Author Topic: Žorž Simenon (Georges Simenon)  (Read 10634 times)

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Tripp

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Žorž Simenon (Georges Simenon)
« on: 20-06-2010, 09:42:35 »

(posavjetovao sam našu bibliografiju najvećeg sajta/foruma o Megreu na Netu - http://www.trussel.com/f_maig.htm - i dodao naslove koje nemam vec na početku; sigurno je više od 39 naslova o Megreu publikovano kod nas; valja istražiti)


   Inspektor Megre:

        Afera Sen-Fijaker (L'Affaire Saint-Fiacre)
        Lašomovi ćute (Maigret et les témoins récalcitrants), Sfinga, izdavačko preduzeće Beletra, Beograd 1960, Knjiga 6
        Maigret i fantom (Maigret et le fantôme)
        Maigret i zrtva iz Seine (Maigret et le clochard)
        Maigret u Arizoni (Maigret chez le coroner)
        Maigret u baru 'Picratt' (Maigret au "Picratt's) - objavljen i kao Noći Monmartra
        Maigretov bozic (Un Noël de Maigret
        Megre i covek sa klupe (Maigret et l'homme du banc)
        Megre i dugonoga (Maigret et la grande perche)
        Megre i hiromantkinja (Signé Picpus)
        Megre pred porotom (Maigret aux assises)
        Noc na raskrscu zlocina (La Nuit du carrefour)
        Prijateljica gospodje Maigret (L'Amie de Mme Maigret)
        Prva Megreova istraga (La première enquête de Maigret, 1913)
        Svedocenje decaka iz crkve (Le Témoinage de l'enfant de chœur)


      Kineske senke (L'ombre Chinoise) Zelena biblioteka, Kosmos, Beograd, br.23, godina 1958.
      Megre postavlja zamku (Maigret tend un piege), Zelena biblioteka, Kosmos, Beograd, br.30, godina 1958.
      Krčma kod dve pare (La guinguette a deux sous), Zelena biblioteka, Kosmos, Beograd, br.36, godina 1959.
        Megre na letovanju (Les vacances de Maigret), Zelena biblioteka, Kosmos, Beograd, br.42, godina 1960.
        Pokojni g-in Gale (M.Gallet, decede) Zelena biblioteka, Kosmos, Beograd, br.45, godina 1960.
        Megre i gangsteri (Maigret, lognon et les gansteres), Zelena biblioteka, Kosmos, Beograd, br.49, godina 1961.
        Megre se vara (Maigret se trompe), Zelena biblioteka, Kosmos, Beograd, br.52, godina 1961.
        Megre u Njujorku (Maigret a New-Jork), Zelena biblioteka, Kosmos, Beograd, br.60, godina 1962.

         Ubijena devojka (Maigret et le jeune morte), Džepna knjiga, Svjetlost, Sarajevo, br.351, 1965.
         Sahrana Gospodina Buvea (Enterrement de M.Bouvet), Džepna knjiga, Svjetlost, Sarajevo, br.352, 1965.
         Megreov revolver (Le revolver de Maigret), Džepna knjiga, Svjetlost, Sarajevo, br.353, 1965.
          Megre i stara dama (Maigret et la vielle dame), Džepna knjiga, Svjetlost, Sarajevo, br.353, 1965.
          Megre putuje (Maigret Voyage), Džepna knjiga, Svjetlost, Sarajevo, br.358, 1965.

   Komplet Rad-a, Beograd, Knjige 1-6, godina: 1969, meki povez

   1) Megre i barska igračica (La danseuse du Gai-Moulin) & Megreov vikend na Seni (La guinguette a deux sons) – objavljen kao Krčma kod dve pare u Zelenoj biblioteci;
   2) Megreov neuspeh (Un echec de Maigret) & Megre i žive senke (L'ombre Chinoise) – objavljen kao Kineske senke u Zelenoj biblioteci;
   3) Megre se brani (Maigret se defend) & Megre na Azurnoj obali (Liberty bar);
   4) Megre pred porotom (Maigret aux assises) & Megre i malerozni inspektor (Maigret et l'inspecteour malgracieux);
   5) Megreov lopov (Le voleur de Maigret) & Megre se boji (Maigret a peur)
   6) Megre i sumnjičavi supružnici (Les scrupules de Maigret) & Udovac (Le veuf) – ne-Megre roman – & Megre i mali ministrant (Maigret chez le ministre)

       Luka u magli (Le port des brumes), Rad, Beograd, Komplet Simenonovih socijalnih romana, 1968



       Simenonovi 'socijalni' romani:

   Pedigre (Pedigree), Brankovo kolo, Godina II, Knjiga 4, Bratstvo-jedinstvo, Novi Sad, 1955, crteži: Mirko Stojnić, tvrdi povez, 475 str.

   Udovac (Le veuf), Rad, Beograd, Knjiga 6 (iz Megreovog kompleta), 1969


     Komplet Simenonovih socijalnih romana 1-6, Rad, Beograd, 1968, tvrdi povez:

   Luka u magli (Le port des brumes - roman o Megreu) & Antoan i Žili (Antoine et Julie)
   Mačka (Le chat) & Pismo mome sudiji (Lettre a mon juge)
   Prljavi sneg (La neige etait sale) & Crvena svetlost (Feux rouges)
   Donadijeov testament (Le testament Donadieu) & Ogistova smrt (La mort d'Auguste)
   Ispovedaonica (Le confessional) & Mali svetac (Le petit saint)
   Stariji Feršo (L'aine des Ferchaux) & Marija iz luke (La Marie du port)
'Hey now!'

Kunac

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Re: Žorž Simenon (Georges Simenon)
« Reply #1 on: 20-06-2010, 11:17:21 »
Priznajem nisam čitao Simenona. Planiram da ovaj propust uskor ispravim. Sort of. Nabavio sam Nikolićev roman OBRAČUN NA OBALI u kome se na dubrovačkoj rivijeri sreću novinar Miki i inspektor Megre.
"zombi je mali žuti cvet"

Tripp

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Re: Žorž Simenon (Georges Simenon)
« Reply #2 on: 20-06-2010, 12:23:16 »

      Na zalost, medju mojih 16 Nikolica nema Obracuna na obali, tako da ne mogu reci da li je do roman dostojan jednog Simenona. Pisao sam vec kako je Nikolic dobio i odobrenje od Simenona - preko njegove supruge, dabome, koja je jedina i baratala fanovskom postom svojeg supruga - da moze koristiti Megrea za vlastiti roman, sto je nevidjeno medju autorima koji, generalno, previse ozbiljno shvataju svoj rad. Arthur Conan Doyle je od Holmesa nacinio svacijeg lika kada je napisao jednom fanu koji je slavnog detektiva takodje htio metnuti u svoj roman: "Marry him, murder him, do what you like with him."

      Svakako bi Simenon, a narocito njegovi socijalni romani, trebao da bude prilicno ozbiljna literatura za ljubitelja dobrog krimica. Vecina nas, krimi-fanova, se podizala na Agati Kristi (cinjenica je da je ona bila, makar na ovom podneblju, najzastupljeniji autor), a moj je cup of tea ipak bio/ostao Simenon. Megre na stranu, sada su mi daleko zabavniji njegovi malo poznati socijalni romani. 

     I vise nego dovoljno o Simenonovoj velicini reci ce i naredni copy/paste. Odlican predgovor Pola Terua [Mosquito Coast, Hotel Honolulu] za 'New York Times Review Books Classics' izdanje Simenonovog romana THE WIDOW. Ovaj izdavac je do sada objavio desetak Simenonovih socijalnih romana, a uskoro u USA izlazi i njegov najduzi, autobiografski, PEDIGRE, objavljen i kod nas. Mislim da nailaze na odlicnu prodju kod citalaca koji su za Simenona mislili da je najobicniji pisac krimica.

                                                       (txt cu razvuci na dva posta)



                    Georges Simenon, the existential hack

Paul Theroux on Maigret's creator, the Balzac of blighted lives, who was confident of winning the Nobel Prize

Paul Theroux

Two startlingly similar short novels appeared in France in 1942, at the centre of each a conscienceless and slightly creepy young man, unattached and adrift, the perpetrator of a meaningless murder. One was Albert Camus’s L’Étranger, the other Georges Simenon’s La Veuve Couderc. Camus’s novel rose to become part of the literary firmament, and is still glittering, intensely studied and praised – to my mind, overpraised. Simenon’s novel did not drop, but settled, so to speak, went the way of the rest of his work – rattled along with decent sales, the occasional reprint, and was even resurrected as a 1950s pulp fiction paperback with a come-on tag line (“A surging novel of torment and desire”) and a lurid cover: busty peasant girl pouting in a barn, her skirt hiked over her knees, while a hunky guy lurks at the door – price twenty-five cents.

Camus had laboured for years on his novel of alienation; his Carnets record his frustration and false starts. “The fewer novels or plays you write – because of other parasitic interests – the fewer you will have the ability to write”, V. S. Pritchett once wrote, lamenting his own small output of fiction. “The law ruling the arts is that they must be pursued to excess.” Simenon had published three other novels in 1942, and six others the previous year. La Veuve Couderc (in English variously The Widow and Ticket of Leave) became another title on the extremely long list of Simenon works, none of them regarded as a subject for scholarship. If reading Camus represents duty, Simenon represents a frivolous indulgence, a greedy satisfaction that shows as self-consciousness in even the most well-intentioned critic: awkwardness over a pleasurable text, together with a shiver of snooty superfluity, and the palpable cringe, common to many introductions to Simenon’s novels, What am I doing here?

Simenon takes some sorting out, because at first glance he seems easily classified and on second thoughts – after you have read fifty or sixty of his books – unclassifiable. The Camus comparison is not gratuitous – Simenon often made it himself, and André Gide brought the same subject up a few years after L’Étranger appeared, favouring Simenon’s work, especially this novel. And (in a 1947 letter to Albert Guerard) he went further, calling Simenon “notre plus grand romancier aujourd’hui, vrai romancier”. Born ten years apart, Camus and Simenon had arrived raw and youthful in metropolitan France from the distant margins of literary Francophonia – Camus a French Algerian polemical journalist with a philosophical bent, Simenon a self-educated Belgian who began his writing life as a cub reporter with a taste for crime stories; the pedant and the punk, both with an eye for the ladies. Camus seems to have taken no notice of Simenon (no mention at all in any Camus biography), though we know that Simenon was watchful of, and somewhat competitive with, the decade-younger Camus, whose complete works (he must surely have noted) can be accommodated between the covers of one modest-sized volume. The indefatigable Simenon, confident of winning the Nobel Prize, predicted in 1937 that he would win it in within ten years. It went to others – Pearl S. Buck, F. E. Sillanpää, Winston S. Churchill. Then in 1957, hearing that Camus had won it, Simenon (so his wife reported) became enraged. “Can you believe that asshole got it and not me?”

What to make of the gifted and unstoppable writer who has a rarefied existential streak but also a nose for what the public wanted? The universities are seldom any help. Simenon dropped out of school at thirteen to become a reporter, and like many self-educated people, he tended to be anti-intellectual in a defiant and mocking way, despising literary critics and giving literature departments a wide berth. The universities returned the compliment, rubbishing him and belittling or ignoring his work. The academy is uncommonly fond of the struggler and the sufferer; scratch even the most severe academic and you find a supporter of the underdog. How can (so the argument seems to run) a prolific and popular writer be any good? Usually, like Ford Madox Ford or Trollope they are nailed as graphomaniacs and subjected to cruel simplification, represented by one book, not always their best. Professorial philistinism dogged Simenon; so did snobbery. It was, after all, an embittered provincial university librarian who wrote of “the shit in the shuttered chateau / Who does his five hundred words / Then parts out the rest of the day / Between bathing and booze and birds . . .”. Simenon was the living, intimidating embodiment of Larkin’s envious lines, plenty of booze and birds available, though his daily output in the chateau was more like 5,000 words.

Simenon considered himself the equal of Balzac, and regarded his novels as a modern-day Comédie humaine. His one foray into literary criticism was a long and insightful essay on Balzac, which took the form of mother-blaming. “A novelist is a man who does not like his mother, or who never received mother-love”: words that applied equally to himself and that inform one of his memoirs, Letter to My Mother. He was the Balzac of blighted lives, writing out of a suffering that was not obvious until the end of his long career. Material success, one of Balzac’s major themes, is not something that interested Simenon, who dwelled on failure, in spite of the fact that he himself was hugely successful, and made a point of crowing about it.

Incredibly, for such a productive soul, Simenon was at times afflicted with writer’s block, and though in him it seemed almost an affectation, it perturbed him to the extent that he used it as an occasion to keep a diary, to recapture his novel-writing mood. In the diary he recounted his obsessional subjects – money, his family, his mother, the household, and other writers. During the writing of this diary, Henry Miller visited him and extravagantly praised him as someone who lived an enviable life. While Simenon humoured him, and anatomized his character, he unblocked himself with this unusual and valuable journal, later published under the title When I Was Old.

His many detective novels based on the character of Chief Inspector Jules Maigret fit a pattern, as compact case studies of lingering guilt, with subtle clues and a shrewd, even lovable detective of settled habits. Simenon came up with the rounded, believable and happily married Maigret in 1930 and did not stop adding to the series until 1972, seventy-six volumes later. But what about the other books? The immensity of Simenon’s output defeats the simplifier.

How to square his years in Liège as a reporter and a self-professed hack, with his post-war retreat to rural Connecticut? The trip through the Pacific in 1935, with the year he dropped out to travel by barge through France? The Arizona novels, the many chateaux, the classic cars he collected, the gourmandizing, the womanizing? “Most people work every day and enjoy sex periodically. Simenon had sex every day and every few months indulged in a frenzied orgy of work”, writes Patrick Marnham in The Man Who Wasn’t Maigret (I am indebted to this well-researched book for many of the facts in my piece). Simenon lived long enough to have made love to Josephine Baker and stare priapically into the cleavage of Brigitte Bardot. What of his ability to write a chapter a day and finish an excellent novel in ten or eleven days, and write another one a few months later?

Simenon’s detractors put him down as a compulsive hack; to his admirers, who included not just the hard-to-impress Henry Miller and the sniffily Olympian Gide, as well as the generally aloof Thornton Wilder and the quite remote Jorge Amado, he was the consummate writer. He had no time for his other contemporaries. It wasn’t a question of his believing he was better than any of them; he simply took no notice of them. Even at the height of his friendship with Henry Miller, he did not read Miller’s work; he suggested it was unreadable, but shrewdly analysed Miller the man in When I Was Old. He claimed in the Paris Review to have been inspired by Gogol and Dostoevsky, but he wrote nothing insightful about them.

Like many other writers he hated anyone probing into his life, and habitually lied, laid false trails or exaggerated his experiences. In 1932, he travelled through Central Africa. Typically, he claimed he had been in Africa a year. He actually spent a matter of months there. (Never mind; he made the best of it and wrote three novels with African settings.) He adopted the disguise – never more than when he was promoting one of his books – of the dapper writer, puffing on his pipe, and obscuring himself with phenomenal statistics. The figures associated with him are so extravagant that he seems a victim of them – the numerous novels, the 500 million copies sold, the fifty-five changes of address, and his often quoted boast that he bedded 10,000 women. (His second wife put the figure at “no more than 1,200”.) But the statistics were misleading in the way that record-breaking is misleading, merely the helpless adoration of the exceptional. Simenon trotting out his big numbers sounds to me like a man’s mendacious self-reckoning, not different from the modestly endowed group of islanders in Vanuatu who call themselves Big Nambas.

Yet, though they invite suspicion, the most unlikely figures associated with Simenon are probably true, the “approximately” 400 works of fiction he claimed to have published verifiable. A hundred and seventeen are serious novels, the rest Maigrets and books written under pseudonyms. It is perhaps not surprising that such a freakish example of creative energy is not seriously studied (though there exists a Centre d’Études Georges Simenon at the University of Liège). Apart from the Nobel omission, Simenon did not feel slighted. He said, “Writing is not a profession but a vocation of unhappiness”. But the consequence is that every new reissue of a Simenon novel merits an introduction, because he seems (like many of his characters) to come from nowhere. He agreed, saying that as a Belgian he was like a man without a country.

Though he claimed that none of his books was autobiographical, his work is a chronicle of his life – his young self is vivid in Pedigree and The Nightclub, his mother looms in The Lodger and The Cat, his daughter in The Disappearance of Odile, his second marriage in Three Bedrooms in Manhattan, his ménage à trois in In Case of Emergency, his travels in the novels with foreign settings – Tropic Moon, Aboard the Aquitaine, Banana Tourist, The Bottom of the Bottle, The Brothers Rico and many others; and in all of them we find the particularities of his fantasies and obsessions. Feeling that he was an outsider, he had a gift for depicting aliens – the nameless African in The Negro, the immigrant in The Little Man from Arkangel, the Malous (in fact the Malowskis) in The Fate of the Malous, and Kachoudas in The Hatter’s Phantoms. By contrast, in Camus’s The Plague, you’d hardly know you were in a foreign country – all the characters are Frenchmen, and, incidentally, theirs is a world without women.

“You know you have a beautiful sentence, cut it”, Simenon said. “Every time I find such a thing in one of my novels it is to be cut.” Simenon is exaggerating: he sometimes lets slip a pretty sentence, but generally his writing is so textureless as to be transparent, and never calls attention to itself (“It’s written as if by a child”). No love of language is ever obvious; he remains anti-lapidary. The only new words one is likely to find in Simenon are the occasional technical terms, like the medical jargon in The Patient, the particularities of French governance in The Premier, and some bridge-playing episodes elsewhere. Comedy is absent, humour is rare.

A bleak vision and relentless seriousness earned his non-Maigrets the appellation romans durs, because dur means not just hard but implies weight, seriousness: not only a stony quality, but density and complexity – a kind of challenge, and even a certain tedium. (A dur is a bore in some contexts.) Simenon’s characters read newspapers, usually bad news or crimes; they plot, lie, cheat, steal, sweat, have sex; they often commit murder, and just as often they commit suicide. They never read books or quote from them. They don’t study (as Simenon did, to mug up on detail). They are generally fussing at the margins of the working world, coming apart, hurtling downwards, towards oblivion.

                                                     >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
     
'Hey now!'

Tripp

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Re: Žorž Simenon (Georges Simenon)
« Reply #3 on: 20-06-2010, 12:24:25 »
 
          >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>


For any writer, it is not possible to be productive without being possessed by a strict sense of order, and guided by discipline. One of Simenon’s shrewdest French biographers, Pierre Assouline, sees the clock as his dominant metaphor. His novels are full of timepieces and clock-watching. Simenon himself timed all his movements, not just his writing, clocking in, clocking out; even meals were timed to the minute. He famously made calendars chronicling his novel-writing – usually eight or nine days of furious composition, a chapter a day.

His sexuality too involved the stopwatch. Simenon was anything but a sensualist. A sex act in his books usually takes a few lines at most. In The Bells of Bicêtre: “They stayed a long time almost motionless, like certain insects you see mating”. The Man on the Bench in the Barn: “I literally dived into her, suddenly, violently, there was fear in her eyes” – and then it’s over. The Nightclub: “She looked at him in astonishment. It was over already. He couldn’t even have said how he set about it”. These hair-trigger instances echo the love life Simenon recorded in his Intimate Memoirs. One day, he approaches his wife in her office, as she is speaking with her English secretary Joyce Aitken. His wife asks him what he wants.

“You!”

That afternoon she simply lies down on the rug.

“Hurry up. You don’t have to leave, Aitken.”

The Widow is exceptional in depicting several seductions that go on for a few pages. A sentence repeated so often in Simenon as to be a signature line is, “She wore a dress and it was obvious that she had nothing on underneath”. The Widow also contains a variation on this sentence.
Unlike most of his characters, Simenon was a man whose self-esteem was in good repair. His personal world seemed complete. He moved from grand house to grand house – and they were self-contained, holding his family, his lovers, his library, his recreations; his appetites, his pipes, his pencils, his fancy cars. He lived the life of a seigneur, the lord of his own principality, where everything was ordered to his own specifications. The completeness of Simenon’s life is impressive: that of the man who lives with his ex-wife, his present wife, and his loyal servant, all of whom he sleeps with, while still finding time to be unfaithful to all three with prostitutes, and keep writing. That was what thrilled Henry Miller. Well, what philanderer wouldn’t be thrilled? And Miller didn’t know the half of it. One day (according to Marnham), seeing a young serving girl on all fours dusting a low table, Simenon on an impulse took her from behind. The girl told Madame Simenon, who laughed it off as being typically Georges. Witnessing this drollery, another serving girl wondered aloud, “On passe toutes à la casserole?” (“So everyone has a go at this pot?”).

In great contrast to the apparent coherence, the fatness, of his own life are the insufficiencies in the lives of his characters, who are usually strong enough to kill but seldom resourceful enough to survive. And it must be said that having spent many decades vigorously writing and living in style, he spent the last twenty-three years of his life – after the suicide of his beloved daughter – in a kind of solitary confinement and protracted depression in a poky house with his housekeeper, sitting on plastic chairs because, among his phobias, was the belief that wooden furniture harboured insects.

A number of Simenon’s novels, among them The Venice Train, Belle, Sunday, and The Negro, can be grouped around the general theme of malentendu or cross purposes – the title of the Camus play that is Simenonesque in its cruelty. The Widow is firmly in this category, though its descriptions of violence and sexuality are unusually graphic for Simenon; and it is one of the few Simenons with a strong woman character in it. The woman in Betty and the woman narrator of November are similarly strong. But his women tend to be one-dimensional, guileful, opportunistic, coldly practical, unsentimental, and/or easy prey. Tati the widow is a peasant who knows her own mind and possesses an ability to size up strangers.

The action takes place in the Bourbonnais, the dead centre of France, in a hamlet by the canal that joins Saint-Amand with Montluçon – apart from omitting the “e” from Amande, Simenon is very specific in his provincial geography. An odd solecism occurs in the first paragraph of the novel. A man is walking down a road that is “cut slantwise every ten yards by the shadow of a tree trunk” – Simenon at his most economical in precise description. It is noontime, at the end of May. The man strides across these shadows. Then his own shadow is described: “a short, ridiculously squat shadow – his own – slid in front of him”. The sun seems to be shining from different angles in the space of two sentences, creating two sorts of shadow. It is perhaps not a riddle. Simenon hated to rewrite.
The young man boards the bus outside Saint-Amand, bound for Montluçon. He has nothing on him, no impedimenta, no obvious identity. “No luggage, no packages, no walking stick, not even a switch cut from the hedge. His arms swung freely.” Among the women returning from the market he is a stranger, though for the reader of Simenon he is so familiar as to be an old friend: the naked man, someone at a crossroads, a bit lost, a bit guilty, on the verge of making a fatal decision.

The widow Couderc sizes him up, seeing something in him no one else sees. Later, we understand why: he somewhat resembles her son, a waster and ex-con who is in the Foreign Legion. She sees that this bus passenger is going nowhere, that he has nothing; she understands him and she wants him. In this beautifully constructed first chapter, with a subtle building of effects, the young man notices the woman, too, and in the midst of the nosy chattering market women, the two “recognized each other”. For he also needs her.

The woman, Tati, gets off the bus, and soon afterwards the young man, Jean, does the same. Jean asks if he can give her a hand with her bundles, a gesture she has been expecting ever since their eyes met. He moves in with her. A few days later, on a Sunday, after she returns from church – a nice touch – she pours him a few drinks and they end up in bed. She is not beautiful, but she is tough, even fearless, the sort of indestructible peasant who would feel at home at the table in Van Gogh’s “The Potato Eaters”. Unloved and frumpy, even slatternly, in an old ragged coat, her slip showing, and with a hairy mole on her cheek, she is at forty-five more than twenty years older than Jean. She gives Jean to understand that he can expect occasional sex but that she must also sleep with her abusive father-in-law from time to time, because she is living in his farmhouse.
Belied by Tati’s rumpled clothes and precarious existence among her quarrelsome in-laws is her animal alertness, a peasant shrewdness, especially as regards her niece. The teenaged mother Félicie lives nearby; the effect of this pretty young woman on Jean disturbs Tati. Her suspicions about Jean’s past are quickly borne out after a visit by the gendarmes: Jean has recently been released from five years in prison (thus the Ticket of Leave title) and his precariousness is not so very unlike hers. She had taken him for a foreigner – he seems foreign throughout, a true outsider – but in fact he is from a distinguished family in Montluçon, the son of a wealthy, womanizing distiller. Estranged from his family, he is “free as air . . . a man utterly without ties”. And “he was free . . . like a child”. He lives in a “magnificent present humming with sunshine”.

“He did not walk like other people. He seemed to be going nowhere.” But he has walked into a trap. He does not know it yet, but for him, as for Meursault in L’Étranger, there is no future. He tells Tati he has murdered a man, almost casually and partly by accident. A woman was involved, though he didn’t love her. Far from being seriously affected by the crime, the trial, or his years in prison, he “scarcely realized that it was himself it was happening to”. He has been cast adrift by the crime, and after prison nothing matters: “he was committed to nothing, nothing he did possessed either weight or importance”.

In his lack of remorse, or pity, he resembles the cold-hearted killer Frank Friedmaier in Dirty Snow, and Popinga in The Man Who Watched the Trains Go By. And of course, he prefigures Meursault, even to the solar imagery, for at a crucial point in the novel, when he recognizes his desire for Félicie, “At one stroke the sun had taken possession of him. Another world was swallowing them up . . .”. He succeeds with Félicie, as he succeeded with her aunt, but wordlessly, rutting among the farm buildings. He continues to make love to Tati, and is always abrupt if not brutal: “He undressed her as one skins a rabbit”. And in this ménage, another familiar Simenon situation ensues, that of lovers separated by a physical barrier, the passions of propinquity, jealousy always figuring in the plot. In The Widow the lovers in nearby cottages are separated by the canal, in The Door a communicating door, in The Iron Staircase an iron staircase, and a similar shuttling back and forth in Act of Passion. All these novels end in murder.
In this springtime pastoral – conflict in the countryside: fertile farmland, browsing animals, quarrelling peasants – Jean slowly goes to pieces, consumed by self-disgust and fatalism. Typically for Simenon, Jean’s condition is suggested by the subtle building of effects rather than analysed. Feeling possessed by the desperate older woman who will not let him go, by the younger woman who is indifferent to him, Jean realizes that he is at a dead end, that a crime is inevitable, and “he waited for what could not fail to happen”. The novel becomes implicitly existential, though Simenon would have scoffed at the word: there is no philosophical meditation in the narrative. Jean has been put on a road to ruin by Simenon – has been set up, indeed. Many if not all Simenon novels describing the occurrence of a malentendu imply that there is no exit – and the maddening thing is that even though the doomed character does not see a way out, the reader does. It does not occur to Jean that he can just walk away or get back on the bus. He protests that he is indifferent to his crime, but he is damaged, he is guilt-ridden, he is possessed, and when Tati begs him to stay and love her he is helpless to do anything but smash her skull. “It had been foreordained!”

In describing this lost soul and his desperate act, Simenon was reflecting the fatalism of his time. He wrote the book in a dark period, on the French coast – the name “Nieul sur Mer” is given at the end as its place of composition, a place near La Rochelle. France was at war, German occupation not far off, and Doomsday seemed imminent. In this uncertain war, only violence or an act of passion gave meaning to the passage of time. Like Meursault, Jean is headed to certain execution – the notion of it occurs to him throughout the last third of the novel – and he is the author of his fate. He had stumbled into an idyll without realizing that it was not an idyll at all, but an Eden that is also a snake pit, its corruption matching his own loss of innocence.

Rereading the novel, one realizes that (as with most Simenons), Jean is doomed from the first paragraph, when he walks through the shadows. And we can easily see why Simenon was so angry that Camus won the Swedish lottery – because in novel after novel, Simenon dramatized the same sort of dilemma, the life with narrowing options (but always with subtle differences of plot, tone, location and effect), the risk-taking of the man with nothing to lose, his vanity, his presumption, his wilful self-destruction. Earlier, Jean yearns for commitment, and for fate to intervene, but when he meditates on it (and ultimately gets his wish): “He wanted something definite and final, something that offered no prospect of retreat”, Simenon seems to be talking to himself, as he sends another of his characters to his death in a world without happy endings.

   Copyright © Paul Theroux, 2008

Paul Theroux's new book, Ghost Train to the Eastern Star, will be published later this year. His Commentary essay is the introduction to a new edition of The Widow, translated by John Petrie, to be published later this month by New York Review Books.
'Hey now!'

Kunac

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Re: Žorž Simenon (Georges Simenon)
« Reply #4 on: 20-06-2010, 22:39:49 »
Tripp, ja sam takođe odrastao na Kristijevoj. Mislim da sam nekada baš davno pročitao jednog-dva Simenona i da mi je tada delovao malkice suvoparno. Možda zato što sam tada bio u nižim razredima osnovne škole, ko će ga znati.

Obracu na obali cu procitati u narednih 10-ak dana - dve nedelje, pa ću izneti svoja zapažanja na ZS-u.

Napraviću po jedan mali osvrt na svaki Nikolićev roman koji budem pročitao, baš kao što sam uradio za prvi.
"zombi je mali žuti cvet"

Kunac

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Re: Žorž Simenon (Georges Simenon)
« Reply #5 on: 23-06-2010, 17:18:41 »
Ispostavilo se da sam ga pročitao mnogo ranije nego što sam planirao. Obračun na obali je jedan sasvim solidan krimi roman. Čak, moglo bi se reći, ambiciozan. Istina, nedostaje mu malo fokusa (što ne ćudi pošto imamo čak 3 detektiva), ali to u krajnjoj liniji ne smeta previše. Priča je uzbudljiva, ima dosta akcije, stalno se nešto događa i to je dobro. Naravno, iz današnje perspektive neke situacije izgledaju pomalo naivno, ima dosta koincidencija, ali to su koncencije žanra koje koristili i mnogo slavniji krimi pisci od Nikolića. Nažalost, Megre nije dovoljno dobro iskorišćen. Ipak je on u ovom romanu najveća "zvezda". Zaslužio je da bude prisutanu priči do kraja. Ali, eto, novinar Miki je imao protekciju kod Nikolića. Ipak je ovo pre svega Mikijev roman. Megre je tu samo VIP dodatak.
"zombi je mali žuti cvet"

crippled_avenger

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Re: Žorž Simenon (Georges Simenon)
« Reply #6 on: 23-06-2010, 19:55:39 »
A koliko ja zastupljen Megre, kao kameo ili je bitan za plot?
Nema potrebe da zalis me, mene je vec sram
Nema potrebe da hvalis me, dobro ja to znam

Kunac

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Re: Žorž Simenon (Georges Simenon)
« Reply #7 on: 23-06-2010, 20:08:30 »
Zastupljen je. Veoma. Da poslednjeg čina je jedan od glavnih aktera. (Zapravo, on i Miki se "kolju" oko pozicije glavnog junaka, s tim da Miki ipak ima blagu prednost.) Nažalost, Megre nestaje na kraju. Nema ga u samoj završnici (nekih 20 strana).
"zombi je mali žuti cvet"

crippled_avenger

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Re: Žorž Simenon (Georges Simenon)
« Reply #8 on: 23-06-2010, 23:12:09 »
Bilo bi zanimljivo da se on i Miki "kolju". To bi dalo svemu jednu perverznu dimenziju.
Nema potrebe da zalis me, mene je vec sram
Nema potrebe da hvalis me, dobro ja to znam

Kunac

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Re: Žorž Simenon (Georges Simenon)
« Reply #9 on: 23-06-2010, 23:50:24 »
Zapravo, u romanu već postoji jedna, recimo, perverzna dimenzija. Iliti pseudo perverzan twist. Nešto slično tome. Samo što ne smem o tome da pričam da ne bih spojlovao kraj. Ipak je ovo krimi roman. Eto.
"zombi je mali žuti cvet"

Mica Milovanovic

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Re: Žorž Simenon (Georges Simenon)
« Reply #10 on: 24-06-2010, 07:51:38 »
I nemoj. Taj nisam čitao. U protivnom, pošto trenutno čitam Čoveka koji je voleo gužvu odmah ću ti reći ko je xuzi
Mica

Kunac

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Re: Žorž Simenon (Georges Simenon)
« Reply #11 on: 24-06-2010, 09:19:28 »
trenutno čitam Čoveka koji je voleo gužvu
I ja.
 xcheers
Stigao sam do Mirande.
"zombi je mali žuti cvet"

Alexdelarge

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Re: Žorž Simenon (Georges Simenon)
« Reply #12 on: 20-01-2012, 18:14:09 »


MEGRE U PIKRATU

Žanrovi:Trileri

Izdavač:Laguna

Broj strana 200

Pismo Latinica

Povez Mek

Format 13x20 cm

Godina izdavanja 20. januar 2012

ISBN
978-86-521-0699-8
416.50din

Ovo je jedan od najpoznatijih romana o inspektoru Megreu, najpopularnijem detektivu francuske književnosti. Megre u Pikratu preveden je na više jezika i poslužio je kao osnova za nekoliko televizijskih filmova.

Pigal, četiri sata ujutru. Ana-Mari Trošen, zvana Arleta, striptizeta u baru Pikrat ulazi u policijsku stanicu na Monmartru. Slučajno je čula razgovor dvojice gostiju koji planiraju da ubiju neku groficu. Ne zna o kojoj se grofici radi, zna samo da se jedan od te dvojice zove Oskar. Pošto se u međuvremenu otreznila, Arleta izjavljuje kako je izmislila priču o dvojici nepoznatih muškaraca i grofici i odlazi kući. Nešto kasnije pronađena je zadavljena u svojoj spavaćoj sobi. Narednog dana u jednom stanu u istom kraju pronađeno je i beživotno telo grofice Fon Farnhajm. Megre odlazi u Pikrat da se raspita o gostima čiji je razgovor Arleta prisluškivala, ali se ispostavlja da te noći u baru nije bio niko ko odgovara njihovom opisu...
moj se postupak čitanja sastoji u visokoobdarenom prelistavanju.

Alexdelarge

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Re: Žorž Simenon (Georges Simenon)
« Reply #13 on: 20-01-2012, 18:15:24 »


MEGRE I MOTKA

Žanrovi:

Trileri
Izdavač:

Laguna

Broj strana
192

Pismo
Latinica

Povez
Mek

Format
13x20 cm

Godina izdavanja
20. januar 2012

ISBN
978-86-521-0700-1

416.50din

Novi istraga neće biti dodeljene komesaru Megreu u njegovoj policijskoj stanici već će biti započeta posetom Ernestine Žisjom, zvane Motka, stare Megreove „mušterije“. Pošto se uverila u Megreovu čovečnost i spremnost da oprosti, ona upravo njemu poverava tajnu zbog koje njen muž, Alfred, poznati obijač sefova, živi u strahu. Dok je pljačkao jednog zubara u Nejiu, otkrio je leš neke žene. Tako će Megre upoznati dr Gijoma Sera, kome je prva žena umrla, dok ga je druga, Holanđanka po imenu Marija, navodno napustila.

Da li se Marija stvarno vratila u Amsterdam? Kakve mračne tajne povezuju zubara i njegovu autoritarnu majku, kojoj on očigledno nikada nije umeo da se suprotstavi?

Megre se već sprema da odustane od istrage kad počinju da se pojavljuju pukotine u priči dvoje osumnjičenih. Ishod će biti zanimljiviji nego što je Megre očekivao...
moj se postupak čitanja sastoji u visokoobdarenom prelistavanju.

Kunac

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Re: Žorž Simenon (Georges Simenon)
« Reply #14 on: 27-02-2012, 14:46:57 »
Evo jednog teksta o Simenonu i dva romana koja je nedavno objavila Laguna.

http://www.popboks.com/tekst.php?ID=8534
"zombi je mali žuti cvet"

Barbarin

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Re: Žorž Simenon (Georges Simenon)
« Reply #15 on: 20-04-2012, 13:16:05 »
Preko limunda pazarih ovo

Žorž Simeon
Strip-tiz / Zeleni kapci, Matica srpska, Novi Sad, 1961, Popularni romani

Prvu deo sam našao original, al ovaj drugi ne mogu. Ne piše originani naziv.

Evo ove spiska Simeonovih dela ma engleskom.
Jeremy Clarkson:
"After an overnight flight back to London, I find myself wondering once again if babies should travel with the baggage"

Barbarin

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Jeremy Clarkson:
"After an overnight flight back to London, I find myself wondering once again if babies should travel with the baggage"

stule030947

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Re: Žorž Simenon (Georges Simenon)
« Reply #17 on: 16-05-2012, 20:28:00 »
Dobro vece,

Rotobiblioteka je 1970/1971 na najavila pod brojem 285 u okviru nove serije x-100 zabavnih romana najavila Z.Simenon - Neuspela osveta. To sam nasao  na poslednjoj strani broja 293 i trebalo bi da je izdato znaci 1970g.
Posto ne mogu da ga nadjem u uporednoj listi na francusko-engleskoj listi predpostavljam da se ne radi o Megrait-u,ali sa druge strane ne bi bilo u okviru x-100.
Ne znam koliko Vam je od znacaja ovaj podatak.
Pozdrav Nenad.

Barbarin

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Re: Žorž Simenon (Georges Simenon)
« Reply #18 on: 16-05-2012, 20:34:43 »
Hvala za informaciju.
Jeremy Clarkson:
"After an overnight flight back to London, I find myself wondering once again if babies should travel with the baggage"

Barbarin

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Re: Žorž Simenon (Georges Simenon)
« Reply #19 on: 29-05-2012, 10:38:04 »
Uspeo sam ovo da pazarim na limundu.

 :lol:



Jeremy Clarkson:
"After an overnight flight back to London, I find myself wondering once again if babies should travel with the baggage"