionado por Lemeritus | editarThe New York Times, Glen Duncan (Web site pago) (Oct 28, 2011)
 
Cinematic in scope and nimble in its use of hard-core gore, it’s an absorbing read, crammed with thoughtful snapshots of the world the survivors have left behind... The implicit question: Have we all become zombies? Are 21st-century Americans wandering around in a stupor, drinking designer coffee from designer mugs, ordering the same modular sofas from the same big box retailers, standing in trances before copying machines in drab office buildings coast to coast? ... Whitehead’s answer appears to be “yes,” which can be problematic for the novel. As readers, we should be at liberty to mourn a civilization that appears to be gone for good — one with safer homes, loving families and, yes, flat screen TVs. But the book sometimes makes us feel naive, even foolish for courting these feelings, in the same way a smug New Yorker make a non-native feel like a hick.
 
In the endless and in no way tedious debate between lovers of genre and lovers of whatever "literary" fiction is (we can't define it but we know it when we see it), consider this theory: a book is not a song. A book is the performance of a song... Whitehead isn't your usual zombie singer. He never overburdens the zombies with allegory or omits the requisite gore, but he does what all artists do: he observes, closely, and reports back what he sees... Whitehead does have a tendency to overwrite – sentences sometimes grow so rhythmical, you fail to take in their actual meaning as the words wash over you – but he achieves a kind of miracle of tone. A fragile hope permeates these pages, one so painful and tender, it's heartbreaking.
adicionado por Lemeritus | editarThe Guardian, Patrick Ness (Oct 13, 2011)
 
From the very opening, Zone One sets itself as a novel about ideas, rather than people. The hallmarks of (recherché) postmodernism are ever present: temporal distortion, metafiction, pastiche, paranoia... This approach may work to great effect elsewhere, yet in a zombie novel, where pace and narrative urgency are of the essence, it falls sadly flat. On the odd occasion that the novel does begin to gain some momentum, the author has a tendency to embark on tiresome digressions which involve but are not limited to groceries, flossing, tog-count and yoga mats. As a result, the narrative shambles along at the pace of an emaciated skel... This is, without doubt, a dense, difficult book. In parts it is amusingly clever, yet it is also guilty of being too clever. The author’s use of temporal distortion, for instance, lacks the necessary control leaving the plot tangled, disoriented, and dull.
 

» Adicionar outros autores (1 possível)

Nome do autorFunçãoTipo de autorObra?Status
Whitehead, Colsonautor principaltodas as ediçõesconfirmado
Corral, RodrigoDesigner da capaautor secundárioalgumas ediçõesconfirmado
Koay, Pei LoiDesignerautor secundárioalgumas ediçõesconfirmado

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The last time he saw his childhood home was on Last Night. It, too, had looked normal from the outside, in the new meaning of normal that signified resemblance to the time before the flood. Normal meant "the past." Normal was the unbroken idyll of life before. The present was a series of intervals differentiated from each other only by the degree of dread they contained. The future? The future was clay in their hands.
It was hard to argue with the logic of the Island die-hards and their sun-drenched dreams of carefree living once every meter inside the beach line had been swept. The ocean was a beautiful wall, the most majestic barricade. Living would be easy. They'd make furniture out of coconuts, forget technology, have litters of untamed children who said adorable things like, "Daddy, what's on demand?"

In practice, something always went wrong. The Carolinas, for example. Someone snuck back to the mainland for penicillin or scotch, or a boatful of aspirants rowed ashore bearing a stricken member of their party they refused to leave behind, sad orange life vests encircling their heaving chests. The new micro-societies inevitably imploded, on the island getaways, in reclaimed prisons, at the mountaintop ski lodge accessible only by sabotaged funicular, in the underground survivalist hideouts finally summoned to utility. The rules broke down.
Mark Spitz had met plenty of the divine-retribution folks over the months. This was their moment; they were umbrella salesmen standing outside a subway entrance in a downpour. The human race deserved the plague, we brought it on ourselves for poisoning the planet, for the Death of God, the calculated brutalities of the global economic system, for driving primordial species to extinction: the entire collapse of values as evidenced by everything from nuclear fission to reality television to alternate side of the street parking. Mark Spitz could only endure these harangues for a minute or two before he split. It was boring. The plague was the plague. You were wearing galoshes, or you weren't.
He missed the stupid stuff everyone missed, the wifi and the workhorse chromium toasters, mass transportation and gratis transfers, rubbing cheese-puff dust on his trousers and calculating which checkout line was shortest, he missed the things unconjurable in reconstruction. That which will escape. His people. His family and friends and twinkly-eyed lunchtime counterfolk. The dead. He missed the extinct. The unfit had been wiped out, how else to put it, and now all that remained were ruined like him.
When he used to watch disaster flicks and horror movies he convinced himself he’d survive the particular death scenario: happen to be away from his home zip code when the megatons fell, upwind of the fallout, covering the bunker’s air vents with electrical tape. He was spread-eagled atop the butte and catching his breath when the tsunami swirled ashore, and in the lottery for a berth on the spacecraft, away from an Earth disintegrating under cosmic rays, his number was the last one picked and it happened to be his birthday. Always the logical means of evasion, he’d make it through as he always did. He was the only cast member to heed the words of the bedraggled prophet in Act I, and the plucky dude who slid the lucky heirloom knife from his sock and sawed at the bonds while in the next room the cannibal family bickered over when to carve him for dinner. He was the one left to explain it all to the skeptical world after the end credits, jibbering in blood-drenched dungarees before the useless local authorities, news media vans, and government agencies who spent half the movie arriving on the scene. I know it sounds crazy, but they came from the radioactive anthill, the sorority girls were dead when I got there, the prehistoric sea creature is your perp, dredge the lake and you’ll find the bodies in its digestive tract, check it out. By his sights, the real movie started after the first one ended, in the impossible return to things before.
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Mark Spitz and his squad of three "sweepers" move through Zone One of lower Manhattan, a walled-off enclave scheduled for resettlement in the aftermath of a zombie plague. The great masses of the undead have been violently dispatched by a Marine detachment. It falls to Spitz and his fellows to take care of the handful that remain, as well as a second-tier of the infected known as "stragglers": zombies who have bypassed the cannibalistic urges of their more lethal fellows in favor of a hollow-eyed, eerily nostalgic repetition of some mundane act.

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