Anne Rice is the author of twenty-six books. She lives in La Jolla, California.Excerpt from Book
I was seven years old. What do you know when you’re seven years old? All my life, or so I thought, we’d been in the city of Alexandria, in the Street of the Carpenters, with the other Galileans, and sooner or later we were going home. Late afternoon. We were playing, my gang against his, and when he ran at me again, bully that he was, bigger than me, and catching me off balance, I felt the power go out of me as I shouted: “You’ll never get where you’re going.” He fell down white in the sandy earth, and they all crowded around him. The sun was hot and my chest was heaving as I looked at him. He was so limp. In the snap of two fingers everyone drew back. It seemed the whole street went quiet except for the carpenters’ hammers. I’d never heard such a quiet. “He’s dead!” Little Joseph said. And then they all took it up. “He’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead.” I knew it was true. He was a bundle of arms and legs in the beaten dust. And I was empty. The power had taken everything with it, all gone. His mother came out of the house, and her scream went up the walls into a howl. From everywhere the women came running. My mother lifted me off my feet. She carried me down the street and through the courtyard and into the dark of our house. All my cousins crowded in with us, and James, my big brother, pulled the curtain shut. He turned his back on the light. He said: “Jesus did it. He killed him.” He was afraid. “Don’t you say such a thing!” said my mother. She clutched me so close to her, I could scarcely breathe. Big Joseph woke up. Now Big Joseph was my father, because he was married to my mother, but I’d never called him Father. I’d been taught to call him Joseph. I didn’t know why. He’d been asleep on the mat. We’d worked all day on a job in Philo’s house, and he and the rest of the men had lain down in the heat of the afternoon to sleep. He climbed to his feet. “What’s that shouting outside?” he asked. “What’s happened?” He looked to James. James was his eldest son. James was the son of a wife who had died before Joseph married my mother. James said it again. “Jesus killed Eleazer. Jesus cursed him and he fell down dead.” Joseph stared at me, his face still blank from sleep. There was more and more shouting in the street. He rose to his feet, and ran his hands back through his thick curly hair. My little cousins were slipping through the door one by one and crowding around us. My mother was trembling. “He couldn’t have done it,” she said. “He wouldn’t do such a thing.” “I saw it,” said James. “I saw it when he made the sparrows out of clay on the Sabbath. The teacher told him he shouldn’t do such things on the Sabbath. Jesus looked at the birds and they turned into real birds. They flew away. You saw it too. He killed Eleazer, Mother, I saw it.” My cousins made a ring of white faces in the shadows: Little Joses, Judas, and Little Symeon and Salome, watching anxiously, afraid of being sent out. Salome was my age, and my dearest and closest. Salome was like my sister. Then in came my mother’s brother Cleopas, always the talker, who was the father of these cousins, except for Big Silas who came in now, a boy older than James. He went into the corner, and then came his brother, Justus, and both wanted to see what was going on. “Joseph, they’re all out there,&Main Description
Having completed the two cycles of legend to which she has devoted her career so far, Anne Rice gives us now her most ambitious and courageous book, a novel about the early years of CHRIST THE LORD, based on the Gospels and on the most respected New Testament scholarship. The book’s power derives from the passion its author brings to the writing and the way in which she summons up the voice, the presence, the words of Jesus who tells the story.Review Quote
Praise forChrist the Lord “Riveting. . . . Rice's book is a triumph of tone -- her prose lean, lyrical, vivid -- and character. As he ponders his staggering responsibility, the boy is fully believable -- and yet there's something in his supernatural empathy and blazing intelligence that conveys the wondrousness of a boy like no other. . . . With this novel, she has indeed found a convincing version of him; this is fiction that transcends story and instead qualifies as an act of faith. Joins Nikos Kazantzakis'sThe Last Temptationof Christand Endo'sA Life of Jesusas one of the bolder re-tellings.” —Kirkus Reviews(starred) Praise forBlood Canticle “When Anne Rice releases a new book inThe Vampire Chroniclesseries, cheers from her huge fan base can be heard everywhere.” —The Edmonton JournalMain Description
Anne Rice’s second book in her hugely ambitious and courageous life of Christ begins during his last winter before his baptism in the Jordan and concludes with the miracle at Cana. It is a novel in which we see Jesus—he is called Yeshua bar Joseph—during a winter of no rain, endless dust, and talk of trouble in Judea. Legends of a Virgin birth have long surrounded Yeshua, yet for decades he has lived as one among many who come to the synagogue on the Sabbath. All who know and love him find themselves waiting for some sign of the path he will eventually take. And at last we see him emerge from his baptism to confront his destiny—and the Devil. We see what happens when he takes the water of six great limestone jars, transforms it into cool red wine, is recognized as the anointed one, and urged to call all Israel to take up arms against Rome and follow him as the prophets have foretold. As withOut of Egypt, the opening novel,The Road to Canais based on the Gospels and on the most respected New Testament scholarship. The book’s power derives from the profound feeling its author brings to the writing and the way in which she summons up the presence of Jesus.Excerpt from Book
Who is Christ the Lord? Angels sang at his birth. Magi from the East brought gifts: gold, frankincense, and myrrh. They gave these gifts to him, and to his mother, Mary, and the man, Joseph, who claimed to be his father. In the Temple, an old man gathered the babe in his arms. The old man said to the Lord, as he held the babe, “A light for revelation to the Gentiles, and glory for your people Israel.” My mother told me those stories. That was years and years ago. Is it possible that Christ the Lord is a carpenter in the town of Nazareth, a man past thirty years of age, and one of a family of carpenters, a family of men and women and children that fill ten rooms of an ancient house, and, that in this winter of no rain, of endless dust, of talk of trouble in Judea, Christ the Lord sleeps in a worn woolen robe, in a room with other men, beside a smoking brazier? Is it possible that in that room, asleep, he dreams? Yes. I know it’s possible. I am Christ the Lord. I know. What I must know, I know. And what I must learn, I learn. And in this skin, I live and sweat and breathe and groan. My shoulders ache. My eyes are dry from these dreadful rainless days–from the long walks to Sepphoris through the gray fields in which the seeds burn under the dim winter sun because the rains don’t come. I am Christ the Lord. I know. Others know, but what they know they often forget. My mother hasn’t spoken a word on it for years. My foster father, Joseph, is old now, white haired, and given to dreaming. I never forget. And as I fall asleep, sometimes I’m afraid–because my dreams are not my friends. My dreams are wild like bracken or sudden hot winds that sweep down into the parched valleys of Galilee. But I do dream, as all men dream. And so this night, beside the brazier, hands and feet cold, under my cloak, I dreamed. I dreamed of a woman, close, a woman, mine, a woman who became a maiden who became in the easy tumult of dreams my Avigail. I woke. I sat up in the dark. All the others lay sleeping still, with open mouths, and the coals in the brazier were ashes. Go away, beloved girl. This is not for me to know, and Christ the Lord will not know what he does not want to know–or what he would know only by the shape of its absence. She wouldn’t go–not this, the Avigail of dreams with hair tumbled down loose over my hands, as if the Lord had made her for me in the Garden of Eden. No. Perhaps the Lord made dreams for such knowing– or so it seemed for Christ the Lord. I climbed up off the mat, and quietly as I could, I put more coals into the brazier. My brothers and my nephews didn’t stir. James was off with his wife tonight in the room they shared. Little Judas and Little Joseph, fathers both, slept here tonight away from little ones huddled around their wives. And there lay the sons of James–Menachim, Isaac, and Shabi, tumbled together like puppies. I stepped over one after another and took a clean robe from the chest, the wool smelling of the sunshine in which it had been dried. Everything in that chest was clean. I took the robe and went out of the house. Blast of cold air in the empty courtyard. Crunch of broken leaves. And for a moment in the hard pebbly street I stopped and looked up at the great sweep of glittering stars beyond the huddled rooftops. Cloudless, this cold sky, and so filled with these infinitesimal lights, it seemed for a moment beautiful. My heart hurt. It seemed to be looking at me, enfolding me–a thing of kindness and witness–an immense web flung out by a single hand–rather than the vast inevitable hollow of the night above the tiny slumbering town that spilled like a hundred others down a slope betweLong Description
Anne Rice's second book in her hugely ambitious and courageous life of Christ begins during his last winter before his baptism in the Jordan and concludes with the miracle at Cana. It is a novel in which we see Jesus--he is called Yeshua bar Joseph--during a winter of no rain, endless dust, and talk of trouble in Judea. Legends of a Virgin birth have long surrounded Yeshua, yet for decades he has lived as one among many who come to the synagogue on the Sabbath. All who know and love him find themselves waiting for some sign of the path he will eventually take. And at last we see him emerge from his baptism to confront his destiny--and the Devil. We see what happens when he takes the water of six great limestone jars, transforms it into cool red wine, is recognized as the anointed one, and urged to call all Israel to take up arms against Rome and follow him as the prophets have foretold. As with "Out of Egypt," the opening novel, "The Road to Cana "is based on the Gospels and on the most respected New Testament scholarship. The book's power derives from the profound feeling its author brings to the writing and the way in which she summons up the presence of Jesus.Short Description
Rice's second book in her hugely ambitious and courageous series on the life of Christ begins during his last winter before his baptism and concludes with the miracle at Cana. As with "Out of Egypt," this novel is based on the Gospels and on the most respected New Testament scholarship.Excerpt from Book
I was seven years old. What do you know when you7;re seven years old? All my life, or so I thought, we7;d been in the city of Alexandria, in the Street of the Carpenters, with the other Galileans, and sooner or later we were going home. Late afternoon. We were playing, my gang against his, and when he ran at me again, bully that he was, bigger than me, and catching me off balance, I felt the power go out of me as I shouted: 0;You7;ll never get where you7;re going.1; He fell down white in the sandy earth, and they all crowded around him. The sun was hot and my chest was heaving as I looked at him. He was so limp. In the snap of two fingers everyone drew back. It seemed the whole street went quiet except for the carpenters7; hammers. I7;d never heard such a quiet. 0;He7;s dead!1; Little Joseph said. And then they all took it up. 0;He7;s dead, he7;s dead, he7;s dead.1; I knew it was true. He was a bundle of arms and legs in the beaten dust. And I was empty. The power had taken everything with it, all gone. His mother came out of the house, and her scream went up the walls into a howl. From everywhere the women came running. My mother lifted me off my feet. She carried me down the street and through the courtyard and into the dark of our house. All my cousins crowded in with us, and James, my big brother, pulled the curtain shut. He turned his back on the light. He said: 0;Jesus did it. He killed him.1; He was afraid. 0;Don7;t you say such a thing!1; said my mother. She clutched me so close to her, I could scarcely breathe. Big Joseph woke up. Now Big Joseph was my father, because he was married to my mother, but I7;d never called him Father. I7;d been taught to call him Joseph. I didn7;t know why. He7;d been asleep on the mat. We7;d worked all day on a job in Philo7;s house, and he and the rest of the men had lain down in the heat of the afternoon to sleep. He climbed to his feet. 0;What7;s that shouting outside?1; he asked. 0;What7;s happened?1; He looked to James. James was his eldest son. James was the son of a wife who had died before Joseph married my mother. James said it again. 0;Jesus killed Eleazer. Jesus cursed him and he fell down dead.1; Joseph stared at me, his face still blank from sleep. There was more and more shouting in the street. He rose to his feet, and ran his hands back through his thick curly hair. My little cousins were slipping through the door one by one and crowding around us. My mother was trembling. 0;He couldn7;t have done it,1; she said. 0;He wouldn7;t do such a thing.1; 0;I saw it,1; said James. 0;I saw it when he made the sparrows out of clay on the Sabbath. The teacher told him he shouldn7;t do such things on the Sabbath. Jesus looked at the birds and they turned into real birds. They flew away. You saw it too. He killed Eleazer, Mother, I saw it.1; My cousins made a ring of white faces in the shadows: Little Joses, Judas, and Little Symeon and Salome, watching anxiously, afraid of being sent out. Salome was my age, and my dearest and closest. Salome was like my sister. Then in came my mother7;s brother Cleopas, always the talker, who was the father of these cousins, except for Big Silas who came in now, a boy older than James. He went into the corner, and then came his brother, Justus, and both wanted to see what was going on. 0;Joseph, they7;re all out there,&Excerpt from Book
Who is Christ the Lord? Angels sang at his birth. Magi from the East brought gifts: gold, frankincense, and myrrh. They gave these gifts to him, and to his mother, Mary, and the man, Joseph, who claimed to be his father. In the Temple, an old man gathered the babe in his arms. The old man said to the Lord, as he held the babe, 0;A light for revelation to the Gentiles, and glory for your people Israel.1; My mother told me those stories. That was years and years ago. Is it possible that Christ the Lord is a carpenter in the town of Nazareth, a man past thirty years of age, and one of a family of carpenters, a family of men and women and children that fill ten rooms of an ancient house, and, that in this winter of no rain, of endless dust, of talk of trouble in Judea, Christ the Lord sleeps in a worn woolen robe, in a room with other men, beside a smoking brazier? Is it possible that in that room, asleep, he dreams? Yes. I know it7;s possible. I am Christ the Lord. I know. What I must know, I know. And what I must learn, I learn. And in this skin, I live and sweat and breathe and groan. My shoulders ache. My eyes are dry from these dreadful rainless days-from the long walks to Sepphoris through the gray fields in which the seeds burn under the dim winter sun because the rains don7;t come. I am Christ the Lord. I know. Others know, but what they know they often forget. My mother hasn7;t spoken a word on it for years. My foster father, Joseph, is old now, white haired, and given to dreaming. I never forget. And as I fall asleep, sometimes I7;m afraid-because my dreams are not my friends. My dreams are wild like bracken or sudden hot winds that sweep down into the parched valleys of Galilee. But I do dream, as all men dream. And so this night, beside the brazier, hands and feet cold, under my cloak, I dreamed. I dreamed of a woman, close, a woman, mine, a woman who became a maiden who became in the easy tumult of dreams my Avigail. I woke. I sat up in the dark. All the others lay sleeping still, with open mouths, and the coals in the brazier were ashes. Go away, beloved girl. This is not for me to know, and Christ the Lord will not know what he does not want to know-or what he would know only by the shape of its absence. She wouldn7;t go-not this, the Avigail of dreams with hair tumbled down loose over my hands, as if the Lord had made her for me in the Garden of Eden. No. Perhaps the Lord made dreams for such knowing- or so it seemed for Christ the Lord. I climbed up off the mat, and quietly as I could, I put more coals into the brazier. My brothers and my nephews didn7;t stir. James was off with his wife tonight in the room they shared. Little Judas and Little Joseph, fathers both, slept here tonight away from little ones huddled around their wives. And there lay the sons of James-Menachim, Isaac, and Shabi, tumbled together like puppies. I stepped over one after another and took a clean robe from the chest, the wool smelling of the sunshine in which it had been dried. Everything in that chest was clean. I took the robe and went out of the house. Blast of cold air in the empty courtyard. Crunch of broken leaves. And for a moment in the hard pebbly street I stopped and looked up at the great sweep of glittering stars beyond the huddled rooftops. Cloudless, this cold sky, and so filled with these infinitesimal lights, it seemed for a moment beautiful. My heart hurt. It seemed to be looking at me, enfolding me-a thing of kindness and witness-an immense web flung out by a single hand-rather than the vast inevitable hollow of the night above the tiny slumbering town that spilled like a hundred others down a slope betweReview Quote
Praise forChrist the Lord 0;Riveting. . . . Rice's book is a triumph of tone -- her prose lean, lyrical, vivid -- and character. As he ponders his staggering responsibility, the boy is fully believable -- and yet there's something in his supernatural empathy and blazing intelligence that conveys the wondrousness of a boy like no other. . . . With this novel, she has indeed found a convincing version of him; this is fiction that transcends story and instead qualifies as an act of faith. Joins Nikos Kazantzakis'sThe Last Temptationof Christand Endo'sA Life of Jesusas one of the bolder re-tellings.1; -Kirkus Reviews(starred) Praise forBlood Canticle 0;When Anne Rice releases a new book inThe Vampire Chroniclesseries, cheers from her huge fan base can be heard everywhere.1; -The Edmonton JournalTitle Summary
"Anne Rice's second book in her ambitious life of Christ begins during his last winter before his baptism in the Jordan and concludes with the miracle at Cana." "It is a novel in which we see Jesus - he is called Yeshua bar Joseph - during a winter of no rain, endless dust, and talk of trouble in Judea. Legends of a Virgin birth have long surrounded Yeshua, yet for decades he has lived as one among many who come to the synagogue on the Sabbath. All who know and love him find themselves waiting for some sign of the path he will eventually take." "And at last we see him emerge from his baptism to confront his destiny - and the Devil. We see what happens when he takes the water of six great limestone jars, transforms it into cool red wine, is recognized as the anointed one, and urged to call all Israel to take up arms against Rome and follow him as the prophets have foretold."--BOOK JACKET.Review Quote
0;A masterful book written by an extraordinary writer at the height of her powers. It deserves to be read for that reason alone. But it also deserves to be read to better understand the most dynamic and important person in human history-Christ the Lord.1; -David Kuo,All Things Considered 0;Convincing and compelling. Another winner.1; -Kirkus Reviews(starred) 0;[A] beautifully observed novel . . . Rice undertakes a delicate balance here: if it is possible to create a character that is simultaneously fully human and fully divine, as ancient Christian creeds assert, then Rice succeeds.1; -Publishers Weekly(starred) 0;Anne Rice knows how to make that old story come alive for her readers.1; -Susan Larson,TheTimes-Picayune 0;A powerful account of Christ7;s humanity while staying true to orthodox Christianity. Her well-drawn, believable supporting characters add to a vivid captivating story . . . a novel that both religious and secular audiences can appreciate and enjoy; highly recommended for all fiction collections.1; -Library Journal(starred) 0;Rice, whose books have sold more than 75 million copies, couples her writing talents with the zeal of a recent convert and a passion for historical research inChrist the Lord: The Road to Cana, an intriguing followup toOut of Egypt. . . Remarkable for Rice7;s prose and rich sensory detail.1; -Cindy Crosby,Christianity Today 0;[The Road to Cana] succeeds in treating Yeshua7;s humanity as an essential part of his divinity . . . And Ms. Rice can deliver hypnotic, incantatory prose that celebrates Yeshua7;s ascension. . . . Many readers will be lured by the promise of simply rendered holiness toThe Road to Cana.1; -Janet Maslin,The New York TimesExcerpt from Book
I was seven years old. What do you know when you're seven years old? All my life, or so I thought, we'd been in the city of Alexandria, in the Street of the Carpenters, with the other Galileans, and sooner or later we were going home. Late afternoon. We were playing, my gang against his, and when he ran at me again, bully that he was, bigger than me, and catching me off balance, I felt the power go out of me as I shouted: "You'll never get where you're going." He fell down white in the sandy earth, and they all crowded around him. The sun was hot and my chest was heaving as I looked at him. He was so limp. In the snap of two fingers everyone drew back. It seemed the whole street went quiet except for the carpenters' hammers. I'd never heard such a quiet. "He's dead!" Little Joseph said. And then they all took it up. "He's dead, he's dead, he's dead." I knew it was true. He was a bundle of arms and legs in the beaten dust. And I was empty. The power had taken everything with it, all gone. His mother came out of the house, and her scream went up the walls into a howl. From everywhere the women came running. My mother lifted me off my feet. She carried me down the street and through the courtyard and into the dark of our house. All my cousins crowded in with us, and James, my big brother, pulled the curtain shut. He turned his back on the light. He said: "Jesus did it. He killed him." He was afraid. "Don't you say such a thing!" said my mother. She clutched me so close to her, I could scarcely breathe. Big Joseph woke up. Now Big Joseph was my father, because he was married to my mother, but I'd never called him Father. I'd been taught to call him Joseph. I didn't know why. He'd been asleep on the mat. We'd worked all day on a job in Philo's house, and he and the rest of the men had lain down in the heat of the afternoon to sleep. He climbed to his feet. "What's that shouting outside?" he asked. "What's happened?" He looked to James. James was his eldest son. James was the son of a wife who had died before Joseph married my mother. James said it again. "Jesus killed Eleazer. Jesus cursed him and he fell down dead." Joseph stared at me, his face still blank from sleep. There was more and more shouting in the street. He rose to his feet, and ran his hands back through his thick curly hair. My little cousins were slipping through the door one by one and crowding around us. My mother was trembling. "He couldn't have done it," she said. "He wouldn't do such a thing." "I saw it," said James. "I saw it when he made the sparrows out of clay on the Sabbath. The teacher told him he shouldn't do such things on the Sabbath. Jesus looked at the birds and they turned into real birds. They flew away. You saw it too. He killed Eleazer, Mother, I saw it." My cousins made a ring of white faces in the shadows: Little Joses, Judas, and Little Symeon and Salome, watching anxiously, afraid of being sent out. Salome was my age, and my dearest and closest. Salome was like my sister. Then in came my mother's brother Cleopas, always the talker, who was the father of these cousins, except for Big Silas who came in now, a boy older than James. He went into the corner, and then came his brother, Justus, and both wanted to see what was going on. "Joseph, they're all out there,&Review Quote
"A masterful book written by an extraordinary writer at the height of her powers. It deserves to be read for that reason alone. But it also deserves to be read to better understand the most dynamic and important person in human historyChrist the Lord." David Kuo,All Things Considered "Convincing and compelling. Another winner." Kirkus Reviews(starred) "[A] beautifully observed novel . . . Rice undertakes a delicate balance here: if it is possible to create a character that is simultaneously fully human and fully divine, as ancient Christian creeds assert, then Rice succeeds." Publishers Weekly(starred) "Anne Rice knows how to make that old story come alive for her readers." Susan Larson,TheTimes-Picayune "A powerful account of Christ's humanity while staying true to orthodox Christianity. Her well-drawn, believable supporting characters add to a vivid captivating story . . . a novel that both religious and secular audiences can appreciate and enjoy; highly recommended for all fiction collections." Library Journal(starred) "Rice, whose books have sold more than 75 million copies, couples her writing talents with the zeal of a recent convert and a passion for historical research inChrist the Lord: The Road to Cana, an intriguing followup toOut of Egypt. . . Remarkable for Rice's prose and rich sensory detail." Cindy Crosby,Christianity Today "[The Road to Cana] succeeds in treating Yeshua's humanity as an essential part of his divinity . . . And Ms. Rice can deliver hypnotic, incantatory prose that celebrates Yeshua's ascension. . . . Many readers will be lured by the promise of simply rendered holiness toThe Road to Cana." Janet Maslin,The New York Times