Boekverslag : Thomas Harris - Hannibal
De taal ervan is Nederlands en het aantal woorden bedraagt 1855 woorden.

Informatie



Bladzijdes: 377

Auteur Thomas Harris

Taal: Engels

Titel: Hannibal

Genre: Thriller

Ps. De taal van de lange samenvatting is Engels en heb ik van het internet gehaald (www.emielcl.n3.net)



Kort verslag



Zeven jaar zijn verstreken sinds de beruchtste seriemoordenaar aller tijden ontsnapte uit gevangenschap.Dr. Hannibal Lecter waart nog steeds rond, genietend van de smaken en geuren van een weinig behoedzame wereld. Maar FBI-agente Clarice Starling is haar ontmoetingen met de doctor niet vergeten, en zijn raspende stem spookt nog steeds door haar dromen.

Ook Mason Verger herinnert zich Hannibal Lecter. Hij was zijn zesde slachtoffer. Verger is de schatrijke eigenaar van een varkensslachtimperium en wordt geobsedeerd door wraak. Vanuit zijn beademingsapparaat heeft Verger een wereldwijd web gesponnen. Maar om de docter te vangen, heeft hij een exquis en onschuldig ogend lokaas nodig; datgene wat Lecter het beste smaakt.



Lang leesverslag



ABOUT THE BOOK Invite Hannibal Lecter into the palace of your mind and be invited into his mind palace in turn. Note the similarities in yours and his, the high vaulted chambers of your dreams, the shadowed halls, the locked storerooms where you dare not go, the scrap of half-forgotten music, the muffled cries from behind a wall. In one of the most eagerly anticipated literary events of the decade, Thomas Harris takes us once again into the mind of a killer, crafting a chilling portrait of insidiously evolving evil--a tour de force of psychological suspense. Seven years have passed since Dr. Hannibal Lecter escaped from custody, seven years since FBI Special Agent Clarice Starling interviewed him in a maximum security hospital for the criminally insane. The doctor is still at large, pursuing his own ineffable interests, savoring the scents, the essences of an unguarded world. But Starling has never forgotten her encounters with Dr. Lecter, and the metallic rasp of his seldom-used voice still sounds in her dreams. Mason Verger remembers Dr. Lecter, too, and is obsessed with revenge. He was Dr. Lecter's sixth victim, and he has survived to rule his own butcher's empire. From his respirator, Verger monitors every twitch in his worldwide web. Soon he sees that to draw the doctor, he must have the most exquisite and innocent-appearing bait; he must have what Dr. Lecter likes best. Powerful, hypnotic, utterly original, Hannibal is a dazzling feast for the imagination. Prepare to travel to hell and beyond as a master storyteller permanently alters the world you thought you knew. Excerpt: Chapter 21 The Christian martyr San Miniato picked up his severed head from the sand of the Roman amphitheater in Florence and carried it beneath his arm to the mountainside across the river where he lies in his splendid church, tradition says. Certainly San Miniato's body, erect or not, passed en route along the ancient street where we now stand, the Via de' Bardi. The evening gathers now and the street is empty, the fan pattern of the cobbles shining in a winter drizzle not cold enough to kill the smell of cats. We are among the palaces built six hundred years ago by the merchant princes, the kingmakers and connivers of Renaissance Florence. Within bow-shot across the Arno River are the cruel spikes of the Signoria, where the monk Savonarola was hanged and burned, and that great meat house of hanging Christs, the Uffizi museum. These family palaces, pressed together in an ancient street, frozen in the modern Italian bureaucracy, are prison architecture on the outside, but they contain great and graceful spaces, high silent halls no one ever sees, draped with rotting, rain-streaked silk where lesser works of the great Renaissance masters hang in the dark for years, and are illuminated by the lightning after the draperies collapse. Here beside you is the palazzo of the Capponi, a family distinguished for a thousand years, who tore up a French king's ultimatum in his face and produced a pope. The windows of the Palazzo Capponi are dark now, behind their iron grates. The torch rings are empty. In that pane of crazed old glass is a bullet hole from the 1940s. Go closer. Rest your head against the cold iron as the policeman did and listen. Faintly you can hear a clavier. Bach's Goldberg Variations played, not perfectly, but exceedingly well, with an engaging understanding of the music. Played not perfectly, but exceedingly well; there is perhaps a slight stiffness in the left hand. If you believe you are beyond harm, will you go inside? Will you enter this palace so prominent in blood and glory, follow your face through the web-spanned dark, toward the exquisite chiming of the clavier? The alarms cannot see us. The wet policeman lurking in the doorway cannot see us. Come . . . Inside the foyer the darkness is almost absolute. A long stone staircase, the stair rail cold beneath our sliding hand, the steps scooped by the hundreds of years of footfalls, uneven beneath our feet as we climb toward the music. The tall double doors of the main salon would squeak and howl if we had to open them. For you, they are open. The music comes from the far, far corner, and from the corner comes the only light, light of many candles pouring reddish through the small door of a chapel off the corner of the room. Cross to the music. We are dimly aware of passing large groups of draped furniture, vague shapes not quite still in the candlelight, like a sleeping herd. Above us the height of the room disappears into darkness. The light glows redly on an ornate clavier and on the man known to Renaissance scholars as Dr. Fell, the doctor elegant, straight-backed as he leans into the music, the light reflecting off his hair and the back of his quilted silk dressing gown with a sheen like pelt. The raised cover of the clavier is decorated with an intricate scene of banquetry, and the little figures seem to swarm in the candlelight above the strings. He plays with his eyes closed. He has no need of the sheet music. Before him on the lyre-shaped music rack of the clavier is a copy of the American trash tabloid the National Tattler. It is folded to show only the face on the front page, the face of Clarice Starling. Our musician smiles, ends the piece, repeats the saraband once for his own pleasure and as the last quill-plucked string vibrates to silence in the great room, he opens his eyes, each pupil centered with a red pinpoint of light. He tilts his head to the side and looks at the paper before him. He rises without sound and carries the American tabloid into the tiny, ornate chapel, built before the discovery of America. As he holds it up to the light of the candles and unfolds it, the religious icons above the altar seem to read the tabloid over his shoulder, as they would in a grocery line. The type is seventy-two-point Railroad Gothic. It says "DEATH ANGEL: CLARICE STARLING, THE FBI'S KILLING MACHINE." Faces painted in agony and beatitude around the altar fade as he snuffs the candles. Crossing the great hall he has no need of light. A puff of air as Dr. Hannibal Lecter passes us. The great door creaks, closes with a thud we can feel in the floor. Silence. Footsteps entering another room. In the resonances of this place, the walls feel closer, the ceiling still high--sharp sounds echo late from above--and the still air holds the smell of vellum and parchment and extinguished candlewicks. The rustle of paper in the dark, the squeak and scrape of a chair. Dr. Lecter sits in a great armchair in the fabled Capponi Library. His eyes reflect light redly, but they do not glow red in the dark, as some of his keepers have sworn they do. The darkness is complete. He is considering. . . . It is true that Dr. Lecter created the vacancy at the Palazzo Capponi by removing the former curator--a simple process requiring a few seconds' work on the old man and a modest outlay for two bags of cement--but once the way was clear he won the job fairly, demonstrating to the Belle Arti Committee an extraordinary linguistic capability, sight-translating medieval Italian and Latin from the densest Gothic black-letter manuscripts. He has found a peace here that he would preserve--he has killed hardly anybody, except his predecessor, during his residence in Florence. His appointment as translator and curator of the Capponi Library is a considerable prize to him for several reasons: The spaces, the height of the palace rooms, are important to Dr. Lecter after his years of cramped confinement. More important, he feels a resonance with



Essayistisch Ervaringsverslag



Toen ik dit boek eindelijk uit had gelezen dacht ik dat ik eigenlijk ook nog het boek moeten lezen dat vooraf ging aan het verhaal van het boek. Deel 1 is uiteraard ook geschreven door Thomas Harris en heet: “De schreeuw van het lam”. Dit boek is meer bekend door de verfilming “Silence of the Lambs”, die ik helaas nog niet gezien heb. Thomas Harris is een Amerikaanse schrijver en het verhaal speelt zich ook af in Amerika en wel in onze tijd ongeveer. Het verhaal gaat over Hannibal Lecter. Deze man is een geniale seriemoordenaar die zijn slachtoffers op brute wijze vermoord (opensnijden en opeten en zoiets). Ik vond Hannibal een boeiend man. Hij is heel slim, maar hij heeft een zieke geest. Bij het grote publiek in het boek is Hannibal gewoon een brute seriemoordenaar die opgepakt moet worden, maar bij enkele mensen die hem goed kenden heeft hij een soort van sympathie gekweekt die het verhaal een boeiende wending geeft. In het boek wordt Hannibal door de politie (en door een slachtoffer dat hem heeft overleefd) gezocht. Het slachtoffer dat hem zoekt wordt tot in details beschreven, zoals zoveel dingen in het boek (hierover later meer). Zo heeft hij geen huid meer op zijn gezicht, zijn zijn aderen te zien en zie je bijna alleen zijn schedel en is hij verlamd tot aan zijn nek. Het lijkt wel of het boek geschreven is om verfilmd te worden, want ook andere dingen worden tot in details beschreven. Zo schrijft Harris niet auto, maar een Jaguar V6 met Supercharger. Bij pistolen lijkt mij normaal dat de diameter van de loop wordt gegeven (Colt .45 bvb.), maar om ook te zeggen dat een workmate die wordt gebruikt van Black&Decker is vind ik overdreven. De moorden die dr. Lecter pleegt zijn voor het grote deel ook tot in detail weergegeven. Dit maakt het boek tot een soort horror, maar het blijft een boek.

Sommige delen in het boek vind ik niet goed. Vooral omdat er later niet meer naar verwezen wordt. Er wordt bvb. duidelijk gemaakt dat Hannibal een duivel is, maar verder hoor je daar niet veel meer van in het boek. In het begin van het boek wordt er duidelijk gezocht naar iets om de ruimte op te vullen, want dit stuk past niet echt bij het einde van het boek en is ook niet zo boeiend.
Andere boeken van deze auteur:

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