The Orchard is a commanding debut and a poignant coming-of-age story about a devout Jewish high school student whose plunge into the secularized world threatens everything he knows of himself.

Ari Eden’s life has always been governed by strict rules. In ultra-Orthodox Brooklyn, his days are dedicated to intense study and religious rituals, and adolescence feels profoundly lonely. So when his family announces that they are moving to a glitzy Miami suburb, Ari seizes his unexpected chance for reinvention.

Enrolling in an opulent Jewish academy, Ari is stunned by his peers’ dizzying wealth, ambition, and shameless pursuit of life’s pleasures. When the academy’s golden boy, Noah, takes Ari under his wing, Ari finds himself entangled in the school’s most exclusive and wayward group. These friends are magnetic and defiant—especially Evan, the brooding genius of the bunch, still living in the shadow of his mother’s death.

Influenced by their charismatic rabbi, the group begins testing their religion in unconventional ways. Soon Ari and his friends are pushing moral boundaries and careening toward a perilous future—one in which the traditions of their faith are repurposed to mysterious, tragic ends.

Mesmerizing and playful, heartrending and darkly romantic, The Orchard probes the conflicting forces that determine who we become: the heady relationships of youth, the allure of greatness, the doctrines we inherit, and our concealed desires.

Tout m’avale (…) Je suis avalée par le fleuve trop grand, par le ciel trop haut, par les fleurs trop fragiles, par les papillons trop craintifs, par le visage trop beau de ma mère.

L’Avalée des avalés, premier roman de Réjean Ducharme, s’ouvre sur ces mots crus, douloureux, vibrants, ces paroles d’écorchée vive qui immédiatement nous happent. Tout m’avale, scande la narratrice, et nous voilà, nous aussi, immédiatement “avalés”, pris à la gorge par la douleur vive de cette héroïne qui s’agrippe de toutes ses griffes à l’enfance, alors même que son corps est en train de la trahir.

Elle s’appelle Bérénice, elle a une famille – un père juif, une mère catholique – qu’elle hait, elle a un arbre, un “navire” où elle aime se réfugier. Quand je ne sais plus quoi faire, je m’embarque (…) Larguez les continents. Hissez les horizons. Ici, on part. Et nous partons. Loin sur les ailes de son imagination. Le plus loin possible de sa douleur, de la vie, de la petitesse des humains.