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The
Consultant
Rupert
Morgan
A word from the editor
paper planes is for anyone who
wants to read a good story.
Our objective is to offer a new style
of book: contemporary English literature
for readers worldwide. Each novel is
an original creation written in accessible
English by an established author.
When you read these stories, it is not
important that you understand every
word. Relax, continue reading, and
let the authors take you on a voyage.
We hope you enjoy the flight.
Rupert Morgan
SUMMARY
The Consultant
by Rupert Morgan
p. 2
The Fortunes of John de Courcy
by Philippa Boston
p. 8
The Ghost Marriage
by Peter May
p. 14
Hemingway’s Chihuahua
by Peter Flynn
p. 20
A Picnic on Earth
by Rupert Morgan
p. 28
1
They are young, they
are ambitious, and they are on a
business training seminar on a tropical
island when... the phones stop working.
The electricity is gone. There is not
much food and water. Has some kind of
global catastrophe happened, or is this part
of the training? And if it isn’t
an exercise, will anyone escape
the island alive?
RUPERT MORGAN
Writer of the Year for both The Sunday Times and Elle, he has
written a series of satirical award winning novels translated in
many languages. Let There be lite and Something Sacred, are
published in French as Poulet Farci and Une étrange solitude
by editions Belfond and Editions 10/18. For many years now
he has lived in France, dividing his time between fiction and
working as a cinema critic.
2
The
Consultant
Rupert
Morgan
Day 1
034598K-The-Consultant.indd 3
30/04/2010 09:19:37
WE ARE CANNIBALS in Dolce & Gabanna, my
colleagues and I.
That is what we do at Amelyosis: we eat up
other humans as if we were foxes and they were
chickens. It’s a pretty good job.
That, in any case, is what I found myself thinking this afternoon as I listened to our Chief Executive, Rueben Cicero, welcome us to this tropical
island where we have come for a week of intensive
management training:
“Amelyosis is not an ordinary business, people!” Cicero shouted as we stood on the sand,
our baggage at our feet. He was on a wooden terrace overlooking the beach as he gave his oration:
3
“Kellogs is a business. Coca-Cola is a business.
General Motors is a business. Or… maybe not
General Motors, actually.”
He paused as we laughed at the sorry condition of the company that had once been the jewel
of American consumer culture: a company so influential that whole cities and the landscape itself had
been remodelled in accordance with its product. A
company that we at Amelyosis helped to 'restructure' last year, axing 45,000 jobs and three factories. They paid us millions to do it. Or, rather,
the tax-payers did. Which means, when you think
about it, that the very people whose jobs we axed
paid us to do it. It’s a strange world we humans
have invented, isn’t it?
Amelyosis is doing well in the recession because
it’s our job to tell other businesses what they are
doing wrong. Good times or bad – it makes no difference to companies like ours. We used to be called
Hackersakt Corporate Solutions, but we rebranded
ourselves a few years ago. The old name was too
20th Century.
“Why are these businesses really any different
to the farmers of old?” he asked rhetorically, “They
4
produce things, they take them to the market, they
sell them and make a little profit. Some are selling
carrots and some are selling cars – but is there any
fundamental difference? It’s positively medieval!
They are all… peasants!”
His eyes blazed with passionate intensity:
“The laws of Nature do not change! The world
never changes! Democracy is a beautiful, intricate
charade but, at heart, we at Amelyosis know that
society is still feudal because that is the natural
order of things: the strong dominate the weak.”
He paused to look at us, a hundred and fifty
of Amelyosis’s best management consultants. He
raised his arms, opening his hands wide as if to
hold us in his embrace:
“Amelyosis Corporate Solutions is not a business, my friends. We do not make anything. We do
not invent anything. We do not sell anything. So
why do corporations pay us hundreds of millions
of dollars in consultancy fees each year? Because
their managers are terrified, that is why. They look
at General Motors and think 'Are we next? Will we
be conquered by stronger foreign competitors?'. So,
5
just as medieval serfs turned to the Baron and his
knights for security, they look to us: Amelyosis!”
I looked around at my colleagues and could see
by their expressions that Cicero was pushing all the
right buttons. They were loving it.
“We are an elite combat force! We are a warrior tribe! We are Amelyosis! What are we?”
“Amelyosis!” came the answer from all around
me.
“Who are the strongest?”
“Amelyosis!”
I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.
This is a little strange, I thought. We are on a beach
on a tropical island in the middle of the Indian
Ocean, all in expensive designer suits, having a
mini-version of the fucking Nuremberg rallies. My
colleagues had started a rhythmic chant now, their
arms punching the air:
“Am-el-y-o-sis! Am-el-y-o-sis!”
I raised my arm, pretending to join in, and
looked around me. To my relief, I saw one other
person who wasn’t chanting. She didn’t even have
her arm in the air. I didn’t know her – there were
consultants from different Amelyosis offices all over
6
the world here – but she was attractive, her dark
hair cut into a boyish crop, her olive skin suggesting she was from somewhere in southern Europe.
She looked my way and saw that I wasn’t chanting along with the others. She smiled and rolled her
eyes at me before looking back toward Cicero. I felt
my arm slowly drop to my side. Game over.
She came. She saw. She conquered.
7
Oxford, 1582.
In the reign of Queen Elizabeth I,
religious tensions between Protestants
and Catholics divide the nation. In Oxford,
the city of scholars, dark forces conspire to
destroy the brilliant young philosopher,
John de Courcy. Now he has only one hope:
somewhere in the fetid alleys of
the medieval city, there is a prostitute
who may be able to save him
from ruin...
PHILIPPA BOSTON
PHILIPPA BOSTON is a writer and journalist who lives in Oxford. She has
published a history of St. Clare College in Oxford and has extensively
studied the city’s medieval period. Her short stories have been performed
on Radio Oxford and published in The Lady. She is a member of the
Oxford Voices writing group.
8
The
Fortunes of
John de Courcy
Philippa
Boston
Chapter 1
I
034596H-The-Fortunes-of-John-de-Courcy.indd 3
06/05/2010 16:23:48
ON THE MORNING of December 20th, in the year
1582, the sun rose bright and clear over the university town of Oxford. Its light entered a window high in the walls of Christ Church College,
and shone on the face of John de Courcy, who had
fallen asleep at his desk the night before.
Woken by the light, he rose from the desk,
massaging his neck as he crossed the room to open
the heavy window. He looked out on the field
where sheep and cattle stood on the ice-white grass.
Across the field he could see the dark form of Oriel
College, smaller and older than the other colleges
of Oxford.
9
There were groups of students coming across
the white field toward Christ Church College, where
an announcement would soon be made in the great
hall: the nomination of the Duke of Gloucester’s
new Scholar, a prestigious position that came with
a good revenue. A position that many expected to
go to him, John de Courcy.
“Hey, Johnny!” he heard the call of his friend,
Harry Hopetoun, in the street below.
Harry was looking up at him, shading his eyes
against the sunlight.
“What is it, villain?” John answered.
“Shut your mouth, vermin!” his friend smiled,
“Are you ready for your hour of glory?”
“Harry, how can you tempt the gods by saying
these things before the ceremony?”
“Because there is no greater philosopher in all
of Oxford, my dear friend! Not even the vile, ratfaced Sir Edgar Hardridge can rival you. Before the
day is finished you will be the Duke of Gloucester’s
Scholar and a rich man!”
“Shhhh. Harry, do be quiet.”
But Harry had already entered the college,
10
running up the stairs to open the door of John’s
room.
“You must be more prudent, Harry,” John reprimanded him. “There are ears everywhere in this
college, and some would prefer that a Protestant
such as myself did not become Scholar to the Duke.
It is not long since blood flowed upon the streets of
our town. Please, say no more until the nomination
is over.”
“Consider me silenced,” Harry answered. “But
you are wrong about this place. Christ Church College is Queen Elizabeth’s fief: you have nothing to
fear from the Catholics here! It is I, with my Catholic family, who must be careful, living as I do among
the radical Protestants of Brasenose College!”
Harry examined John’s appearance for the first
time, saying “You look like you have slept in your
clothes.”
“I have.”
“You must change!”
“My other clothes are being washed–”
“John de Courcy, I despair. This is the most
important day of your life and you do not even
have clean clothes? How do you expect to charm
11
the lovely Miss Jane Mansfield if you smell like a
horse? You will have to borrow something of mine.
Come, we must hurry.”
As they exited the room, they crossed the mute
servant-boy, Tom. He waved crossed fingers at
John and smiled nervously.
“Thank you, Tom!” John called as he ran down
the stairs.
II
At that same moment, in another part of Christ
Church College, four men were gathered in a
secluded room inside the chapel. Three of them listened nervously as their leader spoke.
“We must be certain of our plan,” he said.
“You all understand your roles in this?”
The speaker’s hat camouflaged a vicious, suppurating infection on the side of his face. He had
none of the vanities of the age: wearing no colourful clothes, but only the ecclesiastical black robes
of a Prelate.
The three men nodded.
“The Duke still has his suspicions about my
12
loyalties. He is not convinced that I have truly
embraced the bastard Queen’s... Church of England,” the Prelate continued disdainfully. “My spies
tell me that the Duke detects 'a lack of fervour' in
me, and suspects that I remain true to our Holy
Mother, the Church in Rome. That is why it is vital
that he does not elect the godless John de Courcy as
his Scholar. We need one of our people advising the
Duke, such as Sir Edgar Hardridge.”
“Can we be sure of Edgar Hardridge? He is the
Duke’s nephew, my lord,” one of his men asked.
“Aye, but Sir Edgar has no love for Queen
Elizabeth’s blasphemous religion,” the Prelate
said. “The Queen is old and childless. In a few
months she will be fifty. And when she finally
joins the devil in Hell, the Duke of Gloucester
will be one of the most powerful men in England.
Guided by us, the Duke will install a Catholic
king and we will have no more of this Protestant
perversion.”
The Prelate pulled the soft fabric of his hat
further over his suppurating cheek as he spoke of
perversion.
13
Chief Inspector Li Yan
and American pathologist
Margaret Campbell, heroes of Peter
May’s best-selling China Thrillers, return
in a new story. A girl has disappeared in
Peking, and the mystery is connected to a
strange marital rite from China’s past:
the Minghun, or Ghost Marriage.
PETER MAY
An award-winning journalist at 21, he became a screenwriter, creating
three prime-time British TV series before concentrating on writing
fiction. He is the author of 15 novels including the successful serie
The China Thrillers translated in French and published by Actes Sud.
In 2007, he won the Prix Intramuros with Cadavres Chinois à Boston.
Born in Scotland he lives in France.
14
The Ghost
Marriage
Peter May
Chapter 1
034531H-The-Ghost-Marriage.indd 3
I
06/05/2010 16:25:45
SWEET THOUGH IT WAS, the perfume of the incense
could not disguise the odour of putrefying flesh.
And the summer heat was not helping.
Two human cadavers were at the back of the
room on a long table, surrounded by bowls of
fresh fruit, boiled eggs in bowls of rice, dim sum
still warm from the steamer, and a bottle of chilled
white wine running with condensation.
The guests assembled at the far side of the
room, near the window with a view on to the
siheyuan courtyard. Children were playing in the
hutong beyond, ignorant of the bizarre marriage
ceremony taking place behind the high walls.
15
Paper effigies of the dead man and woman
stood before the altar. A gong sounded in the hands
of the priest, and with a movement of his red robe
he placed a ring on the finger of the paper man.
From the back of the observers, Feng Qi watched
as the dead boy’s mother now placed a ring on
the paper finger of her son’s wife. Feng Qi’s eyes
returned nervously to the cadaver of the dead girl,
whose face was troublingly familiar.
II
The No. 1 Kindergarten in Anzhenxili, was not far
from the No. 3 Ring Road, just north of Tiananmen, and the Forbidden City. As she waited for
Li Jon, Margaret gazed from a window across the
almost unrecognisable cityscape of post-olympic
Beijing, reflecting on how rapidly much of this city
had transformed itself from mediaeval to ultramodern in the ten years since she first arrived.
She turned at the sound of children’s voices
filled with the euphoria of freedom after a long day
of educational incarceration. Li Jon wrapped himself around her legs, and she lifted him up into her
16
arms: something she would not be able to do for
very much longer. He was growing like bamboo.
She brushed dark hair from his eyes, and saw only
his father in him: fine Chinese features that owed
nothing to her fair-haired, blue-eyed Celtic heritage. But he had, she knew, inherited his mother’s
fiery, querulous spirit, and she took pleasure from
his father’s frustration that he had not transmitted
to his son more of his gentle, Chinese fatalism.
“Did you get my iPod, mommy?” He spoke
English with her distinctive American accent. But,
also, Chinese like a native. Both she and Li spoke
to their son in their native tongues, sending him to
this bilingual kindergarten where he would learn
to be a citizen of the world – bridging the cultural
divide that had so often caused misunderstanding
and conflict between his parents.
“Sure I did, honey. It’s waiting for you back at
the apartment.”
He descended from her arms and took her
hand, impatient to be home as soon as possible.
But he was forced to temper his excitement by
a lady who intercepted them at the front door. She
wore blue overalls, and a white cloth cap, a few
17
strands of greasy black hair hanging down from
one side of it. Her hands were red and callused;
her flat, peasant face rough and weathered, with
troubled dark eyes. Margaret had seen her before,
washing the floor of the lobby with slow, languid
movements of her mop.
“Sorry to trouble you, lady.” She was strangely
formal, half bowing, almost deferential. “They tell
me you are wife of Section Chief Li Yan.”
Margaret took satisfaction from exercising her
increasing skill in Chinese. “Then I am sorry to say
they tell you wrong.” The woman’s disappointment was almost palpable, and Margaret immediately regretted her abruptness. She added quickly,
“An American woman is not permitted to marry a
serving Chinese police officer.” She pulled the child
at her side a little closer. “But Li Jon is our son.”
She saw hope flicker again in the woman’s eyes,
like the flame of a candle stirring in the wind. The
woman reached out a hand to clutch Margaret’s
arm, and Margaret could feel the desperation in her
bony grasp. “Then I beg you to help me, lady.”
She glanced at Li Jon. “You are a mother. I am a
mother, too. But my little girl is gone.”
18
NOUVEAUTÉS 2011
19
Ten extraordinary
stories about extraordinary people.
Some are true, some are completely
fictional. But which? Did Einstein truly
exchange places with his chauffeur at a physics
conference? Does Queen Elizabeth play
poker with her servants? And, of course,
did Ernest Hemingway really
have a killer chihuahua?
Amusing, beautiful, sensual,
perturbing…
PETER FLYNN
Over the last fourteen years, Peter Flynn has worked in schools, prisons
and zoos in China, Madagascar and Peru. His writing has previously
been published in tank, and his travel pieces have been broadcast on BBC
Radio 4. His 2006 play The Girls was a massive success at London’s
Courtyard Theatre. Hemingway’s Chihuahua and Other Mysteries is his
first work of prose fiction.
20
Hemingway’s
Chihuahua
AND OTHER MYSTERIES
Peter Flynn
Einstein’s
Chauffeur
639915W-Hemingway-Chihuahua.indd 3
29/03/2011 13:23:58
THE PODIUM HIDES HALF MY BODY but it can't
conceal my trembling hands. I take a deep breath,
place his glasses on my nose, and look down at his
notes. They are in German. I can’t read German.
Why? Because I’m from Pittsburg. I shouldn’t even
be up here.
I look around the amphitheatre full of researchers: there are grey heads, white heads, bald heads
and young heads with alert, enthusiastic expressions. A hall full of physicists who want to learn
from me. I’m a chauffeur, and I’m here to teach
Relativity.
I clear my throat and take a drink of water.
At the back of the amphitheatre I see a familiar
21
figure dressed in my dark chauffeur's uniform, sitting on a stool with my cap pulled down over his
eyes. Even from here I can see his white hair. He sits
up and I see the quick, childish smile come across
his face. He sticks his tongue out at me.
Now the crowd is becoming agitated. There is
a noise of chairs moving, and I'm thinking they can
smell my fear, they’ve got to know what’s up. But
now my boss is smiling and I can feel his warmth
right from the back of the hall.
I can’t blame him. He didn’t force me to do
this. I gave him the idea and he just…persuaded
me. I’ve been driving him for a couple of months
now, and one thing I can tell you for certain, it’s
hard to say no to the professor. Just last week, as I
was driving Professor Einstein back from a conference in Baltimore, I remember his calm Austrian
accent coming from the back of the car.
“Harry, did you enjoy the speech I made this
evening?”
“Oh, absolutely, sir.”
“Yes…I saw that you were enjoying it. I had a
very good view.”
“Sir?”
22
“It appears to me that you were in a state of
repose at the back of the auditorium. Is that correct?”
I slowed down a little, and glanced up at him
in the mirror.
“Repose? What do you mean, sir?”
“You were asleep, yes. That is correct, is it
not?”
I took a second to think about that. There
wasn’t any anger in his voice, just curiosity. I guess
you’d call it a desire for knowledge. His dark eyes
were watching me in the mirror.
“Well, I wouldn’t say I was asleep—”
“Harry, we have, how do you put it…we have
been on the road for some months now, yes? And
although for many people across America my theory is new, you have heard me explain it at least
twenty times, is that correct?”
“Twenty-three times, sir.”
He chuckled and slapped his knees. “Exactly.
I can see it clearly. Now, you cannot read a book
twenty-three times and expect to stay interested,
can you?”
“No sir, I imagine that would be difficult.”
23
He sat back for a few minutes and I drove on
through the rain. It was an easy drive back to the
hotel, but I was going slowly as I thought he had
something more to say.
“Harry,” he said at last. “Am I boring?”
“Oh no, sir.”
“But my speech is boring you, yes?”
“Oh no, Mr Einstein. I wouldn’t say that at all.
I guess I’ve just heard the old Theory of Relativity
so many times, I could give your speech myself.”
“Really?”
For a moment I thought I’d gone too far. He
sounded angry.
“Please, prove it,” he said.
“Well, sir…” I began. And I gave him his introduction, word for word. He sat back in the seat,
laughing softly.
“I don’t mean to be disrespectful, sir, it’s just
that I have a good memory—”
“An excellent memory,” he said. “And what
about the central theme, hmm?”
I gave him the rest of the speech, without having any idea what it all meant. I even did it with
an Austrian accent…
24
at the back of conference halls mouthing out the
words as he said them.
“Fascinating,” he said when I’d finished. “I
couldn’t have put it any better! I can’t blame you
for falling asleep. I’ve often felt a little drowsy
myself, saying the same thing each time.”
“But it’s important, Mr Einstein! I’m sure lots
of people hang on to your every word!”
“Yes…”
“One day it could even make you famous.”
He sat back in the seat so I couldn’t see him,
and we drove on for another few minutes. Then he
bounced forward, wringing his hands in his lap, his
eyes wide and childish.
“Stop the car.”
I pulled over to the side of the road, and we
sat for a few minutes. I remember the sound of the
rain on the roof, like a hundred ticking clocks, and
the shape of the physicist in the back of the cab,
thinking.
“I think we can have a little fun, yes? Some
refreshment. We go to Dartmouth next week…
no one there knows me, not yet…no one knows
what I look like. So, why not you go and give
25
the speech, and I take a little repose at the back,
yes?” He pulled at his bow tie and smiled in the
dark.
I should have said no. Straight away I should
have slammed the door on the idea, but Professor
Einstein is one of those people it’s very difficult to
refuse. More than that, he's the kind of man who’ll
make you believe you can do anything. Anything I
found difficult he’d just laugh away.
Over the next three days Professor Einstein
spent a great deal of time explaining Relativity to
me in simple terms a child might understand. He
drew me pictures of a lift in a skyscraper, then one
of trains pulling away from another, and while I
was no closer to understanding what the theory
meant, his drive and his confidence were enough to
make me agree to exchange clothes before we left
the Dartmouth hotel, and he even persuaded me to
let him drive us through the grounds of the university to the Physics Department.
26
Some of these stories in Hemingway’s Chihuahua
happened, and some of them did not.
Did Hemingway own an invincible Chihuahua?
Does The Queen play poker? Did Einstein teach his
chauffeur the secrets of Relativity? Did Josephine
Baker’s beast attack an orchestra in Paris?
Which of these stories are true, and which ones
are false?
It’s for you to decide…
True or False?
Einstein’s Chauffeur
Notes from the Maestro
Strangers in a Bar
Josephine’s Beast
Buckingham Palace Poker
A Letter to Stalin
Hemingway’s Chihuahua
Death in Hollywood
Winston v Welles
Follow the Song
True
❏
p.5
❏
p.15
❏
p.22
❏
p.34
❏
p.48
❏
p.62
❏
p.73
❏
p.87
❏
p.97
p.101 ❏
False
❏
❏
❏
❏
❏
❏
❏
❏
❏
❏
Check your answers on www.paperplanes.fr
27
It’s 04.29 in the morning
and the US president is facing an
emergency: his satellites have detected an
alien vessel orbiting the planet.
Soon the alienscome down to Earth
– not in Washington DC, but in the forest
outside a tranquil English village.
As the US military manoeuvres to capture
the vessel by force, the villagers react
to the situationin a rather more…
British fashion.
RUPERT MORGAN
Writer of the Year for both The Sunday Times and Elle, he has
written a series of satirical award winning novels translated in
many languages. Let There be lite and Something Sacred, are
published in French as Poulet Farci and Une étrange solitude
by editions Belfond and Editions 10/18. For many years now
he has lived in France, dividing his time between fiction and
working as a cinema critic.
28
A Picnic
on Earth
Rupert
Morgan
Chapter 1
I
639948J-Pic-Nic-on-Earth.indd 3
Washington DC
29/03/2011 13:08:01
Time: 04.29 EST
“SO WHICH OF YOU gentlemen has made cookies?”
President Suzanne Burke demanded as she entered
the Situation Room of the White House, dressed in
her dark blue bathrobe.
The military and intelligence figures assembled
in the room jumped to their feet. President Burke
did not sit down in her chair, but stood looking
from one face around the table to the next, each
person avoiding direct eye contact.
It was 04.29, precisely seven minutes since a
telephone call had woken her from deep sleep. She
had been dreaming that her hair stylist had inexplicably given her vertical blue Marge Simpson hair
29
just as she was about to meet the Chinese premier.
She had dreams like this almost every night since
becoming president.
She had tied her hair into a chignon before
coming to the Situation Room, but was still in
her pyjamas. Like her bathrobe, the pyjamas were
dark blue and emblazoned with a golden presidential insignia on the left breast. This was standard White House protocol: if an emergency
occured at night, it was essential that a president
look presidential. Nobody wanted to take the
order for a nuclear strike from someone in a silk
kimono.
“None of you has made cookies?” she asked
incredulously.
The people around the table looked uncomfortably at one another, nobody having the courage to
answer her. It was well known that Suzanne Burke
was not a morning person. At times like this, the
basic survival technique was to say nothing unless
addressed directly by the president.
“Damn...” she smiled as she sat down, “so I
guess this isn't a pyjama party!”
The tension in the room dissolved and everyone laughed at her joke. It was okay: the President
was in a good mood today. But then, just as they
30
began to sit back down in their chairs, Suzanne
Burke jumped back to her feet, slamming the table
with her hand and shouting,
“But if there's no damned cookies then you
people better have a damned good reason for getting me out of bed at half-past four on a Sunday
morning!”
Those about to sit down jumped to attention.
Others, too far gone in their movement, bounced
down on their seats and up again. One unfortunate
Admiral lost all control and overturned his chair,
dropping to the floor after it.
“Why am I here, General?” Suzanne Burke
shouted at General Austin, her Chief of Staff.
The General, his expressionless face camouflaging his nervousness, picked up a TV remote and
pointed it at a giant screen on the wall opposite
the president. A picture appeared: a silver object
like three concentric bowls piled on each other
– large, medium and small – set against a dark
background.
“You are here because of this, Madam President,” he announced. “Have you ever seen anything like that?”
“Well, it looks a lot like my mother's chocolate fountain,” she said after looking closely at it.
31
“General, have you woken me up at half-past four
in the morning to show me dessert gadgets?”
“No, Ma'am.”
“So what is it?”
“We don't know, Ma'am,” he answered.
“General, if you don't know what it is,
then how can you know it's not a chocolate fountain?”
“Because at precisely 03.46 this morning,
Ma'am, this object moved into orbit around the
planet. Chocolate fountains don't do that.”
32
Ils en parlent…
… La presse
• Le Magazine Littéraire - le 21/06/2010
« De quoi enthousiasmer les lecteurs souhaitant lire dans le texte ».
•
Le Courrier Picard - le 10/07/2010
« Un nouvel outil indispensable. Lire l’anglais ne devient plus un
casse-tête mais un vrai plaisir qui peut donner goût aux voyages ».
•
20 minutes - le 28/06/2010
« Il y a un bon équilibre entre idiomes, mots courants et
vocabulaire d’origine latine… Je les recommanderai à ceux qui
veulent améliorer leur anglais ».
•
Le lycéen - juin 2010
« Une fois lus et appréciés, on ne peut s’empêcher de s’étonner de
voir que le vocabulaire et la grammaire appris en cours, qu’on
croyait évaporés (…) sont ravivés par la lecture ».
• Espace Prépas - juin 2010
« La lecture devient (…) un plaisir, on y retrouve son anglais et
même on l’améliore (…) ! Chaque récit est original et entraînant ».
… Les lecteurs
•
Geneviève - paru le 15/12/2010 sur paperplanes.fr
« J’ai lu les 6 titres disponibles : ils m’ont tous captivée et je les ai lus
d’un trait. J’attends les nouveautés avec impatience ».
•
Dominique - paru le 20/07/2010 sur paperplanes.fr
« Quel plaisir de lire en anglais si facilement ».
•
Marie-Josée - paru le 09/03/2011 sur paperplanes.fr
« Idée géniale. Format sympa, présentation soignée, sujets variés,
textes courts et de qualité ».
•
Eric - paru le 15/02/2011 sur paperplanes.fr
« Outre les histoires qui sont agréables à découvrir, c’est un excellent
moyen d’entretenir son anglais ».
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www.paperplanes.fr
des interviews des auteurs
des compléments culturels
les versions audio-mp3 à télécharger
99 4102 2
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7,50 € l’exemplaire
avec version audio
téléchargeable
gratuitement*
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*so
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