By Nicole Avril
Une plage de Nieul-Sur-Mer, près de l. a. Rochelle. Une maison à Rambouillet. Un quartier pauvre de Lyon. Autour de ces lieux de mémoire, Nicole Avril se raconte pour l. a. première fois.
Elle découvre les parfums d’algue et d’iode, le goût du sel, et l’appel de l’horizon. Elle discover les jardins de son père, dignes des « jardins d’Allah », qui mélangent les fleurs, le maïs, les culmination juteux et tendres. los angeles douleur surgit dès los angeles cinquième année, quand l. a. petite fille est soignée pour un « joubi » (joue-bis) qui lui déforme le visage. Elle connaît l’hôpital, l’odeur de l’éther, le froid et l. a. peur. los angeles douleur se manifeste aussi plus tard, lors de l’adolescence, à Lyon, avec le foremost amour.
Chaque vie est specified, et, en même temps, ressemble à n’importe quelle vie. Le récit de Nicole Avril ne dit pas autre selected. Il évoque en quelques touches une France d’après-guerre presque oubliée, et, avec des mots justes, l. a. determine d’un père régnant sur des jardins qui ne flétriront jamais.
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Extra resources for Dans les jardins de mon père
But, dear reader, that isn’t to say this will be a ‘fluffy’ book. I want to tell things as I saw them: relay the funny stories and recall the many wonderful characters and friends that have enriched my life. ). Why give them the publicity, I say? No, I’d far rather fill these pages with words about me. This is, after all, a book about me: a suave, modest, sophisticated, talented, modest, debonair, modest and charming individual–of whom there is much to write. Throughout my tenure as James Bond, there were many wonderful scripts to work with, and one of my favourite lines from any Bond film came from Tom Mankiewicz, who wrote the screenplay for The Man With the Golden Gun.
He asked. Damn it! He’d called my bluff. An exemption card was issued to people beyond the obligatory call-up age of eighteen to prove they had a valid reason not to be in the armed forces. I smiled awkwardly and having found my identity card, handed it to him hoping he would–being a red-blooded male like myself, fond of a kiss and a cuddle–take it surreptitiously and not reveal my little deception to Lovely-Lips. ’ he said. ’ I knew it was getting late! Too damned late for the Lovely-Lips to remain inviting!
However, with renewed encouragement from my darling wife Kristina, my daughter Deborah and my dear friend Leslie Bricusse, I have decided it is now indeed time to make time and stop making excuses. When, on the eve of my eightieth birthday in October 2007, I announced that I was starting work on my story again, I was adamant that it would be a fun book with no recycled scandal, tittle-tattle or dirtdishing–the expected inclusion of which had worried me so much when I tackled my earlier version.