Prix de littérature de l’Union européenne

Creative EuropeEuropean and International Booksellers FederationEuropean Writers' CouncilFederation of European Publishers

Auteurs primés

Lorenzo Amurri, Italie

A propos de l'auteur:

L’écrivain et musicien Lorenzo Amurri est né à Rome en 1971. Comme musicien, il a collaboré avec divers artistes italiens, dont Tiromancino et Franco Califano. L'histoire de sa vie est marquée par un tragique accident de ski qui l'a rendu tétraplégique. C’est après cet accident qu'il a décidé de se consacrer à l'écriture, d'abord à travers un blog et puis par des histoires courtes, dont une a été publiée dans la collection Amore Caro. Apnea est son premier roman.


Viale Gorizia, 19  
00198 Roma   
Tel.: +39 0685218104

Agent / Directeur des droits:

Alessia Polli

Droits étrangers:

Contact de l'auteur:

Livre primé:



Issu d'une bonne famille, Lorenzo à 25 ans. Il est guitariste de rock et sa philosophie est de vivre dans l'instant. Lors d'un séjour de ski, une collision avec un pylône du télésiège le laisse complètement paralysé à partir du cou. Dès ce jour commence une longue période de convalescence pour son corps, mais aussi pour son âme - d'abord dans un hôpital italien, puis dans une clinique suisse, et enfin dans la maison de ses parents à Rome, où il s’enferme pour dépenser toute son énergie à l’apitoiement sur lui-même. Lorsque sa fiancée, qui l’a soutenu et a pris soin de lui pendant plus d'une année, se résigne à le quitter, Lorenzo décide de se suicider. A moins que quelque chose ne le pousse à la reconquérir, et à reprendre le cours de sa propre vie.


Translated by Frederika Randall

2. Destination, Hope

The ambulance is speeding towards Ciampino Airport, a police car escorting us. A jet owned by the private emergency service Rega is waiting to take me to Zurich, to the Balgrist University Hospital department specialising in treating spinal cord injuries. I’m neatly packed into the gurney and the doctor travelling with me sits by the window, reading a newspaper. He gives me not a glance during the whole trip; he seems to think this boring task he’s been assigned is a drag. And why should he care? In his eyes, I’m just a parcel to be delivered. True, he’s probably not much of a doctor if he’s being used as a postman—no offence to postmen. The only one here who occasionally asks if I’m okay is the nurse. The driver just curses the police in the car ahead, criminals, as he sees it, who are driving too fast.

“The way these idiots are going, we’ll be the ones needing an ambulance.”

We arrive at Ciampino. For several minutes I’m out on the runway while they ready the winch to lift me up to the plane. The sky is bluer than I’ve ever seen it, and the air fresher and cleaner than any air I’ve ever inhaled. After a month and a half of intensive care underground, it’s as if I were tasting everything for the first time. A month and half attached to a respirator, undergoing bronchoscopy numerous times, suffering a bout of acute pancreatitis, and having MRIs, CT scans and X-rays of all kinds. Now, after ingesting a gallon of tranquillisers, being stuck with needles of all sizes, cardiac arrest, weeks when the smell of death was all around me, here I am. Waiting to fly into the arms of sorcerers across the Alps whose skills will bring life back to my hands. For this is what I have been told: you’ll never move your legs again, but you might regain the use of your hands. Hands, only the hands matter.

My memories of the time spent in intensive care at the hospital in Terni are vague, mostly images and sensations. Pleasurable moments: physical contact with my brother and mother, who on two occasions were allowed into the intensive care unit; words exchanged on the intercom with friends and my girlfriend; the kindness and help I received from several nurses, who talked to me and tried to keep my spirits up. And then some hard, painful moments: when they hauled me up with a metal lift on chains to clean me and change the sheets; when I pleaded with the doctor on call to obtain massive doses of tranquillisers; the day they rested me on my side and I saw the row of dying patients all around me, and the day I understood – hearing the noises and the scurrying around me – that one of them had died.

Plus d'informations sur l'auteur avec extrait en v.o. et EN ou FR (PDF)

Commentaires de lecteurs:

«Amo questo libro come amo altri romanzi (pochi e rari) che mi hanno fatto venire gli occhi lucidi per la gioia (per la gioia!). C’è un punto nel libro dove è come se la luce della vita esplodesse, come un canto. Il libro è tutto in quel canto.»

«È un libro toccante che fa riflettere, sorridere e anche piangere. Io l'ho letto in tre giorni. Lo consiglio.»

«Non fatevi però spaventare dalla tristezza delle vicende narrate: il libro si lascia leggere molto bene ed alla fine prevale un messaggio di speranza: l'importante è riuscire a trovare il proprio equilibrio.»

«Molto scorrevole, intenso, reale ed emozionante complimenti all'autore ce ne fossero scrittori così senza paura di ammettere e raccontare i sentimenti!!»

«Il dono speciale di saper trasformare in parole semplici e che colpiscono profondamente, le sensazioni e sentimenti provati. Lo consiglierei a chi ha voglia di capire le difficoltà di una persona che d'improvviso si trova completamente paralizzata. Sicuramente non è un libro banale.»

«Profondo, bella la scrittura vista da una prospettiva diversa. Basta compatimenti, e atteggiamenti autolesionisti, la vita è dura ma bella.»

Autres travaux:

Perché non lo portate a Lourdes

Rome: Fandango Libri, 2014