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Violin: A Novel Mass Market Paperback – September 7, 1999
| Anne Rice (Author) Find all the books, read about the author, and more. See search results for this author |
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- Print length384 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherBallantine Books
- Publication dateSeptember 7, 1999
- Dimensions3.87 x 1.03 x 6.65 inches
- ISBN-100345425308
- ISBN-13978-0345425300
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Editorial Reviews
Review
--San Francisco Chronicle
"A PASSIONATE MIXTURE OF EARTHLY FEARS AND SUPERNATURAL TERRORS."
--The Baltimore Sun
"[AN] ABSORBING NOVEL THAT TAKES THE READER ON A SUSPENSEFUL JOURNEY THROUGH TIME, PLACE, AND MIND . . . The instrument of the title belongs to a ghost, the brooding 19th-century aristocrat Stefan, who ventures to 20th-century New Orleans to brew up mischief and seek release from his torment. Told from the point of view of Triana, the humane woman drawn into Stefan's nefarious plot, the tale charts two lives touched by tragedy and alienation. . . . A rich, detailed literary symphony."
--The Cleveland Plain Dealer
"THE TALE OF A DEVILISHLY HAUNTING STRADIVARIUS . . . HER BEST WORK SINCE 1990'S THE WITCHING HOUR."
--The Dallas Morning News
"FULL OF EVOCATIVE IMAGERY . . . THIS IS A BOOK THAT UNDRESSES ITS CHARACTERS LAYER BY LAYER."
--USA Today
From the Inside Flap
From the Back Cover
About the Author
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
HE CAME before the day Karl died.
It was late afternoon, and the city had a drowsy dusty look, the traffic on St. Charles Avenue roaring as it always does, and the big magnolia leaves outside had covered the flagstones because I had not gone out to sweep them.
I saw him come walking down the Avenue, and when he reached my corner he didn’t come across Third Street. Rather he stood before the florist shop, and turned and cocked his head and looked at me.
I was behind the curtains at the front window. Our house has many such long windows, and wide generous porches. I was merely standing there, watching the Avenue and its cars and people for no very good reason at all, as I’ve done all my life.
It isn’t too easy for someone to see me behind the curtains. The corner is busy; and the lace of the curtains, though torn, is thick because the world is always there, drifting by right around you.
He had no visible violin with him then, only a sack slung over his shoulder. He merely stood and looked at the house—and turned as though he had come now to the end of his walk and would return, slowly, by foot as he had approached—just another afternoon Avenue stroller.
He was tall and gaunt, but not at all in an unattractive way. His black hair was unkempt and rock musician long, with two braids tied back to keep it from his face, and I remember I liked the way it hung down his back as he turned around. I remember his coat on account of that—an old dusty black coat, terribly dusty, as though he’d been sleeping somewhere in the dust. I remember this because of the gleaming black hair and the way it broke off rough and ragged and long and so pretty.
He had dark eyes; I could see that much over the distance of the corner, the kind of eyes that are deep, sculpted in the face so that they can be secretive, beneath arching brows, until you get really close and see the warmth in them. He was lanky, but not graceless.
He looked at me and he looked at the house. And then off he went, with easy steps, too regular, I suppose. But then what did I know about ghosts at the time? Or how they walk when they come through?
He didn’t come back until two nights after Karl died. I hadn’t told anyone Karl was dead and the telephone-answering machine was lying for me.
These two days were my own.
In the first few hours after Karl was gone, I mean really truly gone, with the blood draining down to the bottom of his body, and his face and hands and legs turning very white, I had been elated the way you can be after a death and I had danced and danced to Mozart.
Mozart was always my happy guardian, the Little Genius, I called him, Master of His Choir of Angels, that is Mozart; but Beethoven is the Master of My Dark Heart, the captain of my broken life and all my failures.
That first night when Karl was only dead five hours, after I changed the sheets and cleaned up Karl’s body and set his hands at his sides, I couldn’t listen to the angels of Mozart anymore. Let Karl be with them. Please, after so much pain. And the book Karl had compiled, almost finished, but not quite—its pages and pictures strewn across his table. Let it wait. So much pain.
I turned to my Beethoven.
I lay on the floor of the living room downstairs—the corner room, through which light comes from the Avenue both front and side, and I played Beethoven’s Ninth. I played the torture part. I played the Second Movement. Mozart couldn’t carry me up and out of the death; it was time for anguish, and Beethoven knew and the Second Movement of the symphony knew.
No matter who dies or when, the Second Movement of the Ninth Symphony just keeps going.
When I was a child, I loved the last movement of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, as does everybody. I loved the chorus singing the “Ode to Joy.” I can’t count the times I’ve seen it—here, Vienna once, San Francisco several times during the cold years when I was away from my city.
But in these last few years, even before I met Karl, it was the Second Movement that really belonged to me.
It’s like walking music, the music of someone walking doggedly and almost vengefully up a mountain. It just goes on and on and on, as though the person won’t stop walking. Then it comes to a quiet place, as if in the Vienna Woods, as if the person is suddenly breathless and exultant and has the view of the city that he wants, and can throw up his arms, and dance in a circle. The French horn is there, which always makes you think of woods and dales and shepherds, and you can feel the peace and the stillness of the woods and the plateau of happiness of this person standing there, but then …
… then the drums come. And the uphill walk begins again, the determined walking and walking. Walking and walking.
You can dance to this music if you want, swing from the waist, and I do, back and forth like you’re crazy, making yourself dizzy, letting your hair flop to the left and then flop to the right. You can walk round and round the room in a grim marching circle, fists clenched, going faster and faster, and now and then twirling when you can before you go on walking. You can bang your head back and forth, back and forth, letting your hair fly up and over and down and dark before your eyes, before it disappears and you see the ceiling again.
This is relentless music. This person is not going to give up. Onward, upward, forward, it does not matter now—woods, trees, it does not matter. All that matters is that you walk … and when there comes just a little bit of happiness again—the sweet exultant happiness of the plateau—it’s caught up this time in the advancing steps. Because there is no stopping.
Not till it stops.
And that’s the end of the Second Movement. And I can roll over on the floor, and hit the button again, and bow my head, and let the movement go on, independent of all else, even grand and magnificent assurances that Beethoven tried to make, it seemed, to all of us, that everything would someday be understood and this life was worth it.
That night, the night after Karl’s death, I played the Second Movement long into the morning; until the room was full of sunlight and the parquet floor was glaring. And the sun made big beams through the holes in the curtains. And above, the ceiling, having lost all those headlights of the long night’s traffic, became a smooth white, like a new page on which nothing is written.
Once, at noon, I let the whole symphony play out. I closed my eyes. The afternoon was empty, with only the cars outside, the never ending cars that speed up and down St. Charles Avenue, too many for its narrow lanes, too fast for its old oaks and gently curved street lamps, drowning out in their alien thunder even the beautiful and regular roar of the old streetcar. A clang. A rattle. A noise that should have been a racket, and was once I suppose, though I never in all my life, which is over half a century, remember the Avenue ever truly being quiet, except in the small hours.
I lay that day in silence because I couldn’t move. I couldn’t do anything. Only when it got dark again did I go upstairs. The sheets were still clean. The body was stiff. I knew it was rigor mortis; there was little change in his face; I’d wrapped his face round and round with clean white cloth to keep his mouth closed, and I’d closed his eyes myself. And though I lay there all night, curled up next to him, my hand on his cold chest, it wasn’t the same as it had been when he was soft.
The softness came back by midmorning. Just a relaxing of the body all over. The sheets were soiled. Foul smells were there. But I had no intention of recognizing them. I lifted his arms easily now. I bathed him again. I changed everything, as a nurse would, rolling the body to one side for the clean sheet, then back in order to cover and tuck in the clean sheet on the other.
He was white, and wasted, but he was pliant once again. And though the skin was sinking, pulling away from the features of his face, they were still his features, those of my Karl, and I could see the tiny cracks in his lips unchanged, and the pale colorless tips of his eyelashes when the sunshine hit them.
The upstairs room, the western room, that was the one in which he’d wanted us to sleep, and in which he died, because the sun does come there late through the little attic windows.
This is a cottage, this huge house, this house of six Corinthian columns and black cast-iron railings. It’s just a cottage really, with grand spaces on one floor, and small bedrooms carved from its once cavernous attic. When I was very little it was only attic then, and smelled so sweet, like wood all the time, like wood and attic. Bedrooms came when my younger sisters came.
This western corner bedroom was a pretty room. He’d been right to choose it, dress it so bountifully, right to fix everything. It had been so simple for him.
Product details
- Publisher : Ballantine Books (September 7, 1999)
- Language : English
- Mass Market Paperback : 384 pages
- ISBN-10 : 0345425308
- ISBN-13 : 978-0345425300
- Item Weight : 3.21 ounces
- Dimensions : 3.87 x 1.03 x 6.65 inches
- Best Sellers Rank: #1,106,249 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #953 in Vampire Horror
- #4,371 in Ghost Fiction
- #10,920 in Psychological Fiction (Books)
- Customer Reviews:
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About the author

Anne Rice was born and raised in New Orleans, Louisiana. She holds a Master of Arts Degree in English and Creative Writing from San Francisco State University, as well as a Bachelor's Degree in Political Science. Anne has spent more of her life in California than in New Orleans, but New Orleans is her true home and provides the back drop for many of her famous novels. The French Quarter provided the setting for her first novel, Interview with the Vampire. And her ante-bellum house in the Garden District was the fictional home of her imaginary Mayfair Witches.
She is the author of over 30 books, most recently the Toby O'Dare novels Of Love and Evil, and Angel Time; the memoir, Called Out of Darkness;and her two novels about Jesus, Christ the Lord: Out of Egypt and Christ the Lord: The Road to Cana. (Anne regards Christ the Lord: The Road to Cana as her best novel.) ---- Under the pen name, A.N. Roquelaure, Anne is the author of the erotic (BDSM) fantasy series, The Sleeping Beauty Trilogy. Under the pen name Anne Rampling she is the author of two erotic novels, Exit to Eden and Belinda.
Anne publicly broke with organized religion in July of 2010 on moral grounds, affirming her faith in God, but refusing any longer to be called "Christian." The story attracted surprising media attention, with Rice's remarks being quoted in stories all over the world. Anne hopes that her two novels about Jesus will be accepted on their merits by readers and transcend her personal difficulties with religion. "Both my Christ the Lord novels were written with deep conviction and a desire to write the best novels possible about Jesus that were rooted in the bible and in the Christian tradition. I think they are among the best books I've ever been able to write, and I do dream of a day when they are evaluated without any connection to me personally. I continue to get a lot of very favorable feedback on them from believers and non believers. I remain very proud of them."
Anne is very active on her FaceBook Fan Page and has well over a million followers. She answers questions every day on the page, and also posts on a variety of topics, including literature, film, music, politics, religion, and her own writings. Many indie authors follow the page, and Anne welcomes posts that include advice for indie authors. She welcomes discussion there on numerous topics. She frequently asks her readers questions about their response to her work and joins in the discussions prompted by these questions.
Her novel, "The Wolves of Midwinter," a sequel to "The Wolf Gift" and part of a werewolf series set in Northern California in the present time, will be published on October 15, 2013. In these books --- The Wolf Gift Chronicles -- Anne returns to the classic monsters and themes of supernatural literature, similar to those she explored in her Vampire Chronicles, and tales of the Mayfair Witches. Her new "man wolf" hero, Reuben Golding, is a talented young man in his twenties who suddenly discovers himself in possession of werewolf powers that catapult him into the life of a comic book style super hero. How Reuben learns to control what he is, how he discovers others who possess the same mysterious "wolf gift," and how he learns to live with what he has become --- is the main focus of the series. "The Wolves of Midwinter" is a big Christmas book --- a book about Christmas traditions, customs, and the old haunting rituals of Midwinter practiced in Europe and in America. It's about how the werewolves celebrate these rituals, as humans and as werewolves. But the book also carries forward the story of Reuben's interactions with his girl friend, Laura, and with his human family, with particular focus on Reuben's father, Phil, and his brother, Jim. As a big family novel with elements of the supernatural, "The Wolves of Midwinter" has much in common with Anne's earlier book, "The Witching Hour." Among the treats of "The Wolves of Midwinter" is a tragic ghost who appears in the great house at Nideck Point, and other "ageless ones" who add their mystery and history to the unfolding revelations that at times overwhelm Reuben.
In October of 2014, with the publication of "Prince Lestat," Anne returned to the fabled "Brat Prince" of the Vampire Chronicles, catching up with him in present time. This is the first of several books planned focusing on Lestat's new adventures with other members of the Vampire tribe. When the publication of "Prince Lestat" was announced on Christopher Rice's "The Dinner Party Show," a weekly internet radio broadcast, it made headlines in the US and around the world. "Prince Lestat" debuted at #3 on the New York Times Best Seller list and ran for nine weeks during the height of the competitive Fall-Winter season, with another week on the extended NYTBSL. ----
"Beauty's Kingdom," is the fourth in her "Sleeping Beauty Erotica Series," and the first to be launched in hardcover. Though the first three novels were published in the 1980's under the pseudonym, A.N. Roquelaure, the name, Anne Rice, was added to the series in the 1990's. About her erotica, Anne has this to say: "I believe in the erotic imagination. I believe men and women have a right to write and read erotic fantasies. My goal with the "Sleeping Beauty" books is to provide the most authentic erotica that I can for those who share BDSM fantasies."
"Prince Lestat and the Realms of Atlantis" was published on November 29th, 2016 revealing a new adventure in the life of the Brat Prince of the vampires, and the entire tribe --- as they confront the most difficult challenge they've ever faced. This novel may introduce Lestat and extend his appeal to science fiction readers and fantasy readers who love differing versions of the lost kingdom of Atlantis. The novel does justice to both themes: Atlantis and Lestat. So far, as of early 2016, this novel has received a remarkably positive response with Amazon reviewers.
Anne's first novel, Interview with the Vampire, was published in 1976 and has gone on to become one of the best-selling novels of all time. She continued her saga of the Vampire Lestat in a series of books, collectively known as The Vampire Chronicles, which have had both great mainstream and cult followings.
Interview with the Vampire was made into a motion picture in 1994, directed by Neil Jordan, and starring Brad Pitt, Tom Cruise, Kirsten Dunst and Antonio Banderas. The film became an international success. Anne's novel, Feast of All Saints about the free people of color of ante-bellum New Orleans became a Showtime mini series in 2001 and is available now on dvd. The script for the mini series by John Wilder was a faithful adaptation of the novel.
Near the end of 2016, the theatrical rights to the Vampire Chronicles reverted fully and completely to Anne. She and her son, Christopher Rice, are now developing outlines and scripts for a new television series based on the adventures of The Vampire Lestat. Anne's announcement of this on FB reached well over 2 million people. "The reception in the Hollywood community" has been very simply wonderful," says Anne. "We have high hopes that we will see the Lestat television series go into production before the end of 2017."
Anne Rice is also the author of other novels, including The Witching Hour, Servant of the Bones, Merrick, Blackwood Farm, Blood Canticle, Violin, and Cry to Heaven. She lives in Palm Desert, California, but misses her home in New Orleans. She hopes to obtain a pied a terre in the French Quarter there some time in the near future.
Anne has this to say of her work: "I have always written about outsiders, about outcasts, about those whom others tend to shun or persecute. And it does seem that I write a lot about their interaction with others like them and their struggle to find some community of their own. The supernatural novel is my favorite way of talking about my reality. I see vampires and witches and ghosts as metaphors for the outsider in each of us, the predator in each of us...the lonely one who must grapple day in and day out with cosmic uncertainty."
------
Anne's announcement of the Vampire Chronicles series as it appeared on FB.
"The theatrical rights to the Vampire Chronicles are once again in my hands, free and clear! I could not be more excited about this! --- A television series of the highest quality is now my dream for Lestat, Louis, Armand, Marius and the entire tribe. In this the new Golden Age of television, such a series is THE way to let the entire story of the vampires unfold. --- My son Christopher Rice and I will be developing a pilot script and a detailed outline for an open ended series, faithfully presenting Lestat’s story as it is told in the books, complete with the many situations that readers expect to see. We will likely begin with “The Vampire Lestat” and move on from there. ----- When we sit down finally to talk to producers, we will have a fully realized vision of this project with Christopher as the executive producer at the helm. I will also be an executive producer all the way. ---- Again, I cannot tell you how happy it makes me to be able to announce this. ---- As many of you know, Universal Studios and Imagine Entertainment had optioned the series to develop motion pictures from it, and though we had the pleasure of working with many fine people in connection with this plan, it did not work out. It is, more than ever, abundantly clear that television is where the vampires belong. ---- Over the years you all have told me how much you want to see a “Game of Thrones” style faithful rendering of this material, and how much you want for the series to remain in my control. Well, I have heard you. I have always heard you. What you want is what I want. --- You, the readers, made these books a success before any movie was ever made based on them, and I will never forget that fact. ---- Christopher and I will be posting many questions on the page for your input in the days to come. ----- I am filled with optimism this morning about the future for my beloved Brat Prince. What better way to start a tour for the new book!"
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By Christina on March 16, 2021
Top reviews from other countries
No No No, mediocre at the best of times. The first half of the book follows Triana as she wallows in self-pity following the death of her second husband. Once the ghost, Stefan, comes in they engage in a self-pity off, the millionaire middle-aged white lady who has everyone taking care of her (while she does nothing but feel sorry for herself) vs. the spoiled princeling. The violin seems to be the trophy in this contest, bringing the winner fame and money.
While each of them truly had some hardships in there lives, I didn't find either character to be sympathetic at all. Anne Rice writes well for the most part, and does create a good tone and atmosphere, but someone needed to reign her way in. At least in her vampire books, someone occasionally pulls Lestat out of his wallowing (poor sad immortal vampire), but in this book the main characters simply challenge each other to wallow harder.
Miff














