Twelve years, seven months and eleven days is a specific figure. It is not Of Use at that age to count his life in days, when she soffre so long. Yet this is this accounting Jack Stephenson labandonnant assigns his son in a shack in the middle of specious American forest Maine, twelve years and seven months and three days. Into the woods. Walden, who naime or baseball or basketball or any sport dailleurs species, can not seem to meet the expectations of his father. Classic disappointment. So it seems to have invented for his son dinitiation this sort, supposed to make a man of him and to which he submits it without notice and without discussion, with apparent coldness, near cruelty. It does not tell a thriller. Lorris Murail samuse to foil all the assumptions that the player draft as mobile behavior of the father and the son. Successive focalizations on Mon and on the other cover their tracks with consummate art of intrigue. Jack left Walden with a few cans, a rifle, matches and two books austere Henry David Thoreau, the American poet of nature, lécologiste before the letter. Walden, who knows his father's admiration for Thoreau duty which he also knows his name - believes First of a paternal game before having to tap into his survival instinct, he discovers the unknown force jusquici him. He will succeed in getting a partner vastness that surrounds eight millions of hectares? Or will it crack and sit on daddy crying Darbre strain? Hard to let go this bitter Robinson Crusoe, novel and dapprentissage dépreuves, before arriving at the end of summer and at the end of a Indian secret.
